Cackle - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Rachel Harrison was born and raised in the weird state of New Jersey. She received her bachelor's in writing for film and television from Emerson College. After graduating, she worked on TV game shows, in publishing, and for a big bank. She lives in western New York, with her husband and their cat/overlord.

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Fortune

The sky is a strange color. Not quite red but too violent to be orange. I search for the sun, imagine it tired and bitter, slouching into another long shift. I find it hovering over New Jersey. Poor sun.

"Annie," Nadia whines behind me, "you're bumming me out."

"Sorry," I say. I contort my mouth into what I think is a smile, but Nadia winces at the sight of it, so I'm guessing the attempt is unsuccessful.

"Girl," she says, "pull it together! It's your birthday."

I groan.

"All right, all right," she says, roping her arm around me. "Let's get you wasted."

We dodge the bags of trash reclining on every curb, avoid the rogue dog turds swarming with flies, unashamed in the middle of the sidewalk. When I first moved to New York City twelve years ago, starry-eyed and energetic, a college freshman, it didn't seem so dirty. I can't tell if it was because I was young then, charmed by the skyline, always looking up, or if it used to be cleaner.

"Here," Nadia says, putting her hands on my shoulders and ushering me into a random bar. It's almost chic. Draped-bead chandeliers hang from a high ceiling. The place is crowded with couches and mismatched armchairs, stuffing sneaking out through straining seams. Nadia directs me to two stools in the corner where the counter disappears into the wall.

"Perfect," she purrs. She's wearing a low-cut leopard-print jumpsuit, which at first I thought was a smidge much, but now that we've received immediate attention from the bartender, I'm beginning to appreciate her strategic fashion choice.

She orders us vodka lemonades and tequila shots.

I've been out with Nadia only once before, at a karaoke fundraiser for our school that was near torture. She performed an earnest cover of Natalie Imbruglia's "Torn." I sat squirming in the corner, anticipating a flood of secondhand embarrassment, but the crowd was surprisingly into it.

I watch her now, as she sticks her pink acrylics into the bowl of assorted nuts on the bar. She tilts her head to the side, searching for a specific nut, exposing her long, delicate neck. Her hair is dark and thick and falls down past her shoulders, curving like a chain of crescent moons. She's got false lashes that are in a constant flutter.

She teaches biology. She's good at it, too. At school, she doesn't wear a lick of makeup. All the students whisper about how she's the hottest teacher.

It doesn't matter how old you get. A superlative will always be insulting when it's awarded to anyone but you.

The bartender drops the shots in front of us. They're accompanied by a tiny plate with two lime wedges and a crusty saltshaker.

Nadia lifts up one of the shots. "To you. And your new job. Oh, and fuck your ex."

She takes her shot.

I take mine, too. The mention of Sam is like an ice pick to the sternum. I begin to count the bottles of liquor lined up behind the bar. Are there enough? In this bar? In this city? In the tristate area? How much will it take?

"It's all happening," Nadia says, snapping her fingers as our cocktails arrive. "New job. New city."

"It's not a city," I say. "It's a small town no one's ever heard of."

"Yeah," she says, and pauses to aggressively suck the remaining juice from her lime wedge. "But that's how all romance movies start. You're going to move to this, like, small-ass town and meet some brooding lumberjack, and he's going to be named Lucien and have a six-pack even though he's a low-key alcoholic. He'll live in a trailer and have a tragic past. It'll be great."

"Sounds great," I say, my voice flat.

She nudges me. "Oh, come on, Annie. Loosen up! Have some fun. It's your birthday!"

I wish she would stop reminding me of that.

I hadn't planned on spending my thirtieth birthday with a coworker I barely know who just ate a bar cashew out of her cleavage, or drinking a vodka cocktail that's going down smooth as battery acid. Admittedly, it's not the worst. It's just not what I had envisioned.

I saw myself with Sam. On vacation somewhere. Butchering the French language while attempting to order food at a cafŽ in Montmartre, in the shadow of the SacrŽ-Coeur. Or in London contemplating the paintings at the Tate Modern and having cream tea, then smuggling back Cadbury bars in our suitcases. Or a simple weekend trip to the Hudson Valley or Mystic, somewhere we could take the train to and get a nice hotel room with a big tub and laze around in those cozy robes.

"Okay," she says. "What is it? Is it him? Are you thinking about him? Is it thirty? Because thirty is not old, okay?"

She's twenty-seven.

"It's all of it," I say. "I'm sorry. It was nice of you to come out with me."

She raises an expertly shaped eyebrow. "I told you all year we should go out. You were, like, not about it. Look, I don't know you that well. But I know you're not a super-social person. And it's easy not to be social when you, like, have a person at home who's there all the time. What I'm saying is, basically, maybe this is a good thing for you. You can get out there. Meet new people. Live your life."

"I guess," I say. Unfortunately for me, "getting out there" and "meeting new people" are among my least favorite things. I've forgotten how. The years since college have eroded my social skills, and I'm shy to begin with. I prefer the couch. I prefer familiarity.

I prefer Sam.

"Here," she says. She reaches out for a small tea light candle and lifts it up, the yellow flame spasming, the wick decaying. "Make a wish."

"You're serious?" I ask her. In this moment, I do regret not going out with Nadia sooner. I bet she's a good friend. She seems like one of those people who are born knowing exactly who they are. Her entire personality written in the stars, set in concrete.

"Yes," she says. "Quick! Before it burns out!"

I close my eyes and think.

We leave a collection of glasses sweating on the bar, along with a wad of crumpled bills and enough rinds to generously zest a pie. We stagger out into the June night, the air thick, sticky and sweet as syrup. ItÕs going to be a hot summer. For the first time, IÕm sincerely relieved to be leaving the city. I wonÕt miss the humidity, thighs sticking to the seats on the subway, everyone grumpy and perspiring, any amount of deodorant rendered inadequate.

Nadia is on a quest for her favorite pizza slice. It's at some hole-in-the-wall place in the West Village she used to frequent during her "partying days." If her partying days are behind her, I'm a little curious what they were like, because right now she's saying hello to strangers in a truly horrendous British accent while somehow balancing on the tallest heels I've ever seen. On a cracked asymmetrical sidewalk. While drunk!

This must be a practiced skill.

I scamper behind her, the bumbling sidekick in a pair of practical flats.

"It used to be right here, I swear," she says as we stand on a side street at the foot of a domestic brownstone. She sighs, and it's interrupted by a single faint hiccup. We're far too drunk for this.

"We should call it," I say.

"It's ten o'clock," she says.

I'm assuming by her horrified expression that she thinks ten o'clock is early. I'm of a...