I stood frozen, horrified when I came across a dessert plate I’d never picked at. How had I missed one? No, no, not possible, I thought, searching it thoroughly, turning it this way and that, my suddenly sweaty hands trying to find a bit of damage; just the littlest bit would soothe me. And when I didn’t, I slammed it down hard against the dining table, feeling instant relief at the destruction, at seeing the too-perfect plate smashed. And then something inside my soul fractured too, and I couldn’t stop myself. I just couldn’t. Madness burned like a fire inside me, hot and bright, wanting to shatter everything. Unwelcome tears ran down my face, and it made me angry, this fucking emotional tailspin I’d brought on myself by coming into this room. I cursed and grabbed another piece and another and another, slamming each and every plate, cup, and saucer down against the table over and over until every single dish lay pulverized at my feet. Until I felt spent. Until nothing perfect would ever be in this house again.

After that, I went upstairs and dyed my hair a deep red.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, I reached under my bed and pulled out a new bottle of Grey Goose that I’d taken from dad’s study. I’d been coming to the house on regular stealthy visits to take his liquor, sometimes grabbing the bourbon or scotch, but always coming back to the vodka. I wondered if I’d killed any brain cells so far with my drinking. Would it lower my IQ? I laughed. Did I care?

Tonight was special, and I intended to celebrate. I cranked up the music on my iPod and poured myself a shot, thinking about my evening.

One Christmas, Aunt Portia had gotten me several yards of vintage fabric she’d found at a second-hand store in downtown Dallas. It was gorgeous and decadent, probably used to make fancy tablecloths or custom curtains. Made from heavy, black silk, it had the unusual print of brightly colored red cherries on it. I’d had it in my closet for a while, not quite sure what I wanted to do with it.

You see, while I’d been at the Parisian fat camp, I was taught lots of things: how to speak in conversational French; how to be a well-spoken, mild-mannered hostess and hold a dinner party for twelve; how to appreciate art and classical music; and finally, how to sew and embroider. Unless you’re planning on being the First Lady, they're all completely bullshit, except for the sewing classes.

When I returned home, I became a wee bit obsessed with the inventiveness of sewing. Once I got my own machine for Christmas, it became a full-on sweat shop in my bedroom. Mila had called me the sewing Tasmanian devil, and I guess I had seemed frenzied, spinning Dad’s old shirts into dresses and stitching pretty fabric into tea cozies for Aunt Portia. Making something out of nothing made me feel like I was important, like I had value.

So, I took my special fabric and pulled out a pin-up style skirt pattern I’d designed while at fat camp. I cut into the material, pinned it together, and got to work sewing. After a couple of hours, my new pencil skirt was finished, and I put it on, satisfied with the snug fit. In my closet I found a red satin, button-up shirt, which I put on, tying the last few buttons high above my waist, making it into a midriff-baring top. To finish it off, I slipped my feet into a pair of red Manolo heels I’d worn to one of the school’s formals.

I opened my purse and out of habit, checked to make sure my knife was inside. My knife had never failed me; it protected me from evil.

After that, I lifted my mattress up to get the coke I kept hidden there. It had been a while since I’d snorted it, but I didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to remember that awful night. Yet, I knew if I truly wanted to be bad, then I needed to commit myself to it, and if cocaine made me forget, then what was I waiting for? I picked up the flat silver case and opened it, peering at the bag of white powder and tiny spoon that rested innocently inside. Finn had said this was the best. Expensive and guaranteed to get you happy.

Yes, this was coming with me tonight.

Before walking out the door, I gave the bottle of vodka a considering look, but in the end I left it there. I might want it later when I came back to this cold house and celebrated my birthday alone.

“Destiny is a cruel bitch.”

–Leo Tate

LIFE IS CRAZY, and sometimes it totally veers off course. Seriously, sometimes it flows by nice and smooth and then wham! you get bitch-slapped out of nowhere by events and coincidences that seem nigh unbelievable. Is this what the poets call fate or destiny or karma? Maybe. I didn’t know because I never read poetry, but I do write lyrics, so maybe that counts.

But as I looked across that movie lobby and saw Nora, I had to stop and ask myself why she kept popping up in my life. First it was at the restaurant and now here at this small theater, which shouldn’t even be on her grid since it only played classics or movies that were already on DVD. I’d think the mall would be where she’d watch movies; the same place Sebastian did.

She’d walked in with that flaming red hair, and my eyes had followed her as she’d sashayed over to the concession counter. And when she’d bent over to look inside the candy case, I’d sucked in a sharp breath, taking in her sweet ass in a cherry-covered skirt. My hands tightened into fists, remembering how she’d wanted me to fuck her in the bathroom at Ricardo’s. It had taken every shred of self-control I had to walk away from her and not give her what she’d wanted. She didn’t know it, but I’d hung around outside the restaurant until she left, making sure she didn’t end up with one of those sleazy fucks from the bar.

I fingered the ticket stub in my hand, fully intending to head into my movie, but instead, I turned back around, and like an idiot, I found myself walking over to her.