Rise of Ember Quin

4

Ember doesn’t remember leaving the bathroom, doesn’t remember threading herself back through the hostile clot of partygoers and out the front door. All she knows is the wet chill on her thighs where the punch never dried, and the drumbeat of her own humiliation pulsing in her ears louder than the stereo. She walks fast, then faster, then breaks into a run. It feels fake at first, the way it does in dreams when you try to get away from something and your legs won’t cooperate. But her legs work, and the thud of her sandals against pavement is so loud she expects the entire neighborhood to wake up and bear witness.

She clears the porch, then the lawn, then the bright, sticky porchlight that makes the world look like it’s underwater. She hears someone—Rae, maybe—call her name, but she keeps running, lungs shredding in her chest, eyes raw and leaking. She cuts a diagonal path across the neighbor’s yard, vaults a low hedge with less grace than intended, and lands on the dark sidewalk, nearly folding at the knee.

Her feet slap the concrete, loud and desperate. The voices and laughter from the party become an afterimage, trailing her down the block. She doesn’t know where she’s going. She doesn’t care.

The subdivision is unfamiliar at night, all the houses matching and slightly off, each porchlight a different degree of jaundice. The streetlamps don’t illuminate so much as create pools of not-dark, and Ember darts from one to the next like a fugitive frog in a video game. Her sandals slide sideways on the wet grass; the right one stretches and snaps, the loop at her toe popping loose. She stumbles, rips it off, and keeps going barefoot, not stopping to check if she’s bleeding.

It’s only after two blocks, maybe three, that the air cools the fever in her face and she slows to a limp-jog. The physical hurt registers at last: every step stings, her arches burning, tiny pebbles lodging themselves in the soft spots. She tries to ignore it, but her body is conducting a symphony of minor injuries.

Her mind, meanwhile, is still at the party, replaying the night’s highlight reel on repeat. The cup flying from her hand, the spread-eagle collapse, the punch stain seeping into her dress. The sound of laughter, how it rose like a tide. And Jackson, standing there with his beer, refusing to meet her eyes. Or maybe that’s the worst part—that he did meet her eyes, just once, and the look he gave her was something between disgust and boredom.

Stupid, she thinks. Stupid. Stupid.

The humiliation burns hotter than the asphalt under her soles. Why did she think tonight would be different? Why did she let Rae talk her into a dress she knew would betray her, every angle and roll and unflattering curve? Why did she hope Jackson would want her? She wants to scream, but the sound gets jammed somewhere in her chest.

The subdivision ends abruptly, giving way to a thin stripe of county highway bordered by a drainage ditch and a row of unmown weeds. There are no sidewalks now, just the ragged border between gravel and blacktop. Ember’s pace slows, her breath coming in ragged snatches, each inhale coated with the bitter-sweet of honeysuckle and someone’s overzealous lawn fertilizer. She shuffles forward, careful now, holding her ruined sandal like a talisman or a weapon.

Her phone buzzes in her hoodie’s pouch—how did it get there?—but she ignores it. If it’s Rae, she can’t face her right now. If it’s Jackson, she can’t handle that, either. She keeps walking, shoulders hunched against the night.

The party’s echo has faded. In its place is the insect drone and the occasional roar of a car, approaching from behind, headlights casting her shadow long and monstrous across the road. The first car—a mud-colored sedan with a dull blue underglow—passes her without slowing, the boys inside pressed to the windows, faces illuminated for a second before the taillights dissolve them. She wonders if they recognize her, the girl from the spill, the spectacle. Probably not. She’s not interesting enough to merit a second look.

Another car, this one a late-model pickup, swings out a little wider as it passes, driver’s head turned for a glimpse. A burst of laughter through the open window, and then gone. The sound lingers, sticky as sap.

Her feet hurt, but she doesn’t want to stop. She imagines herself as a ghost, the kind that never finds peace because it can’t forgive itself for something—being weak, being ugly, being unlovable. She’s haunted by herself, and the only thing worse is the possibility that nobody else is haunted by her at all.

The pain in her soles grows urgent, but she keeps going, willing herself not to think about the tiny cuts or the glass she might step on, or how far it is to anywhere she knows. Her vision blurs, but she can’t tell if it’s tears or just the sweat running down her face and stinging her eyes. She wipes her cheeks with the back of her wrist, leaving a smear of glitter from Rae’s handiwork.

She veers off the road, feet finding the blessed cool of somebody’s overgrown lawn. The soft earth feels miraculous, even if it’s studded with sandburs. She slows, then drops to a crouch, hugging her knees to her chest and pressing her forehead against them. The position is familiar; it’s the same one she used to take in kindergarten when she wanted to disappear.

Ember tries to breathe, but the air is thick and heavy. Her face is soaked, the snot pooling at her upper lip and chin. She doesn’t care. The effort of holding it together is too much, and her body folds in on itself. She cries, not loud but deep, the kind of crying that feels like it will never end, like it started in some other lifetime and is just now getting around to the real work.

Behind her, somewhere back in the glowing windows of the subdivision, the party is still going, loud and oblivious. She imagines the jokes, the memes, the way this will circulate by morning: the group chats and Snap stories and someone’s t****k, all tagged with her name, “Quin” spelled wrong but recognizable anyway. She wonders if her mom will hear about it at work. She wonders if Rae will try to defend her, or if she’ll just move on to the next weekend, the next story.

She hates herself for caring. She hates herself for being weak. But mostly, she hates that she still wants Jackson to text her, to explain, to apologize, to do anything other than nothing.

The phone vibrates again. She digs it out and squints at the screen: four missed messages, all from Rae.

Where r u?

Em????

Please answer

I’m sorry

For a second, Ember wants to reply, wants to reassure Rae or blame her or maybe just ask for a ride home. But the words won’t come. She stares at the screen, watching the ellipsis bounce as Rae types another message, then backspaces, then types again. Ember turns the phone over, presses it to her thigh, and sits still until the next wave of sobbing comes.

She gets up, finally, and limps farther down the road. The pain is sharper now, but she likes it—it gives her something to focus on. Each step is a small, manageable agony. She keeps to the grass, moving in the shadow between driveways, trying to stay invisible.

The world is quieter out here, away from the party and the cars. There’s only the hum of insects and the rhythmic sound of her own breathing. It’s almost peaceful, except for the fact that her life is over, and she has no idea what happens next.

She walks until the houses thin out and the only light comes from a distant highway sign and the moon. She stops under a utility pole, leans against it, and tilts her face up to the night sky. The moon is a sickle, thin and sharp, and she wishes she could peel herself open and start again from nothing.

For a long time she stands there, just breathing. Her hands shake, her legs tremble, and her feet pulse with raw, open pain. She is as alone as she’s ever been.

A single car approaches, headlights glaring. She shields her eyes as it nears, then passes. For a brief second, she thinks it will stop, that maybe Rae has called for help, but the car cruises by, leaving a wake of hot rubber and indifferent wind.

Ember wants to laugh, but her throat is closed. Instead, she lets her head fall forward, hair clinging to her damp cheeks. The laughter from earlier at the party is still in her ears, but now it’s just white noise, distant, almost unreal.

She stands there, skin itching with the cold, dress still sticky and clinging, and she breathes in the night, her breath coming out in shuddery, uneven bursts. She is out of tears. For the first time in hours, she feels nothing, which is almost a relief.

She looks down at her feet, at the blood and grass and mud, and realizes she’s not even sure how far she’s come. Or how to get back.

She wants to lie down, right here on the side of the road, and just dissolve.

But she keeps walking.