We Are All Made of Molecules (20 page)

BY TEN P.M., IT
was impossible to watch
Doctor Who
thanks to the noise from downstairs. The music was so loud the floor was vibrating.

“Someone is messing with the bass level,” I sighed. “I'd better go investigate.”

“I'll come, too,” Violet said, a little too quickly. She was missing her boyfriend, who'd gone to his dad's in Winnipeg for the holidays. Plus I don't think she was enjoying
Doctor Who
all that much, which was inexplicable to me, especially since the Tardis was being revealed for the first time.

“Me too,” Phoebe said, and I wondered if she, too, was underwhelmed by the Doctor. I was still waiting for a private
moment to present her with her unicorn, but it looked like I'd have to wait a while longer. The three of us left Alistair in Dad and Caroline's bedroom and went downstairs.

I could not believe the sight that met my eyes. There were well over a hundred kids. The front door was wide open, and people spilled out onto the lawn. A lot of them were drinking. Some were dancing. Two were fighting. One was barfing on the living room rug. The wine rack in the kitchen, which had held about six bottles, was empty.

“Holy cow, Stewart,” Phoebe yelled over the music as she and Violet followed me through the rooms. “This is not good.”

“No,” I shouted back. “It isn't.”

In the family room, a few couples were making out on the couch. Another guy was trying to pose my mom's figurines to make them look like they were having sex. “Leave those alone!” I shouted. I grabbed as many as I could and shoved them into my pockets. “They belonged to my mom,” I told Phoebe. She grabbed as many as she could, too, and Violet scooped up the leftovers.

I couldn't see Ashley anywhere. “Okay, everyone,” I shouted as loud as I could. “Time to go home! Party's over!”

“They can't hear you,” Phoebe said. “And even if they could, I'm not sure they'd listen.”

“Half these people don't even go to our school,” Violet added.

The three of us headed back upstairs to regroup. Alistair was perched on Dad and Caroline's bed. “Is it bad?” he asked.

I nodded. Then, with a jolt, I remembered Schrödinger.
“I have to find my cat. The front door is wide open. I have to make sure he's okay.”

I knew he was probably hiding under a bed somewhere, since that was his favorite spot when he was scared. I went into my room first. There was a couple on my bed making out. “Get lost!” the guy yelled.

“
You
get lost!” I said. “This is my room!” They didn't budge. They just stopped kissing and watched me as I looked under the bed, in the closet, in the bathroom. Schrödinger wasn't there.

Next I went into Ashley's room. I was filled with relief when I saw his green eyes glowing from under her bed. I coaxed him out and gave him a comforting hug. “There, there, who's the big, brave boy?” Then I carried him into Ashley's bathroom and closed the door. I made a little bed for him with her towel. “You'll be safe in here,” I said. “I'll bring you some food and water.”

Then I sat down on the toilet seat and pulled out my cell phone. I knew Ashley would kill me, but I also knew I had no choice: I had to call Phil.

It went straight to voice mail. I left a message. “Phil, call me as soon as you get this. It's urgent.” I thought about calling Dad, but what could he do from Vancouver Island except worry? I wondered if I should call the police, but I was scared that the only ones who'd get in trouble would be Ashley and me, since it was our house.

As I tried to plan my next move, I heard voices on the other side of the door.

“You need to lie down.” A boy's voice.

“No, I don't.” A girl's voice. Clearly wasted.

“Baby, you do.”

Ashley and Jared.

Then, the sound of bedsprings. Ashley: “Don't push me.”

Jared: “You need to sleep this off.”

Ashley: “Hmmmmhmmmm.”

This was followed by a good minute of silence. “She's totally passed out,” Jared said.

“You sure?” A second male voice.

“Ashley…hey, Ashley, you stupid slut, can you hear me?”

The other boy laughed. I was pretty sure it was Paulo.

I was completely freaking out. I had no idea what they were up to, but I knew it wasn't good. I turned out the light in the bathroom. Then, very quietly, I pushed the bathroom door open about an inch.

The only light in the room came from a bedside lamp. Ashley was sprawled on her back on the bed. Her skirt was hiked up to her thighs. Jared loomed over her. Paulo stood behind him. The door to her bedroom was closed.

Jared started to unbutton Ashley's top.

“Whatchoo doing,” Ashley muttered, her eyes not even opening. She waved her arm in front of her, like she was trying to bat away a fly.

“Shhhh,” Jared answered. He pulled back her shirt to show Paulo her bra. It was red. “Check it out,” he said to Paulo. “It's one of those gel bras. I
knew
her boobs looked too good to be true.”

Then he took out his phone. And I heard
click
. Followed by another
click
.

And it dawned on me that he'd just taken photos of my almost-sister's bra-clad you-know-whats. Meaning he was probably planning on showing these photos to others, maybe even
sending
them to others, and who knew where it would end.

A combination of Twizzlers and root beer and pretzels rose up in my throat and I had to swallow hard to force it back down.

Yet again I was faced with a dilemma for which all the Model UN role-playing in the world could not have prepared me. Yet again the dilemma revolved around Jared.

And I had no idea what to do.

Then an amazing thing happened.

Maybe it was all the sugar from the root beer and the Twizzlers, but all of a sudden I had a vivid flashback, in full-on Technicolor.

I was four. Mom had taken me to a park near our house, and I was playing with a boy who was probably seven. I guess he'd figured out that I was a bit unique, because he told me we were going to play a game that was kind of like “Pin the Tail on the Donkey,” except this was called “Throw the Stones at the Retard.” And he started throwing stones at me. I just covered my head and took it because I was only four and I wanted to play by the rules.

