daynight (2 page)

A tall man with wavy hair and glasses smiles widely and says, “Ah, our last Recruit has finally arrived. Ms. Donovan, welcome to Garden City, Thera, otherwise known as Unit 27 of the SCI. And here,” he says motioning to the rest of the group with him, “are some of the other SCI Recruits.” I immediately recognize the Recruit at the end of the row, arms crossed across his chest, smug look and bright green eyes rolling back in a dismissive fashion. He is the classmate who took the SCI Test with me and saved my life that night—Blake Sundry.

I don’t hesitate. Too ill to care about the mind games being played and hyperventilating at the absurd claim we’ve left earth, I turn to head back into the tunnel and for the boat. Such a seemingly easy task, however, proves impossible. As I reach the tunnel entrance, I’m flung ten feet backwards, head whacking the pebble floor, air extinguished from my lungs. In my blacked out state, I fully relive the fateful day that set me on this path.

SCI Test day. Seven a.m.
I’d met Tristan and Briella for breakfast at the bleak iHop within power walk distance of Carmel Valley High. Bri sported a bright blue scalloped sweater that matched her eyes, although her eyes were hard to see behind all her makeup. Even in the wee early hours of the morning she went for the night club look, a look she pulled off beautifully. Her long dark hair fell mid way down her back, although that day she didn’t bother to flat iron it, a sure sign she woke up late. Tristan was unusually quiet, his chocolate-colored eyes sullen. I raked my hand through his blonde curls; happy his hair had grown out from his football season buzz cut. Other than the dour expression on his face, he looked amazingly handsome in his yellow long-sleeved tee and jeans.

Our formica-topped table reeked of harsh chemicals from just being wiped, which caused my nose to twitch, and my tummy sloshed over nerves about the Test. Bri, who enjoyed ‘lovingly’ meddling in my life, railed on me for agreeing to take the Test, given I’d be ditching my senior year if I got chosen. Tristan’s grim expression echoed Bri’s sentiments. Why was I taking it? Right, the scholarship and a future free of student loans. I tried to assure both Bri and Tristan that I’d never be selected so they shouldn’t worry, but no optimistic sentiments on my part could improve the mood.

My body lurched upward as our waitress dropped a hot plate of eggs, sausage, and pancakes all over the floor next to us. The stench of the greasy eggs made me want to retch. So, I excused myself to leave for the testing center early. Tristan gave me a half-hearted peck goodbye. He tasted like mint toothpaste and Coke— which don’t mix well. After whispering a monotone, ritual “I love you” into my ear, he reminded me he’d pick me up at six for dinner and the Winter Formal. I returned the sentiment with more enthusiasm before waving and winking to Bri. She barely managed a smile before turning her attention to Tristan. They appeared to be deeply embroiled in conversation by the time I exited the iHop doors. Ganging up on me I suspect. I felt terrible disappointing them, so disappeared around the corner, head drooped, mood soured.

Seven-thirty a.m.
A hooded classmate on a skateboard clipped me as he screeched to a stop in front of the testing center, bruising my shin. He offered no apology, and worse, slammed the door in my face. Blake Sundry from English. What was his hurry, and why did he wear the same hooded black and white flannel every day? I had never seen him hoodless, which made me wonder what he was hiding. Rumor had it, a serious drug problem. I’d been quickly distracted when a fat man who looked like his head was fifty percent too large for his body—and shaped most unfortunately like Mr. Potatohead—droned on about Test instructions for thirty minutes. I imagined sticking different eye-nose-mouth-ear combinations on his face to improve his somber look as an entertaining distraction. His bug eyes and patch of bushy black hair atop his head worked well for the Mr. Potatohead look, but the rest of his features lacked flair.

Noon lunch break.
I nibbled on stale goldfish crackers and yogurt for lunch, as we couldn’t leave the testing center to get real food. My head throbbed from a migraine that started the third hour during the IQ and Rorschach tests where I had to label more than a hundred ink blobs. The pain worsened during the blood test and physical given the fourth hour. I explained to them that I fear needles and the smell of blood, yet the nurse took several vials with enough force to cause bruising.
 

