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The Last Word
by Quincer
Erica used to always have the last word. She was a clever, talkative girl. Before high school, she had quite a few peers enamored by her. Not only a conversationalist, she was a good listener. Two perfectly keen ears framed her soft jaw line and modest smile.
It was a dewy summer night that she was so happy to find herself at a high school party. Granted, it was because of her brother that she ever got so close to the mature atmosphere that reeked of sophistication—but even so, she was here and she would take advantage of it to get a head start into high school.
One thing she had to admit was her brother Hecter was good at parting crowds, enough so that she could look for someone. He shifted his lank hair and a ripple would go through the crowd, offers for beer would be inches from his face, and he would step through as he yelled disapproving teenager-slogans with Erica smiling as if she was totally privy to the sacred information.
The two eventually found a couch and Erica sat, expecting Hecter to follow. But he didn’t. She looked up and saw he went off to dance with girls, which made Erica frown. Her brother always lightly used the term, ‘girlfriend,’ when referring to Erica’s best friend Cassandra, who was a year her elder. Erica was always caught in the middle and hated it. But knowing her lifelong friend’s devil-may-care attitude, Erica supposed Cassandra might not even show up tonight.
But tonight he was on her good side, Erica recalled as she looked about the party.
Besides, it’s time for me mingle with the high school crowd, she decided, straightening her hair. An abrupt laugh drew her attention first. Now, facing to the right, she decided this would be whom she was going to talk with first.
“Hi, I’m Erica. Erica Dennart.”
The stranger regarded her from atop her perch on the side table: a nod—and she opened her mouth slightly, ready to swallow the fresh meat.
That was how intimidating this girl was. Her hair, it seemed, had been dyed at least twelve times in the last few years for it suggested something of a blond and pink swamp. Her eyes, caked with eyeliner, were a subzero blue—all frozen but the pupil.
That was her opening, Erica knew, as she passed the threshold of adulthood:
“Cool party.”
Wow. That sure was a groundbreaking remark, Erica couldn’t help notice. Now put in the ‘Gee golly!’ and you’re set.
The girl nodded—or she could have just twitched--and the dark abyss of her mouth opened wider.
“They could pick some better music, though. Maybe some rock. I think they play too much rap, y’know? I could say a lot of things about that right now but I really don’t feel like getting pummeled by all these conformists right now.”
At this, her listener emitted a little laugh. Completely and utterly controlled, but it was a laugh, nonetheless. Erica smiled.
“I’ve been thinking about going to this new club, maybe you’ve heard of it? The Flaming Spoon. They have a lot of local rock groups there—completely controversial stuff. They allow anyone to go up there in between and make speeches—political and whatever you want. They also have great coffee, I hear.”
“Yeah. It’s from Coffee Plaza,” her low voice lulled.
Erica grew excited now and allowed some more white lies. “Oh, I love that place! I try to convince my friends to go there, but they always want to get pizza. So formula,” she scoffed at the end.
A ringed hand floated down to Erica. “Yeah, I work there. I’m Lola, by the way.”
Erica wholeheartedly shook it—but not too eagerly. It’s all about pace, she had learned. If one was quick and jumped off the wall everywhere, society considered them a mouse; if one was too slow, one was a retard. Erica had found the happy medium.
Later that evening, a blond young woman plopped beside her, giggling. Erica scooted to the left when she saw a boy was trying to sit, too. He fervently kissed her and fingered her dangling earrings, so enveloped in their own passion. Erica blew out her cheeks, slightly jealous.
They soon got comfortable and she rested her porcelain doll head on his chest. She batted her huge lashes several times into his jacket. Erica noticed he was wearing a highly decorated letter jacket as he popped a piece of chewing gum into his mouth.
“Nice jacket. What sport do you play?”
“Huh?” the high school guy’s muscular body tensed at the discovery of another person on the couch. His gaunt face was perfectly tan, contrasting his stark, blond-bleached hair. His girlfriend—Erica assumed that was her role, anyway—stroked his hair genially as she beamed at Erica, “Basketball.”
“Oh.” She struggled for any bit of sports information she had in her mind, which was next to nothing.
“We won last night; 38-2!” She whooped more of those ‘teen slogans’, calling the air of a cheerleader to Erica’s mind.
“Sweet!” Erica used the unfamiliar term with faltering excitement. “I didn’t know we were so good.” More white lies—though flirting with the gray area. But the girl eagerly nodded, eating it up.
Now sprawled out on the couch, the athlete pulled the girl closer to him, until they were mouth-to-mouth. Erica began to look away until the girl sat bolt upright.
“Hey—could you pass me that beer? Oh, don’t worry, I’m not driving,” she giggled, positively aglow—or intoxicated--with her cleverness. “Tonight’s our anniversary. It’s, like, vital that we do something.” She turned to look at him, “Last night I wanted to pounce on him so bad.” She laughed between crackling her gum in deliberate smacks that made her look like a puppy dog after his meal, taking in the very last of the taste.
“If you had, the other team would have loved you for helping them win. Hey, you might have had more dates that way.”