Suddenly, I heard my mom roar, “What do you think you're doing?” I dared to peek through my fingers. She was standing in front of the boy; she must have run fast because, just a moment ago, she'd been on the other side of the playground. Her hands were on her hips. The kid tried to step around her, but she just stepped with him,
and this awkward dance went on for a bit. At that point,
his
mom came running and asked what was going on. “Your son was throwing stones at my son. I'd like him to apologize.”

“Cedric, were you throwing stones?”

“We were just playing a game,” the kid said. Then he dug his finger into his nose and pulled out a booger.

“See?” his mother said. “It was just a game.”

“No. Games are fun for everyone involved. Your son was picking on someone smaller and more vulnerable than him.
He
was having fun, perhaps, but my son most definitely was not.”

“Lady, get over yourself,” said Cedric's mom. She took her son's hand and started to pull him away.

That's when my mom picked up a stone and threw it at Cedric. Not hard, but still; I couldn't believe my eyes. “Was that fun?” she asked. Then she threw a second stone. “How about that? We all having a good time now?”

“I'm calling the cops,” said Cedric's mom.

“Be my guest!” my mom shouted. But when Cedric's mother pulled out her phone, Mom scooped me up and started running toward our car. I think she was wondering how she'd explain herself to the police. We didn't go back to that park for years. But as she ran away with me in her arms, she said, “Stewart, I may not have handled that situation as well as I could have. But I want you to remember: it is
never
okay to pick on someone who is smaller, or weaker, or more vulnerable than you. If it happens to you, or to someone else, you must always speak up.”

It was time to speak up.

JARED PULLED UP ASHLEY'S
Desigual skirt and took a photo of her underwear. Then he put his fingers on the elastic waistband of her underwear. I'm pretty sure he was about to yank them down—much like he'd tried to yank
my
underwear down a couple of months earlier—when I walked out of the bathroom.

“Step away from my sister,” I said.

Jared looked up, startled. His phone slipped from his fingers and landed on the bed. But when he saw it was me, he smiled. “Hey, Stewie. We were just having some fun.”

“You're a sick, twisted jerk if this is your idea of fun,” I said. I grabbed a blanket and placed it over Ashley. Then I picked up his phone. “I'm deleting your photos.”

Jared's expression darkened. “Give me my frigging phone,” he said. Except he didn't say
frigging
.

“No.”

“We should go,” Paulo said, backing toward the door.

“Not until I get my phone.” Jared took a step toward me. “Don't make me come and get it, Stewie.”

“It's
Stewart
. And what are you going to do? Beat me up like you beat up that kid at your old school? Send me to the hospital?”

“That faggot got what he deserved.” He took another step toward me.

“You touch me, I'll start yelling.”

“You think anyone's going to hear you over all the noise?”

He had a point.

Then he lunged at me. But he misjudged the size of
Ashley's bed and whacked his knee on a corner. By that point, Paulo had opened the door, so I ran past both of them and into the hallway. Phoebe, Violet, and Alistair were still in Dad and Caroline's room. I shouted, “Go to Ashley's room and keep an eye on her!” Then I took the stairs two at a time. Jared was behind me, but I could dart between all the people on the stairs much easier than he could. The music was blaring and the crowds were even bigger than they had been half an hour ago. There was a hole in the foyer wall. But I couldn't deal with that right now.

I wasn't thinking; I was just moving. I ran the few blocks south to King Edward. A bus was coming. I took Jared's phone from my pocket and pushed “Emergency Call.” I told the operator that a party had got out of control and we needed the police, and I gave her the address. Then I tossed Jared's phone on the road.

I heard a satisfying
crunch
as the bus rolled by.

Then I walked back to our house. Five minutes later, two cop cars pulled up.

WHEN I WOKE UP
the next morning, my head was pounding so badly I could barely sit up. I was in bed, wearing my clothes from the night before. A bucket sat on the floor beside me, and I cringed in horror when I saw there was barf in it.
Who put that bucket there? And whose barf was that?

And then suddenly I knew, with one hundred percent absolute certainty, whose barf it was.

Scraps of images started to form in my head. Jared handing me drink after drink. Jared pulling up my skirt. Paulo standing behind him. The sound of a
click
. I shuddered at that memory and thought,
No, that couldn't have happened. You had a nightmare, that's all
. Then I had a flash of Stewart, shouting at Jared…. Then Feeble was standing over me along with Violent and Stewart's friend Albacore. After that, everything went black.

I rolled over and saw another strange sight. My dad was sleeping on my bedroom floor, a quilt pulled over him.

“Dad?” He immediately opened his eyes. “Why are you sleeping on my floor?”

“Because I was worried you might have alcohol poisoning. Because I didn't want you to choke on your own vomit and die in the middle of the night.” His voice cracked, and he started to cry. “I was so worried.”

“I'm really sorry, Dad.”

“Stewart tried to call me, but we must have been going through a dead zone. I got here just after the police.”

Police?
I had no memory of that, either.

He got up and cleaned out the bucket and brought me a glass of water and some aspirin. “I'm starving,” I said, remembering that I hadn't eaten any supper. I glanced at my alarm clock. It was seven-thirty.

He got me my bathrobe, and we made our way downstairs. It felt like lightning bolts were shooting through my brain with every step.

I couldn't believe the scene that met me. There were empty bottles everywhere, and broken glass. There were sticky stains on the carpet. Someone had punched a hole in the wall. A puddle of barf (not mine) was in the corner of the living room, and the smell made me almost add to it.

We walked toward the family room. I heard what sounded like crying.

It
was
crying. Stewart was on his hands and knees, looking under all the furniture. When he saw us, he said, “I can't find Schrödinger. I can't find him anywhere.”