Juliet the Maniac Read online

  ALSO BY JULIET ESCORIA

  Witch Hunt

  Black Cloud

  Juliet the Maniac

  Copyright © Juliet Escoria, 2019

  All rights reserved

  First Melville House Printing: May 2019

  The illustrations for Spirometer and Torrey Pine (pinus torreyana)

  © Carabella Sands, 2018. All other artwork courtesy of the author.

  Melville House Publishing

  46 John Street

  Brooklyn, NY 11201

  and

  Suite 2000

  16/18 Woodford Road

  London E7 0HA

  mhpbooks.com

  @melvillehouse

  ISBN: 9781612197593

  Ebook ISBN 9781612197609

  Designed by Richard Oriolo

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Escoria, Juliet, author.

  Title: Juliet the maniac : a novel / Juliet Escoria.

  Description: Brooklyn : Melville House, [2019].

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018055371 (print) | LCCN 2018055784 (ebook) | ISBN

  9781612197609 (reflowable) | ISBN 9781612197593 (paperback)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Coming of Age. | FICTION / Literary.

  Classification: LCC PS3605.S36 (ebook) | LCC PS3605.S36 J85 2019 (print) | DDC 813/.6–dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018055371

  v5.4

  a

  For Scott

  “It is, in short, pointless to attempt to see into the heart of another while affecting to conceal one’s own.”

  —JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU, CONFESSIONS

  “And I was a hand grenade that never stopped exploding.”

  —MARILYN MANSON, “MECHANICAL ANIMALS”

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also by Juliet Escoria

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  PROLOGUE

  BOOK ONE

  BOOK TWO

  BOOK THREE

  BOOK FOUR

  AFTERWORD

  A Letter From the Now

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Reading Group Guide

  PROLOGUE

  It is hard to tease out the beginning. When I was living it, my disintegration seemed sudden, like I had once been whole but then my reality swiftly slipped apart into sand. Not even sand, but slime, something desperate and oozing and sick. But looking back—I was a slow burn that eventually imploded.

  * * *

  —

  My school was at the top of a hill, at the dead end of a street in a quiet neighborhood full of million-dollar homes. The playground overlooked the ocean. I was in sixth grade, and it was early spring, after an El Niño winter, unusually cold and rainy. The first clear day in weeks, the sunlight an odd metallic citrine from the moisture, shifting in strange shadows. We’d just had P.E., capture the flag, and we were young enough that I was still the fastest in the class, faster than the boys, and I’d managed to slip out of Matt Irwin’s fingers to victory. I couldn’t catch my breath. I turned away from my classmates to look out at the ocean, shimmering in the yellow light, and it was so beautiful I couldn’t stand it. I felt a shift in my tectonics, a sensation like I might burst out of myself, a rupture in my chest leaking something hot and dirty like lava. My first awareness of the foreign thing. It felt electric and thrilling but I also knew it was something to hide.

  So I swallowed it down. I willed myself silent and still. There was not something mutating inside of me. There was no growing evil. Everything is normal, I whispered to myself, over and over again until my breathing slowed and the sunlight smoothed into its usual ordinary color.

  * * *

  —

  Maybe that was it. The first moment I felt the dark thing, acknowledged there was something invading my brain and body. That there was something sick inside of me. That soon would come a plague of bad thoughts, a chant in my brain saying: I want to die. I want to die. I want to kill myself. I want to die.

  * * *

  —

  But that was also the year the rock star shot himself, so suicide was on everyone’s mind. Heroin still seemed glamorous, celebrities still smoked, and the radio played songs filled with angst. At that point, maybe I was still a normal adolescent, with the normal pangs and problems that come with that age. Maybe there was not yet something actually wrong with me. I know for sure, though, that things had turned dark by the summer after eighth grade, so I will start there.