The extreme nature of the testing bothered me and I wanted to leave. My conscience plagued me. I couldn’t really consider leaving my senior year for their yearlong program, despite the attractive incentives, could I? Wouldn’t leaving Tristan and Bri destroy me? Or was I just feeling guilty for agreeing to be tested, knowing how upset they were about it? Had they distanced themselves from me or had I already distanced myself from them, just in case I got offered a position with the SCI? Things had been strained, for sure and neither of them had been kind to me. I begged to step outside for fresh air but the fat lady who stank of cheap perfume guarding the door commanded me to sit down. Entry and exit during testing was prohibited. Period.
 

Four p.m.
The testing room smelled like the boy’s locker room after a lost football game—a rancid combination of sweat and fear. All the kids took the Test so seriously, to the point of hyperventilating, like they’d have no future if not offered a spot in the program. Actually, a few of the kids mentioned that their parents as much as told them so. I wished they could see the multitude of options on their horizons. When a door closes, a window opens, right?
 

The potato-headed man finally summoned me into a cramped, windowed interrogation room off the main room to interview me. ‘Spud’ quickly demanded my attention and rattled off inappropriate question after question about my home, activities, school, friends, personal life, and any obstacles that’d prevent me from participating in their program. My head felt like shards of glass were being thrust inward, fueled by his voice and the harsh fluorescent lights. At first, I answered his questions fully and politely. Until he asked me if I was sexually active. That pushed me over the edge. It wasn’t any of his business. And, a very creepy question to be asked by an old guy who smelled like a perspiration and Old Spice cocktail. He acted like he assumed I was, which wasn’t the case, much to my boyfriend’s dismay.
 

I hated confrontation, which was the real reason I’d left iHop that morning. Furthermore, my mom taught me to perfect my ‘fake smile’ poker face early on. “Never let them know what you’re really thinking,” she had implored. But after nine hours of pure nonsense I was done being subjected to a process worse than any college or job application. I stood up, sending my chair flying backwards, and told Mr. Potatohead I didn’t give a crap about his Test, his program, or the scholarship, and that he had a room full of kids who did give a crap to choose from, and that they probably didn’t care that he’s a perverted sexual predator. Or perhaps I didn’t say that last part, but I did think it.

Everyone stared at me, the thin walls being no barrier for my raised voice. Regret over my outburst assailed me. Most the kids had known me for years and never heard my voice rise other than to shout a cheer at a football game. The man’s wispy lips curled into a smirk and he dismissed me to return to my seat.
 

Mr. Potatohead then called in Blake, who chuckled at my tirade. I watched them through the window and doodled unhappy faces on the last test form I’d been asked to complete. Blake looked relaxed, almost chummy with the man, two peas in a pod, but then I noticed his body language change as the conversation progressed. By the end he looked angry, too. Maybe he didn’t like discussing his sex life or lack thereof either. He glanced at me every so often as if I was the subject of their conversation, which made me even more eager to escape.

Five p.m.
First in line at the door, I bolted towards the bright sun I’d been deprived of all day. The hot Santa Ana winds were stronger than usual. I kicked Blake’s skateboard-shaped weapon out of the way as if it could hurt me of its own accord, climbed in my car, and completed the ten minute drive home in seven. I’d hardly have been given an award for good driving, as I nearly hit a student driver in a yellow Beetle when I stretched the length of a yellow light. I entered the house, went straight to my room and scrubbed the effects of the day off in the shower with coconut-infused body wash my parents brought me back from their recent getaway to Hawaii. It took a half hour to fashion my hair into an up-do full of ringlets. Then, I pulled on a light green and gold gown that complemented my like-colored eyes.
 

Six p.m.
Tristan, Bri and Bri’s boyfriend, Lucas, pulled up in a stretch Hummer limo, complete overkill for our small group. Thrilled to see friendly faces, I ran to give Tristan a hug. He looked nice in his black tux with green and gold cummerbund and tie to match my dress. Unfortunately, his breath stank of vodka, which did not bode well for a happy ending to my day. I smiled anyway and refrained from criticizing him. He placed an orchid on my wrist and I pinned a rose on his tux lapel. The limo ride provided my friends with further opportunity to party, while I abstained and enjoyed the scenery as the limo driver took ‘the long way’ to the restaurant.