Facing Erica, the girl’s giggle descended into amusement, then flashed a Hollywood smile. Erica blushed as the stranger playfully pushed at her shoulder.
“Tanya Banks,” the slim girl said as she extended her delicate—though shaky--hand in an eager handshake.
Erica mildly took it, “Erica Dennart.”
Tanya Banks immediately launched into another insightful chat:
“Those shoes are wicked cute, you know? . . .”
“Thanks. I love them, too—“
“—They remind me of what I saw on a music vide once . . “
Her boyfriend’s right foot dropped from the couch after he rubbed his temples. Whether he passed out or sighed, Erica never knew . . .
Erica drifted throughout the room by the time the night was almost over—and she only saw Hecter once, his sister was a good girl and turned the other way. Just then, the curtain of boisterous teenagers swept aside where into the opening slouched Cassandra. As the newcomer stepped-and-dragged through, Erica blinked at the deluge in the form of her best friend. Her dark hair was soaked with sweat and much of it was in her eyes—for which Erica was glad. Cassandra always liked to think of her eyes as ‘night sky with a thunderbolt,’ and that thunderbolt pulsed when she was angry. Erica paced herself.
“Hey, Echo . .”
Erica looked up at her friend in reproach; she had not called her ‘Echo’ in over a decade. When they were young, Cassandra called Erica ‘Er’ca’ until she learned the word ‘echo’—then she confused ‘Er’ca’ with ‘Echo.’
The smell of alcohol invaded her senses and Erica winced. “Are you drunk?”
Cassandra cracked her knuckles and hovered closer to her friend, “Dude, I’m havin’ a good time . . I’d really like to dance like those—Where’s a damn boyfriend when ya need ‘im?”
In her shock, Erica sidestepped into the couch. “You are drunk! Cassandra, why are you doing this to yourself? You shouldn’t—“
“You’re covering for him again, aren’t you, traitor?” she slurred.
“Cass, I’m serious. First of all, you don’t have your license yet, and you could have gotten yourself killed! I’m sorry, but you’re making a lot of stupid decisions tonig-” She was cut off when Cassandra jabbed her shoulders with the palms of both her hands.
Erica withdrew a sharp breath and grew bolder in her worry, “See? It’s got you all messed up! I know you didn’t mean—“
“My God, do you ever shut up?! Jesus! If you were my friend, you’d be loyal to me and only me! You’re always defending your brother—you and me are blood! But you just deny me when you want to—“
“That’s not true and you know it!” Erica flicked her gaze across her best friend, frightened by the haze of heat that was billowing about Cassandra.
“Screw you!” the deluge snarled as her palm streaked Erica’s cheek; a few heads were turned to them now. Despite the loud music, Erica was surprised by how few heard her. Cassandra’s words echoed in Erica’s own mind so sharply that they caused an avalanche of shivers.
Erica choked back a sob, bringing her hands to her flaming cheek. They stopped short as her grasp fell on her neck. All words she could think to say were trapped within her, as a confusion of forgiveness and a burst of anger--neither would ever win out.
Her friend stormed out of the room and Hecter immediately let himself melt into the blur of people, unscathed. Cassandra did not even seem to notice him there, which made Erica astounded. Hecter’s younger sister stood, taking the fury that would forever leave her scarred while he watched, his mind in the clouds.
Erica grew tense all over for prolonged moments until a sliver of sunlight glared over her eyelashes. She fell into a short spell of flinching and shuddering.
Cassandra never talked to her again and Erica never spoke out again. Nothing stirred her quiet life again until her sophomore year of high school. This stir turned out to be a ripple that set her life into a swirl of solitude.
A herd of teenagers dripped from the gym to the pavement. It was a soggy day in June and the anticipation for the last days before summer vacation was a spark that had passed through and shocked the students in rounds since March.
Floating in the middle of all of this was Erica, now a young woman with careful eyes and a subtle mouth. She watched her feet, counting the cracks in the sidewalk. As a child, she used to walk so gently that she never heard her feet land and felt weightless. She would have been ashamed to admit that she feared her legs might dissolve and she would never know! So she grew accustomed to it by watching the cracks roll by beneath her. Some habits never die.
A sudden bump to her side sent Erica stumbling almost-uncontrollably. She looked timidly to the person responsible.
She found a girl rubbing her side, and the rest of the crowd Erica was going with had gone ahead of her. She felt bare.
“Oh, sorry,” the girl’s voice seemed to be thrown at her, since Erica saw nothing apologetic in her mien and voice. She spoke out of mere habit; Erica could tell she could care less.
“Sorry,” Erica said warily.
At a scoff, the other walked purposefully in the other direction. She finally met with a big, dark boy, who greeted her.
“Oh, thank God. That girl is so weird . . . She never says anything but what you say.” The girl then walked on with her nose high in the air, assuming he would follow.
He didn’t. Instead, the boy made a sympathetic sound as he looked around hesitantly.
“I dunno . . . Maybe she’s just trying to say something. Artists are different that way . . . “
Erica looked away as he spoke, avoiding his gaze. She almost laughed; what made them think that? Was she wearing a black beret and beating congo drums?