  BOOK ONE

  TWIN ETCHINGS

  Nicole bought the switchblade when she went down to Tijuana with her mom and dad. They’d let her go off by herself as long as she was back when she’d promised. She pretended to go shopping for dresses but instead went to the nightclubs, where Mexican girls not much older than us blew whistles loud in her face, dumping cheap tequila down her throat. She pretended to swim but instead bought things you couldn’t here, pills that made us sleepy but not high, and, of course, that switchblade. It looked exactly like a joke switchblade I’d had as a kid, one that was actually a comb. Same black and silver handle, same plastic switch, just as flimsy and cheap looking. But the blade was heavy, pale and cold like the moon.

  She kept the switchblade in her makeup case, alongside the bright lipsticks she often put on but never wore. This was something we did a lot at her house—put on makeup. Everything Nicole owned was expensive: MAC eyeshadow, Clinique foundation, Dior powder, all purchased from Nordstrom or Saks. Nicole was a pro, blending powders on her eyelids and cheeks with gold-handled brushes until she looked like a doll. She plucked my eyebrows high and thin, drew an X across my cupid’s bow before slicking on lipstick, lines smooth and everything perfectly symmetrical. When she finished, I looked just like Drew Barrymore or Clara Bow.

  I didn’t think anything when she took the switchblade out of her makeup case. We were listening to the Sex Pistols in her new room in her new house, big and empty because they’d just moved in. The music was as loud as it would go, fuzzing the speakers of her gigantic stereo, the wild and quick beat of my heart. She flicked the knife out, held it close to my throat and laughed. Her eyes flickered and she made a face like a crazy killer and I laughed too, nervous, feeling as though for a second she had turned from my best friend into a stranger.

  “God, I’m so fat,” she said, releasing me, looking at herself in the full-length mirror. She wasn’t fat. Her arms were thin and her legs were lean but she did have just the smallest ripple of fat on her stomach. “I wish I could just cut this off,” she said, switchblade hovering over her belly button. Her voice went soft, like she was saying it only to herself. “It makes me fucking hate myself.”

  I had told her she wasn’t fat enough times before, so I said nothing. “Does it hurt?” she asked, pointing to my hip. A few days earlier, we’d gone swimming in her new pool, and as we were changing she saw the scabs, a triangle I’d cut there with a pocketknife, one night secretly in my bedroom. I’d started cutting myself years ago, before I even knew what it was, just this thing to relieve the pressure when I felt too mad or too happy, a letting out of the air. She was the first to notice, and it made me feel naked and embarrassed, the way her eyes had splayed wide. But I realized now that she wasn’t disgusted, didn’t think I was a freak, the way I had thought that day. To her, the cuts made me cool.

  “No,” I said. “Not if you do it right. If you do it too light, it stings, but if you go just a bit deeper, it feels good.” I didn’t tell her you had to be in the right mood, or that it always hurt the next day. She could think I was tougher than that, even though I wasn’t, ev
en though the whole reason I did it was because I was weak in the first place, a person who couldn’t stand the simple act of being herself.

  She took the point of the knife into her arm, and I watched her carve a line straight down. I didn’t tell her to stop. I didn’t tell her not to do it on her arm, not ever, but especially not during the summer, especially not a couple weeks before school began, this place on her body where anyone could see. So she drew two more lines, turning the first into an F. I watched her the whole time as she carefully carved each line, perfectly straight and even, like she had written it on paper.

  The album ended and neither of us got up. She was almost done with the second T. She acted like it didn’t hurt, didn’t make any noises or faces, and with each line I felt something in myself softening, as though our secret thoughts were creeping out and curling together. This action done for me, to show me she was tough, to show me there was no difference between the two of us. When she was done, she held it up, an art project for me to admire, and I took my finger and smeared the blood in a straight line through the word, crossing it out. FATTY. The one and only thing she hated about herself—her body. I felt a heavy pull to lick her blood, taste its metallic hotness. Instead, I just wiped it on my pants, and later, I couldn’t get it out in the laundry, this copper patch belonging to Nicole, staining my favorite jeans.

