The assembly hit and I was struggling to give a fuck about community service. Andrea and I were going out to buy a switchblade that night, at a shop in Horton Bay. The Friday assembly was part of a three-week program, to tell the student body about all the problems in the world, and how they could fix them. Two pale girls in Abercrombie showed videos of starving children and talked about how just $1 helps. I stood on stage a few feet behind them, next to the 35 less significant members of the community service empire. Out of us all; three actually cared about why we were here today, about what they were doing. Andrea, standing to my right, was not one of those three. She was boosting her resume just like the rest of us. Colleges didn’t know only three people cared. Colleges only knew the numbers the school reported; and there were “currently 38 active members of the community-service board”, dedicated to saving the world.
Andrea had never saved the world. She hadn’t really done much to help it along, either. Her decision to do community service was the result of advice her parents had given her years ago. They wanted colleges to know she cared. They wanted her to seem “well-rounded”. They had a plan for her. Her school had a plan for her as well. Andrea’s life had been mapped out for her long ago. She was to go to a prep school, go to a college, major in finance, get a job, and have children. In that order.
After the assembly, we drove out to Andrea’s house in her sister’s Volkswagen. Her sister had graduated a couple of years ago and the car had been passed on to her. Horton Bay was a good hour and a half away, and we needed to load up on food first. We ate Doritos and watched MTV. A skinny woman was talking about fashion, music and all the latest trends. Apparently, retarded was in style.
“The shop’s open until 9:30, so we’ve got a while,” I told Andrea.
“And what are you getting again?” she asked.
“A switchblade,” I replied
“A switchblade? Why?”
And this is where you’re supposed to say “because,” or “just because,” if you want to add some style. For a suburban girl such as myself, a switchblade is like modern art. It serves no purpose really. It’s worthless in function, and chances are that no one else will appreciate it. But you need it for some odd reason and you just wouldn’t the same without it. Switchblades are illegal in my state. They’re illegal because people are afraid of them.
“Just because,” I said, with style.
Andrea got up and walked across the room, pulling a dusty bottle of Scotch from an carved cabinet I hadn’t noticed before. She found two glasses and poured an inch into each, added a few ice cubes, then filled the rest of each glass with tonic water. She handed one to me, and then sat back down on the couch. I knew she was trying to get my mind off of things. I sipped, concentrating on the taste of Scotch and the feeling blossoming inside my chest. After the first drink, there’s always an urge to have another, to sit back and let liquor drain the day. But we weren’t drinking to get drunk. We were drinking to drink. We were either responsible drinkers and potential alcoholics, or secretly French. Time just seemed less wasted that way. If someone asked what we had done that afternoon, no matter what happened we could say we drank.
“Pointless,” I thought out loud.
Andrea nodded with blind approval and sipped.
The first time I had ever gotten drunk was during my freshman year. It was nothing special. The second time was with James, my boyfriend of 4 months. James had had his life planned out too, but he’d break from that plan every now and then for me. We’d meet up after school down by the track and fool around sometimes. His friend Emily caught us kissing once. James never saw her – he had his back facing her. The look she had given me was of pure, stunned confusion. She had stopped in her tracks, bug-eyed like a goldfish.
‘Move along,’ I was thinking. ‘Don’t just stand there. Go about your business, just stop staring at me like that. He’s slightly occupied at the moment, and can’t humor you with conversation. I’m very sorry dear.’
It took her a good 40 seconds to catch my glare, and another 5 to understand its implications. When she did step off, it was quick, as if she’d snapped back to reality with her pants around her ankles. I pushed James away gently, though he didn’t quite understand.
Andrea was rummaging for her sister’s keys. I knew they were between the sofa cushions, but I let her check all the counters anyways. That was my act of kindness for the day. When she found them, I took credit for engineering her victory in my mind. She flicked the key in and out between her fingers. I washed off my cup and put it into her dishwasher; asking her what she wanted to do.
“Let’s go,” she said.
We got into her sister’s car and set off for Horton Bay. As I slammed the door shut; I sealed off the outside world, and Andrea started the car.
James had given Emily the “I think we should just be friends” talk two days before she caught him and I together. In some ways, I felt sorry for her. That talk was the plague of mankind, and everyone can relate. But my sympathy ended there. Emily was another planned child, but she was one of the few who welcomed with enthusiasm the plan her parents and school had manufactured for her. The girl had a face that made you hate her immediately. She let her mouth hang slightly open all the time. It wasn’t something that would be hard to correct – all someone had to do is tell the girl to close her damn mouth. But no one did, and she just let it hang, completely unaware.
