“Shut up!” I yell-slur miserably.
It’s my kitchen sink and I can be sick if I want. My vision flickers in and out, like I’m having multiple seizures.
Being dumped would have to happen, tonight of all nights. At my own party.
But betrayal hurts more than being dumped. I mean, Samira, of all people? The last time I felt this shitty was when I was hungover and then I had to take a three-hour SAT.
The garage is the safest place, the most private place I can think of. I grab the car keys and sit in the driver’s seat of my parents’ two-month-old white Mercedes-Benz. It was a gift from my mom to my dad for his fifty-fifth birthday. I put my hands over my flaming cheeks. I squeeze my eyes shut.
Don’t panic, don’t panic. Everything will be all right, I think hopelessly. It always is?
I just need air. Lots of cool, fresh air. I just need to think.
Anywhere, I think, but here.
But why does the car seem so claustrophobic all of a sudden? It’s like being trapped inside a tiny balloon of hot air. I inhale. Exhale. Inhale. I tell myself that things will get better.
They don’t.
My heart hurts, and so does my reeling head.
I can’t decide which one is worse.
Heartbreak or indulging in too much weed and alcohol.
Sobbing uncontrollably, I somehow accidentally rev the engine on. It’s like my entire body is on autopilot, and I’m too distressed to notice that I’ve put the Mercedes in reverse. All I can think about is Samira and Peter. Samira in my favorite black dress and Peter in my bed. Samira and Peter. The world must be ending. In what horrible, clichéd universe would my best friend and boyfriend be cheating on me? And why didn’t I even notice? Am I honestly that self-absorbed?
Denial combined with spurts of anger hit me like little fireworks. Maybe I imagined the whole episode. This is all a nightmare, right? A drunken hallucination?
At first I don’t understand what happens next and I think that I am seriously dreaming. The CRASH is so loud and frightening that it doesn’t seem real. A sharp, metal clanging noise roars in my eardrums. Like a special-effects sound in an action movie that gets closer and louder in volume and speed. I don’t understand what on earth is happening. I didn’t even notice that the car was moving. I don’t understand the strangeness of it all. And that’s when I decide to glance in the rearview mirror. And I gasp. All the feelings of surprise, shock, and horror fall out of my mouth, like a supersize Gobstopper. My dad’s Mercedes has just rolled backward into the garage door. The car has rammed into one of our three newly painted garages and plowed an entire door off its hinges. I glance in the rearview mirror to check again. I’m not imagining things. I was never the best driver, but this is the worst car accident in all my life.
Holy shit.
This can’t be happening.
I’ve just knocked the entire garage door off and smashed the trunk of my parents’ $50,000 luxury car.
I wail loudly. What choice do I have? It’s not like I can make any other sound. And it’s not like I can pretend that nothing happened to the car or to our missing garage door. It’s not even like I wrecked the backyard fence or broke a small window. A garage door is a very important focal feature of a house. It’s always the first thing that you notice on a real-estate brochure.
A bunch of kids come running out at the sound and look super confused. A few of them point and take photographs with their cell phones.
“Oh my god!” someone exclaims.
I think I see Samira, but then her shell-shocked face disappears into a frightening gray-black blur.
“Is that Iris?” someone else is yelling.
My stomach churns again. No more puking! I think. My vision flickers in and out. Please don’t let me puke again.
Instead of vomiting this time, I gratefully pass out.
4
Broken House
My mom always said it was best to avoid beautiful movie-star boys, much like avoiding ice cream and cheddar cheese if you’re severely lactose intolerant. She always said good-looking boys would stomp on my fragile flower-heart. But I never listen. I always insist on eating my delicious ice-cream cake from Dairy Queen, and then I have to elbow whoever is in front of me to use the bathroom.
Lactose intolerance is no joke.
“Choose someone uglier than you to romance,” my mom would always say, before heading to work at her firm, where she is both the CEO and senior electrical engineer.
But she wasn’t right: it wasn’t a beautiful boy who stomped on my fragile flower-heart, but just Peter Hayes. Freckled, messy-haired Peter, who played the drums completely off-beat, liked food and pot as much as me, and was average in intelligence, height, and weight. If you asked me to describe Peter Hayes, I’d say he was pretty much unremarkable. We definitely had a lot of fun, fooling around in his dad’s old Toyota when we were both supposed to be at school. On weekends, when I was supposed to be in ACT and SAT class, he’d pick me up and we’d drive around the suburbs, smoking and listening to indie rock bands on repeat.
“Iris, he’s not right for you,” my mother would always say whenever Peter came over to pick me up. “He doesn’t love you. Why do you always pay with your allowance money when he invites you to dinner?”
Despite the fact that Peter always smiled and made polite small talk with my mom and dad, my parents just didn’t like him.
But I would continue to defend him. “You just don’t like Peter because he’s American! You want me to date a geeky, boring Chinese dude!”
“Your dad is not boring!” my mom would say.
“I’m not boring,” my dad would echo, joining the conversation. “In fact, I’m very exciting!”
Peter Hayes was the source of many ongoing screaming fights. We’d fight about Peter after school and on weekends. He was the most popular topic in our household besides college applications and the FIFA Cup.
I hear a voice calling me gently.
When I open my eyes, a concerned face is asking me if I can hear her.
“Can you tell me your name?” a woman says, and checks my wrist for a pulse. “I’m a paramedic.”
At first, I don’t understand, but then I remember.
Someone must have called 911. An ambulance and a police car are here. A broken house and a broken sports car. Underage drinking. This does not look good.
There’s nothing to be done about the garage.
“Honey,” the female paramedic says. “We’re taking you to the hospital.”
I try to slur out something rational, a word that sounds suspiciously like “garage.”
“Shhhhh,” she says reassuringly. “You’ve had a bad accident and you’re in shock.”
I start crying nonstop.
5
Loser
My parents come back ASAP on the first flight from Honolulu. They pick me up from Hackensack Meridian Health Emergency Room, frantic with worry. Even after I reassure them that I’m totally fine, except for my headache and bad hangover, they insist on one more checkup and my mom and dad yell that they love me over and over again.
“You could have been killed and wouldn’t be able to go to college!” my mom and dad take turns screaming after the emergency room physician and the nurse confirm that I’m definitely going to live.