  IN MY ROOM AT NIGHT

  I liked to listen to the radio. Talk shows, the oldies. The voices made me feel less empty. Sometimes everything settled inside me too still. I would turn off the lights and burn candles instead, drawing for hours or painting my nails. Often I lay on my back, staring at the popcorn ceiling, looking for shapes the way people do with clouds. As my parents went to sleep and the night wore on, a thick smoke curled in from the corners. The smoke became faces, people, worlds. I looked at the crystal ball, and in it I saw the future. What I saw frightened me.

  OTHER BAD THINGS WE LIKED TO DO

  Nicole’s neighborhood was construction sites and dirt lots, a new development for rich people who wanted custom houses and lots of land. Theirs was one of the first finished. We would tell her mom we’d be out riding bikes. I’d take Nicole’s brother’s, too small and neon orange, and we rode them to the construction sites. Once we got there, we hid the bikes, just in case her mom tried to find us.

  The houses were in all stages of construction. Some were nothing more than beams, which were useless. Others were further along, encircled in catwalks and ladders. Those we climbed. The more the houses were finished, the better. Sometimes we scratched things on the walls with nails, started little fires with wood scraps.

  One day Nicole’s parents told us they were going to Orange County, to buy antique furniture and go to a party. They wouldn’t be home until late. The only problem was we didn’t have any alcohol or pot, not even cigarettes. In the liquor cabinet, there was just one bottle of expensive-looking whiskey and a few bottles of wine, all unopened. In the garage, there was a big 24-pack of Zima, mostly full. We figured we could drink two each.

  Nicole filled her backpack with the Zimas, and we rode down to our new favorite house, which had everything finished except for the carpet and paint. The sun was pouring in the floor-to-ceiling windows, greenhouse hot. We could only stand it long enough for one Zima. We took the rest back home.

  “Maybe we should look in your parents’ closet,” I suggested. Nicole didn’t understand why I wanted to look in there, but she got excited as soon as we opened the doors. Even though they’d just moved in, the closet was perfect already—big fancy organizers holding all of Nicole’s mom’s shoes, her dad’s ties and cuff links, tiny lights hidden throughout that switched on when you opened the door. There was a step stool that matched the shelves, the kind you might find in some rich person’s private library. Nicole stood on it, grabbing a big leather bin on the top shelf, which she handed to me. I sat it on the ground. There were some scarves and a wooden box inside it. Inside the wooden box was a gun.

  It looked fancy, cushioned by black velvet. Nicole told me it was an old police revolver. It was loaded. We decided to go behind her house and shoot at birds.

  The whole time I was expecting the gun to go off by accident. Nothing happened. Nicole held the gun gingerly, her finger away from the trigger, the nozzle pointed away from us.

  We got to a clearing in the brush. It was late afternoon and the shadows of the sagebrushes were long, fuzzy nests of spiderwebs in the branches. There were a couple birds out there, little brown sparrows, pecking the dirt. I thought we would talk about it first, that Nicole would show me how to shoot the gun. But she just cocked it, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

  The shot rang out over the emptiness, so loud it made the brush quiver and my ears ring. She missed. The birds flew off. But it didn’t matter. She looked so cool with it in her hand, feet spread wide, arms out, just like they do in the movies.

  She handed me the gun, but told me I had to wait until some birds flew back because there were only six rounds in the chamber. I hadn’t shot a gun before. It was heavy and cold. I held it in front of me like Nicole, in order to get the feel of it. I put my finger on the trigger. I felt dangerous, like Charlie’s Angels.

  We waited for the birds to come back. In between we sat on the sand and drank another Zima. When we finished, there were still no birds so we decided to move somewhere else. We walked around until we heard cooing in the bushes. “Shhh!” Nicole said, and we crept toward them. In a clearing, there were two doves with big bellies, and soft brown feathers and eyes.

