On Leave: A Novel (chapters 1-2)

Chapter one:

The cold December air nipped at my face as I made my way with my friends down to Sharon’s car. The concert had finished, we had wowed the audience and everyone was celebrating the beautiful cello concerto.

“Damn, Natalie, you killed it with that solo, girl!” America whooped as we all piled in the car to go to Damien’s place.

“Thanks,” I laughed with a sheepish grin.

I cannot remember detail to detail what happened, but all I knew was that my body was in the moment during that concert and I lost all train of thought when it came to my anxieties. When it came to playing music, I could tell my stories, share my deepest fears, give away my biggest secrets to the audience without saying a word. I remember the beads of sweat dripping down my forehead and down my back as my fingers flew through the third movement of that concerto. My man, Robert Schumann, may he rest in peace, is probably cheering in his grave for me right now.

“Oh, gosh, I screwed up so many notes though!” America laughed as he warmed his mitten-less fingers by rubbing them together.

“Oh, no, you were fine,” I chimed in. “I was the one who effed up.”

“Quit being so modest,” Derek said, punching me in jest on the arm.

“Ow, you little ass,” I joked.

“Hey, you guys can screw around when we get to Damien’s place,” Sharon called out from the driver’s seat.

“Yes, Boss Lady,” America said, rolling his eyes.

I turned my head to admire the New York City skyline. The Brooklyn Bridge iced over. The naked trees with nothing but fresh snow to clothe their freezing balls. The couples who walked hand in hand with their kiddos as they sipped their hot chocolates from Starbucks.

“It’s so pretty outside,” I mused.

“Funny you should say that, because earlier you were bitching about this crappy-ass weather.”

“Oh, shut up, Derek,” I said, rolling my eyes but flashing him a sheepish grin. He was pretty cute. But he is taken already, so my chances of ending up with him are zero to none.

We pulled up to Damien’s place. Just a regular old two-story house in suburban New Jersey.

Sharon turned the keys out of the ignition.

“Let’s get hammered tonight, guys. We need it more than ever after that shit show of a concert.”

“It wasn’t a shit-show. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill,” America mentioned.

“Thanks, Mr. Idioms, but it was just that. A terrible performance. The only good thing keeping it together was Nat.”

I blushed. Why was everyone treating me like the star athlete here? We are all good musicians who got into this elite conservatory for a reason, so why should they put themselves down for the sake of lifting me up?

Ding-dong! Sharon rang the doorbell.

A tall, muscular beefcake with stringy, blonde hair and chiseled cheekbones opened the door.

“Hey guys, come on in,” Damien greeted us.

“Hey baby,” Sharon perched onto her black patent-leather flats to kiss her boo. Aw, so romantic. A guy who looks like he should be lifeguarding instead of working in insurance to go towards his college tuition, kissing a 5 foot 1 inch tall soon-to-be-professional oboist. An eclectic combo, but that’s what makes them so perfect.

We left the nippy cold and soon basked in the warmth of Damien’s pad. Ludacris blared from the stereos. Dang, I should have brought my earplugs, I thought. I have sensitive ears, so it pisses me off that while I can hear intonation and have perfect pitch, my ears cannot take loud concerts. So I guess I won’t ever get to meet P!nk of Beyoncé, my childhood idols. It’s okay though because at least I have Jacqueline du Pre. Like Schumann, may she rest in peace.

We made our way to the kitchen and saw about twenty or so people lounging on sofas and around the table. It was all overwhelming to take it, but we all had a rough night so what the hell. After all, you only live once and life is short.

Damien tosses me a can of peach Smirnoff. I gave him a startled look.

“Oh, I’m good, thanks,” I stumbled my words. I know it was my 21st birthday, but I also didn’t want my parents to find out I had been drinking. They do not like alcohol since alcoholism runs in our family.

“C’mon, Nat,” Sharon laughed. “live a little. It’s your 21st and you slayed that concerto tonight.”

“She doesn’t have to drink if she doesn’t want to,” Damien gave Sharon this serious look.

“Oh, no, it’s fine. Sharon’s right. I can live a little,” I said, cracking an embarrassed half-smile.

“If she says it’s fiiiiiinnne,” Sharon slurred, pushing her face up to Damien’s. She planted a kiss on his nose, “then it’s fiiiiine.”

He looked a little worried, but said, “Okay,” and with that America, Damien, Sharon, Derek and I all clinked our cans of Smirnoff and downed them.

After a few minutes, I felt the adrenaline course through my veins. I was starting to come out of my awkward little turtle shell and become the life of the party. This was my birthday and I wasn’t going to let a little gaucheness stand in my way.

“Give me another drink. Let’s try moscato.”

I screwed open the tall bottle of Yellow Tail and poured the moscato with little coordination into a red Solo cup. I feel the warm fruity liquid rush down my throat as I drink.

“Girl, you sure you’re gonna be okay drinking all that?” Derek asked.

“Bro, I’m fine,” I assure him, continuing to swig my Solo cup. I am not fine. I lied. I hate school, I wish the admissions office never gave me that full-ride scholarship. I feel like a fucking impostor, and I want out. This party is the only way I will feel okay being a human being right now.

The room looks a little blurry, but I don’t mind. I finally knock back the moscato.

Within ten minutes the room is starting to look like a Claude Monet painting. A water lilies work with blurry voices in the background to complement the art.

I don’t feel anything. I feel like I am on a plane. A plane flying on Cloud Nine. There is shouting and shrieking. And I feel a deep sharp pain, and my mouth is opening and within a few minutes I am facedown in some acidic green-yellow-brown looking shit. I hear a loud high-pitched wail. It doesn’t stop.

Chapter Two

I struggled to open my eyes. Wait, what happened to the music? Where’s Ludacris when you need him most?

My eyelids feel heavier than usual. What the hell is happening?

I try to open my eyes but something is keeping them from doing so. I see blue. I see blobs wearing blue things, these blue things on their heads. And on their mouths, they wear blue, too. They hold these silver things. Are those forks? Spoons? Knives?

And then I realize, in an instant. It doesn’t take me a second to figure out. I drank over my limit and now these random strangers are pumping my stomach. To keep me from dying.