She was always talking, too. During every class, she considered it her personal mission to fill every gap in a discussion with mindless comments. Her voice was like radio static, buzzing into the dead space between anything substantial. She gave long, tired speeches about the importance of living life to the fullest, of breaking away from the mold, and concentrating on what really matters in life. She spoke like a jaded drug counselor, like a virgin talking about sex. I was pretty sure she’d never lived a day in her life.
When people told her things would turn out okay in the end, she believed them. She wholeheartedly put her trust in what everyone told her. This is when I realized that censorship was alive and well. Before; it had always been used to cover up small nothings, words, and ideas. Now it was used to mask the realities of life from people like Emily. It was no passive thing. She wasn’t just having life hidden from her – she was being fed another version of the world. One where the nice guy wins and everything does work out in the end. The girl had honestly believed that she’d had half a chance with James. She probably thought that she was guaranteed a favorable response because she simply worked up enough courage. That she could do whatever she put her mind to. I remember sitting next to James, and her walking up to him, stuttering out her request. When she opened her mouth, I wished she would’ve just forgotten how to breathe, wished she would fall to the ground grabbing her throat, gasping for the air around her. She was out of her element. It was good that she had a plan to fall back on. It was good that she was constantly told that things would work out. Because if she ever saw herself without that protective viewpoint, I doubt breathing would seem worth the effort.
Andrea expertly maneuvered her car between two huge SUVs on the highway. Each probably belonged to a kid whose parents thought a big enough car could make up for their child’s lack of driving skills. Here; cars were like SAT classes. They don’t help at all if the kid has no ability – but their parents pay willingly. It’s called buying peace of mind. Andrea edged the Volkswagen farther and farther to the right side of the interstate, getting closer up against the barrier. Whenever I’m on the highway, I think of crashing. I think of crashing in an extremely unpredictable way, the way most say they’d like to die. Quickly. Without certainty, I pondered what it would be like to be plastered against my seat as the car launched through three lanes of traffic, and finally impacted against the guardrail, where we’d then be hit by some idiot illegally passing in the wrong lane. The seat belt hanging to my side would not save me as I flew through the windshield, luckily suffering only a concussion and gashes from the glass, but then being decapitated by the collapsing of the hood in the aftermath. Or I wondered what my last thoughts would be as I lay on the ground, the pounding in my head harmonizing with the “whoosh” of passing cars, choking on the dust the tires spun up. I probably wouldn’t think anything. I’d be too busy coughing, hazed. I buckled my seat belt.
Andrea was becoming uncomfortable with the silence and began to talk about Science. She was such a nerd when it came to those things. Scientists had a theory that there were thousands of other universes, some very small that overlapped ours. I glanced at the people in their cars as we drove by – all in their own worlds – and I watched them sing with their radios and blow smoke out their windows, and I knew that this theory was true. Andrea and I were living in our own universe right now. In our tiny metal death ship, rocketing 70 miles per hour down the interstate. We were more free than we would ever be on 300 acres of campus. I didn’t try to explain this. Talk had already turned to James and I.
“So, whatever happened between you two?” she asked casually.
“Shit,” I said “A lot of shit.”
I had ended everything when I saw the easel in his room. It was sitting by his window with a paint-by-numbers canvas stretched across the wood frame. It was somehow the single most sickening thing I had ever seen in my life. A little girl and a puppy were sketched out like they were mountains on a topography map. There were parts that were colored in already. Seven tubes of paint rested on his bureau, placed on top of a printed guide. The mixing guide listed all the numbers on the painting, how they should be colored in, and how you should mix the colors. It allowed for some leeway – he could make the dog’s eyes green instead of blue and change the color of the little girls dress. And as long as he stuck somewhat to the book and lines on his canvas, everything would turn out fine. James stared at me, waiting for me to approve his safety blanket.
“Why do you need this shit?” I asked him. “Why the hell can’t you just paint?”
“What are you talking about?” he asked, “It will come out so good this way.”
“It will do that no matter what.” I snapped back.
He stood there, jaw against the floor, as I tore the book to pieces.
We reached the Horton Bay shop with some time to spare. Our time there was very short, because I hurried through the purchase and practically pushed Andrea out the door. What had the merchant thought of me? A simple girl requesting a switchblade. When we were back in the car, I stared at the folded blade trying not to think of the hundreds exactly like it lined up on the shelves. With a gentle press, the blade flung outward, slicing an arc through nothing. It snapped right into place, exactly as planned. We sat around for a while, and there was a calm, refreshing understanding amidst the silence. It was the kind of silence you experience at a funeral. Everyone shares a knowledge and there is no use for words. I hung my hand out the window, letting the air guide the blade up and down. Andrea was concentrating hard on the road and never saw me let it drop.
