FREAK BITCH
fiction
I saw the guest list on Partiful and I felt my interior rot. All hopes cracked under sudden and extreme foundational pressure. I saw his name. I never thought I would see it again. Marshall Campbell. Did Marshall live in the city now? Did he know I lived here? How did Cameron and Marshall know each other?
I posted on social media that morning. “Should I go to the party? Yes or no.” Twenty-five people said “yes,” no one said “no.” I poured a tequila neat into a glass and slipped on a black lace bra. I am sipping Casamigos in a bra while Addison Rae is blasting through the speakers of my television. No panties. I called a friend and asked her to come with me, but she was working at the door of a comedy club in the East Village. She said to meet her out after. She said we could sing at the karaoke bar we frequented last winter. “You love that place!” she cooed. I confirmed. Something that would relinquish me of my responsibility to performance. Something that would permit me to leave the party early. I cannot perform a false desire for that long. I was never good at faking it. I could never fake joy when I was angry.
Marshall always knew when I was lying. Many times, he’d pull me aside and ask me what he did wrong. Sometimes it was something he did, other times I was just depressed. “How can I make it better for you? You can’t say there’s nothing.” A long hug was usually medicinal enough. Sometimes a night out with him worked too. Sometimes, it was just a pack of cigarettes or a rough fuck. However, his asking me how he could help was the only question I was looking for. I just wanted someone to see me; he always did.
That’s why the party scared me, I didn’t want him to see me, or see through me. I also wanted him to see through me; I wanted him to take a good look at what he had done to me. I wanted him to see that I am not the girl he left behind. I wasn’t where he left me. I no longer needed to be taken care of. I had become something supernatural and grandiose.
I loved myself crying on the subway platform. I loved myself screaming on the phone. I loved myself when drinking champagne cocktails with girlfriends. I loved myself when I was dancing and smelling the bodega roses sitting in my kitchen window. I loved myself when I was smoking a cigarette in a bra, no panties, near an open window.
I choose love and liberation in the trap I am willfully walking toward. The trap - a party.
I ran into the bedroom, twirling to grab a denim mini skirt and a cropped graphic tee. I tightly strapped myself into heels and grabbed my baguette. “FREAK BITCH” in bold orange letters across my tits. Gucci, Fendi, Hot Topic. All vintage. I walk out the door and pick up flowers for Cameron. No time to purchase a gift for the birthday boy, roses will have to do. I was running to the G train with my black leather trench open, flowers cradled in my arms like I was Miss America running from the crown. Freak Bitch never wins, never really.
Cameron opened the door and indie music flooded from his stereo system into the hallway. I could hear a cacophony of chatter from behind the door. I heard a loud, feminine laugh confidently bubble from the atmosphere. This laugh could only belong to a woman who was more beautiful than I. Cameron’s eyes twinkled when he saw me.
“Marley!” he thundered. “You came!”
“Of course!” I leaned on him as I hugged him; he smelled like rosemary and thyme. My arms dangled over his broad frame. One hand held my Fendi baguette dangling, the other held the flowers, the petals pointing toward the floor, shaking like jungle branches. I looked over his shoulders like a predator looking for the gazelle, and there he was - Marshall Campbell. His blonde hair was shorter than it was five years ago. He was in a gray sweater, holding a red solo cup, gesticulating with his hands, passionately talking to a beautiful woman in gold. She was laughing. He was on the verge of bursting. He didn’t spot me. I was unreasonably offended. He used to say he could always sense me when I walked into a room. Not tonight.
I walked past him, ignoring the threshold. I asked Cameron if there was a vase under the sink. I demanded to cut the stems myself. This was a sentence Marshall was familiar with. When we lived together, the apartment had fresh-cut flowers in every room. I never permitted him to cut the stems. I knew the words and the voice would signal something familiar. He looked in my direction. The joy in his eyes scattered like birds flying from dangerous electrical wiring. He looked at me, I looked at him. The roses clutched in both hands - intentionally looking like a bride in order to disturb. Freak Bitch. Unbreakable eye contact.
When I walked into the kitchen, the contact evaporated - my choice. I got the last momentary word. Small battles, small victories, it always counts. I clicked against the tiles. I filled the vase. All twelve stems were cut by my delicate and precise hand. I walked into the room with the vase of pink like a domestic and feminine vision. The woman in gold conveyed her love for the roses with affectionate coos and sounds. I smiled. Another victory, all tens on the board for visuals. Marshall stood back and found another circle to entrench himself in. He stared at the man sharing with the circle; it was clear he came in mid-story and couldn’t find the plot. I pushed my hands through my hair, and he turned to catch a glance. He couldn’t resist my hair. We locked eyes. Instantaneously, I rolled my eyes and smiled. I could win this war tonight.