  They seemed so sweet and stupid, but I spread my feet apart, cocked the barrel, squinted until one of them was square in the middle of my sight. It seemed silly to aim at something so helpless. I pulled the trigger. The noise of the shot was so loud it throbbed in my skull.

  I assumed I would miss.

  I was wrong.

  I could tell Nicole was saying something because her mouth was moving, but my ears were ringing too loud to hear, her face smudged into an inky thumbprint. I felt something sick creep through my bones, dark and thick and making me nauseous. It was growing.

  I didn’t want to look but it seemed like I had to, so I walked over to the bird. I kneeled over it, silently, like I was saying a prayer. It didn’t even look like a bird anymore, just a splat of feathers and blood and squishy guts. I touched the mess with my fingers. It was slippery and warm. I brought my finger to my forehead and anointed myself with the blood. I told myself this was why the bird had died, to save me. It would erase the malignance swelling in my brain. It would make me good now.

  FIRST DAY OF HIGH SCHOOL

  Nicole and I had picked out our clothes months ago from a catalog. For weeks we discussed how we’d do our nails, our makeup, and our hair. That morning I left the house assuming I would be sorted with the right people first thing—popular, cool. People who deserved both respect and fear. Instead, I met no new people. Nicole wasn’t in any of my Honors classes, so I didn’t say anything all day but Here! By fourth period it reverberated around in my skull like a pinball, echoing and distorting until it sounded almost demonic. Here, here, here.

  It was weird to be so silent around that many people. Their voices were mostly a drone, with only the occasional phrase slipping through—Oh my god. Did you see her? What’s up? Where were you? The hallways were filled with dizzying movement, and I held tight onto my notebook in an attempt to anchor myself, but it was too late. I couldn’t get back into my body. I couldn’t stop seeing myself as a stranger. All the people around me seemed to know each other, and they were all in the same world, one different than mine, one where everyone knew what they were doing and what they wanted.

  The warning bell rang and I snapped out of it enough to walk into the classroom and find a seat at a desk in the back. But then I heard someone calling my name.

  It was a girl who’d been my friend in elementary school—her name was Blair. In third and fourth grade, we’d hung out at the Boys & Girls Club every day after scho
ol. We made Cup O’ Noodles soup in the microwave and sang “Under the Bridge” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers on the baseball field. Back then, she’d lived in the rural part of Santa Bonita, on a property surrounded by horse ranches that had since been paved over and turned into a strip mall. I didn’t know where her family lived now. On the weekends, I had gone to her house, and we jumped on her big rusty trampoline, stuffed her baby goats into doll clothes. In the summer, I went camping with her family, and she went to Catalina with mine. In fifth grade, she’d switched schools and we’d tried to stay friends but eventually we’d just lost touch.

  She was sitting closer to the front of the classroom, at a table with some guy, wearing a purple T-shirt with a peace sign on it and khaki cargo pants. There was a thick hemp choker on her neck, dark brown lipstick on her mouth. The boy was real small, kind of ugly, wearing a skateboard shirt, with a bright shock of temporary blue color in his dingy brown hair. She told me to come sit with them and smiled at me real big, like there was no question that I would.

  I thought about it for a moment. I remembered a sleepover we’d had one night in a tent in her backyard. Her dad had built us a campfire and we’d used it to make s’mores, and it felt like ghosts might creep out any moment from the empty hills. I’d been too afraid to sleep. Blair wasn’t scared, but she stayed up with me anyway, telling me jokes and stories until it was light out. It had been a simple night, before there was room for trouble, and it stood out in my memory. The eerie stillness of the air, the brightness of the moon, and the dark shadows, the way that staying up all night laughing made me crackle with electricity the next day. When we were little, we’d been mistaken for sisters. We’d both had big bright eyes and little mouths. She would have been beautiful now, prettier than me, if you took off those ugly clothes and that lipstick.