No. She worked hard to fit in. She would hate to concede that no matter what, she would always be a drooping, white flower in a field of garish yellow ones.
Through her silence, Erica’s senses had grown keener. With this, she doomed herself further into isolation. She used this to melt into the backdrops of school and observe. At that moment, she somehow wove through the tangle of rushing teenagers to catch glimpses of a familiar site.
A clever, calm smile. A waxy, brown mass of hair. Two dark, deep-set eyes. And a flawless complexion that gently glowed under the sun. At the end, Erica always came to the same conclusion: Nathan Allemen was beautiful. Beautiful enough to make Erica a melodramatic poet.
Before she knew it, he had nearly backed into her, laughing at a friend’s joke. She gave a start as he spoke, “Don’t worry, boys, we’re havin’ panther meat tomorrow!”
“Tomorrow,” Erica whispered in awe as she realized she could smell his hair.
His companions gave him crooked grins as they turned to leave. Erica was oblivious to it all and intoxicated by his cologne. Nathan stumbled; she would have, also, if she were not against the wall.
He whirled and gave a fleeting smile, as to say, “Sorry I almost crushed you.” In her imagination, she concocted his rich voice directed at her, saying those words echoing through her shaken frame:
You . . . you . . . you.
Then he was gone. She fell out of her reverie when her brother honked impatiently from his truck. It was time for his birthday dinner; perhaps there would be no fighting tonight.
She never lost her ability to hope those impossible hopes.
The next day, delicious Birthday cake was still settling in her stomach and memories of her encounter with Nathan was still dancing her mind; she was joyful that morning. The day was hers. She knew it—she felt it.
To make today even more perfect, there was a big basketball game during the last two hours of school, and she had tickets. Today she would cheer for her team; she would cheer for him.
After the game, enthusiastic teenagers burst from within the gym at the sound of the bell. Everyone had something to say:
“Great game; my throat’s killing me!”
“That was so cool!”
“We kicked their panther a—Dude, watch it!”
Many animated conversations came to Erica’s ears; she saw banners waving; and peals of laughter rang in her ears and made her heart flutter. They had won--Nathan had won. Erica had watched in glee as he darted across the floor like a fox and threw the ball with ease and grace, ensuring the Tellmoth Trojans’ triumph.
Soon most of the spectators had their way out of school and Erica stood, alone. She habitually bounced her ankles, listening, for the first time, to a squeak of the sticky floor that only reluctantly let her feet wander. No matter where she stood, that gradual squeak came from her shoes.
She winced at the annoying sound. All that sugar and carbonated water in the soda had already contributed to the certain spring she had in her step, but now it would embarrass her terribly as she squeaked and bounced like a toddler alongside the coolest guy in the school.
I’ve got to do this; get some of my old confidence back, somehow, she reminded herself.. Nathan. She smiled.
Yeah. I’ll walk up and say, ‘Great game, Nathan, my throat’s killing me.’
Mid-squeak, he appeared. He was out of breath and laughing. He regarded her; Erica’s qualms were all deadened at that and she took a step.
“Great game, Nathan--my throat’s killing me.”
A shout of a teammate resounded through the hall from the main doors when she stuttered, and he turned.
Erica bit her lip, pursuing him further. She was incredulous at how obedient her body was. A spark seemed to be shooting through her blood and her tingling fingertips landed on his shoulder.
He immediately turned in surprise. “Uh—If you don’t mind, my friend’s waiting for me.”
“Wait for me?” she heard herself ask, trying to be coy.
“Don’t touch me! I don’t even know you!” His pure, brown eyes stared down, belittling her.
She tore her hand away from him quickly, a dark veil of tears rising in view. Her eyes darted over his beautiful, soft features, pleading the sympathetic side she knew must be there.
He paid no attention and laughed in disbelief. He knit his brows in a sadistic gaze.
“Don’t you see everyone is gone, weirdo? The game’s over. Are your parents here? Anyone that loves you?” He cooed menacingly, then laughed at her blank gaze.
“Love me.” Her throat constricted at this echo.
“What a loser! I’m out of here,” Nathan said curtly, as he backed away, then elbowed his way out of the door. “Have fun with the janitor!”
A dark hand of reality stretched through the dimming halls where Erica stood, staring, until the blackness swallowed her
“Love me.”
Nathan Alleman, of course, went on through high school as the star of his basketball team and dated many beautiful girls—all social butterflies with similar ambitions, pouting lips, and even the same chewing gum and cell phone. Each he eventually cast aside at his own tainted whim.
During his last days as a senior, he found himself staring proudly at his and his last girlfriend’s golden reflection. The golden plaque had been made to thank him for his athletic accomplishments. His embossed name distorted their faces so that their chins appeared doubled, or tripled. His girlfriend’s pretty, huge eyes glittered above it all with an ironic look.
She sighed as she turned to tell him it was over. He never seemed to hear. He didn’t know that Fate was taking hold of him the more he stood and stared at himself. She turned, shaking her head as she walked down the hall and never looked back.
Many years later, he still stared back at his golden features and names with an immeasurable thirst, as he sweeped pop cans off of the old school hall tiles.