At dinner, Tristan ordered me steak and lobster—his favorite—but I could only eat a few bites. He ate the rest. I felt like I was on trial and my friends were playing part of judge, juror and prosecutor. They interrogated, criticized, and berated me for taking the Test and considering ditching senior year. Besides, the Test was over. I’m the one who had time I wanted back, a backlog of homework, and a lingering headache. My friends continued to taunt me until I left to use the restroom to adjust my makeup, take a few deep breaths, plaster back on my happy face, and return to shift the conversation to a more pleasant topic.

Nine-thirty p.m.
The tacky ‘love makes the world go round’ dance decorations disappeared from view as I was pushed deeper into the mosh pit. Tristan was grinding his drunken body against mine and thrusting his garlic-butter-alcohol infused tongue down my throat, deep enough that I could feel vomit rise. It disturbed me that he picked that day to journey to the bottom of the bottle. I bet my taking the cursed Test drove him to do it, and wondered if the possibility of me leaving him or besting him had him tweaked, but I didn’t ask.
 

Ten-thirty p.m.
The dance got too crowded, so we headed to an after party at Bailey Goodington’s, a spoiled, wild, fellow cheerleader who lived in a ten thousand plus square foot castle in the Ranch. The spread of food and alcohol could’ve beat out most wedding receptions. Tristan and Lucas dove into a game of beer pong, while Bri hit the champagne in earnest. I grabbed a closed soda bottle and avoided any alcoholic additives. My bloodletting earlier had me still feeling queasy. I didn’t trust I’d be able to keep my cool under the influence. No one else did. Plus, I’d promised my parents to stay sober and be a good girl. They’d check compliance by home breathalyzer. Failure meant consequences. Painful ones.

The other girls on my cheer squad performed a new number in dresses and heels, which I captured on phone video and uploaded while waiting for the bathroom. Tristan was so wasted he attempted to undress me in front of the entire line. “Ha ha, sweetheart, you wish,” I told him. He signed me “no worries, forgive me,” one of the many endearing things we’d learned in the sign language class we took together, and then he left with Lucas to find another drink.
 

Eleven-thirty p.m.
I found Bri and a dozen other girls fighting over who’d make the best vampire bait. Back and forth, they shouted out ridiculous lures for hot-bodied bloodsuckers before downing shots of tequila. Bailey, our party host, mocked me for saying I didn’t find the thought of being with a cold, hard, dead guy the least bit interesting, since apparently if the guy’s a cold, hard,
hot
, dead guy it’s worth it. She’d never been very discriminating, so I left in search for a higher concentration of working brain cells.

Twelve forty a.m.
Classmate after classmate accosted me with slurred speech, inappropriate advances, and unstable drinks. What had been amusing at stage one of their inebriation—the flirty, uninhibited conversations—quickly got old by stage three or four when my friends started making some poor choices. Anna and Sadie stripped Gina Barton down to her underwear and body-painted her with sundae toppings on what was clearly a Goodington family heirloom Oriental carpet. Brooke, poster child for teen abstinence, hooked up with Ben, class sexual indiscriminate, and made haste to the master. Naive freshman Leila Sundry, Blake’s sister, ended her table dance early as she puked the supposed non-alcoholic punch all over the male audience that fed it to her.
 

Stale beer, Doritos-filled vomit, and a nasty mixture of perfume and extreme body odor made for a seriously repelling combination. OK, it was time for me to leave. Past time to leave. City curfew had been in force for hours and the Rancho Santa Fe cops would be trolling for inebriated teens, with a long history of deaths recorded on the dangerous, windy roads.
 

Despite my determination to exit, I couldn’t find Tristan, Bri, or Lucas. Our limo had left an hour prior, our reserved time depleted. In my search for my friends I avoided the upstairs and the soft porn displays I’d find there. Drunken girls filled the kitchen, forcing food down in a feeble effort to sober up before they got in their cars. Hookups abounded in the pool house, and similarly, the family room, rec room, dining room, office, library, craft room, media room had couples paired in every dark nook and cranny.
 

I started asking everyone I encountered. “Have you seen Tristan or Briella?” Dozens of shrugs and negative responses from people who likely didn’t remember their own names, so I gave up and sat down on the plush hall carpet. Perhaps if I stayed put, they’d find me. I admired the impressionist artwork on the brown faux-painted walls for a while. That got old and I buried my head in my knees. Couldn’t someone, anyone, help me?