Although infectious, this cat-and-mouse game was precisely why I didn’t want to attend this party. Seeing him turned me into a Crazy Person. A Freak Bitch. A Mademoiselle Don’t - as my mother would call it. On a normal day, I would walk into a room without begging for attention or even seeking it out. It would either find me or it wouldn’t. I would remain content. However, when Marshall Campbell came into play, I suddenly found myself a 21-year-old college student with a deep desire to play the starring role in the room. Fuck you! Look what you did!
Even when we were together, I was trying to portray the American teen dream, trying to convince him not to leave me. Don’t leave me, look at what I can do. Please, Marshall - it’s me. You’ll never find another girl like me. When he finally left, which I knew he would always do, I fell into an oblivion - and not the kind that leaves you in bed with Lays chips. That would have been better than what I did. I took the heels and the sequins and the lip kits and went to the bars, clubs, restaurants, movie theaters, airport terminals, dating apps, job interviews. I didn’t stop. For three years, I demanded attention like a revenge fantasy. Please, everyone, look at me living up to Gloria Gaynor’s words.
I HAVE SURVIVED MAN!
I SURVIVED ABANDONMENT!
THE LOVE OF MY LIFE LEFT ME AND I AM 15 POUNDS THINNER
AND I AM IN A NEW TAX BRACKET!
NOTHING CAN KILL ME!
My rage blinded every room. My self-proclaimed glamour hurt me. My horror is self-made - and it was all for Marshall, even if I didn’t want to admit that at the end of the day.
I chose to work the room. The girl in the gold dress? We discussed the new Gucci RTW fashion line.
“It feels like reheated nachos, who’s? It’s unclear.” I agreed with her reaction. We laughed.
The man in the suit who came straight from a weekend office day? His name was Miguel. His wife was on a cruise with her mother, but the way he looked at me made it clear he was on the precipice of stepping out of the marriage for the weekend. I played with the watch on his wrist. He read the words on my t-shirt.
“Freak Bitch?”
“Yes,” I said while taking a sip of water. “Not for you, though,” I pointed at the wedding band. “You have your own.” What was I saying? Why was I talking like that?
“Of course,” he swallowed. “I would never.”
“Of course not.”
Cameron twirled me in the kitchen in an intimate moment while an old Sky Ferreira track played. He asked me if I was ever on Tumblr back in the day. I whispered in his ear: “Yeah.” I kissed him on the mouth before grabbing a White Claw from the refrigerator. He asked me to dinner that night. I said yes. He’s an appropriate date, not boyfriend material. Who knows? Life is surprising.
With fifteen minutes left to spare, I walked into the area of the party where I was in Marshall’s undeniable vision. He was back with the girl in gold, right where we started. We looked at each other. I did not smile. I tried to exude warmth, but I refused to smile. I had to play the role of remote. Totally unreachable. He looked at the charismatic golden girl and said, “Excuse me.”
He made his way toward me, the girl standing by the door - the Freak Bitch. He stood in front of me. He still wore the same cologne.
“Hey”
“Hey,” I can’t recall who greeted whom first.
“You look good.” I did not thank him.
“Are you in New York now?”
“Yeah, Lower East Side.” Impressive.
“Job?”
“Yeah, I got transferred out here.” I do not know what he does now.
“From?”
“Lexington.”
“Virginia?”
“Kentucky.” I am bad at geography. I did not know he lived in Kentucky.
“Single?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
We nodded at each other, somewhat feigning a lack of interest.
We looked at each other in silence. His gaze made me feel smaller than usual. Not his fault, I just loved him. It was an unfortunate clarity I experienced when he was in front of me. He curled his lip in discomfort. I felt tamed and got by him. Completely caught. I wasn’t a Freak Bitch. I was painfully normal. Just a girl.
“I have to go.”
“Yeah, you like to really shake up a room and leave it.” A compliment that stabbed me and lit me up.
“I am not as chaotic as I used to be.” I don’t know why I felt the need to defend myself.
“No one is; we all grew up.”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” I pointed at the door. “I’m going to go.”
“Okay,” he said. “See ya.” He walked away from me before I could open the front door.
I ran to the elevator with my leather trench in hand. The label of Freak Bitch across my chest was shaking the foundation of my spine, my equilibrium. I punched the down button. I entered the elevator. I called my karaoke girlfriend.
“Hey, bitch.” I paused while running back toward the train. “Do you have coke?”
She said yes. We sang Sheryl Crow until our voices sounded like cigarette smoke. I cried in the bar bathroom to her in between songs, “Why didn’t he love me?” I tried to drunk call Marshall that night, but I realized I no longer had his number. It all got lost in the wash as most things do.
I called Cameron instead. I ended up back at his apartment, which was now empty and crowded with trash. He threw me on the couch. Bra, no panties. In the middle of the act, I caught a lingering whiff of Marshall’s cologne.
So good