The 2004 Honda Civic skidded to a halt at Kakela Makai. It was a pool reserved for residents of an apartment complex, of which none of us were staying. I was with two girls and six guys, nine of us in total. From the time I finished seventh grade to the middle of freshman year, my acne had been out of control. I tried literally everything. My skin had had chemical burns and open sores from the constant barrage of different acids and oils. In eighth grade, I had to stay home from school because I got an infection from a cyst on my forehead. It swelled and morphed my eyes to where I looked like an evil twin of myself that had taken an intense affinity towards extreme sports. I was at the end of my rope. So, I started Accutane.
If anyone I had talked to at the time knew about isotretinoin (Accutane), they knew that: 1. You MAY NOT get pregnant (unless you want babies that look like lab experiments.) 2. You MAY NOT drink. The toll that this medication takes on your liver is severe and combining it with alcohol could result in total liver failure. Naturally, I had taken the necessary precautions to prevent both of these things.
Earlier that day, I had gotten a ride from Poipu to Kalaheo from my best friend's boyfriend. His name was Bradyn, he was 19 or 20 and he had previously worked as a landscaper near an elementary school that we would pass by on the way. I mentioned that I needed to get seed samples from a Schinus terebinthifolius (Brazilian pepper tree) about three minutes into the car ride. After showing him pictures, he coincidentally knew exactly where six of these trees resided. So, we made a pit stop.
At about noon on a Friday in November, (I was skipping school, something I did a lot of freshman year) we stopped near Kalaheo elementary school and went to work filling four paper lunch bags full of the tree's fruit/seeds. My best friend Aurora, 18 at the time, climbed onto her boyfriend's shoulders, both of them working hard to help me, a 15-year-old, complete some shitty science fair project that I would later win 2nd place at regionals for. Once the bags were full and the weak paper was spilling seeds into the mini backpack I stole from my 11-year-old brother, we sat on the tailgate of Bradyn’s truck.
As soon as we sat, Bradyn cracked open the ginormous white Yeti cooler that encased around five six-packs of Smirnoff Ice. He took out two glass bottles, Aurora declined, something I had never seen her do, especially with a peach Smirnoff Ice. He gave me guava juice in a refilled water bottle. I tasted fermentation as we talked. We got into the extended cab Tacoma, and immediately after sitting, Aurora reached from passenger seat to steering wheel to blow into the breathalyzer that would allow Bradyn to take me to my destination or wherever else they needed to go.
I didn’t know this at the time, but around 8 months later, Bradyns's breathalyzer would be taken out of his truck by the court or whoever had the authority to deem him responsible enough to drive without drinking. A week after it was removed, Bradyn would die in a car accident. He had been drinking at his friend's house in Lihue and was driving home when he swerved off the road. His Tacoma flipped several times down a hill in Lawai with him unbuckled inside. When he dropped me off at my friend Sophia’s house, I said goodbye, without knowing it would be the last time I spoke to Bradyn.
Sophia’s house was very nice. Her parents being upper middle class, combined with the fact that Kalaheo was not in a very “in-demand” area, made for a house that was nicer than mine or any of my other friends' homes. Her family was very, very Mormon. Whenever I walked in, I was greeted by a 4-foot-tall, stone carving of Jesus. I never felt very welcomed in their 4 bedroom house on a hill, despite the fact that I had gone to Mormon church with them, and I never said “Oh my God!” under their roof. Unfortunately, all four children Sophia's mother had given birth to, were “problem children” in her eyes.
I do not blame them for the ways they acted out, if kids are raised unable to do anything, they tend to want to do everything. Sophia is in boarding school now, her choices did not align with the Mormon lifestyle her mother had wanted for her. Her sister is living in a house built with her boyfriend on a taro plantation up north. I have no idea where the other two children are.
Sophia was not a real “stand-up gal”. She was my best friend at a time when there was no competition to be the ‘best’. Sophia loved weed, specifically blunts, probably more than she loved me, but I didn’t mind. It was freshman year and nobody wanted to be friends with me anyways.
I walked from the front door to the entrance to her room. Her door was white, bumpy, and patchy. A few weeks prior it was less door, more window.
She had called me in a panic. “Emme, I don’t know what happened my dad and I got in a fight when he left I kicked a hole in the door but I swear it’s not that bad can you please help me out just this once I’m sorry!”
At this point in my life, I had acquired a new side project. Less acquired, more been enveloped in. I was building a 200-square-foot tiny house in my mom's backyard. I would call my friends under the pretense of a house without adults, and in turn, get free labor!
So I brought over the plaster and me and Sophia sat. She had streaks of black underneath her eyes. It was noon-ish and the sun from her window had illuminated her in a way I had not seen before. I have always chosen my friends based on how much they hate people because the more they hate everyone else, the more special their love seems. I wondered if anyone else had seen her look so fragile. Or if anyone else had seen that, under the right circumstances, her dark brown hair was almost red, and her eyes a much lighter blue than they appeared generally.
We listened to Mac Miller while we smeared the chunky, probably expired, plaster all over the door, we sanded and painted. We did not do it right but it was done. The door was door enough. It was the first time I and Sophia had hung out while she wasn’t high. I think that’s probably when I started calling Sophia my best friend.
I opened the door and Sophia was sitting on her bed.
“Who was that?”
“Oh, Aurora’s new man or whatever.”
“Wanna smoke?”
I sat and watched her light every candle in her room (there were seven), turn the fan on, and open the window as wide as it could go. She was almost kissing the screen when she exhaled the smoke. It was pretty much dark but if I looked closely, the remaining sun revealed red, in her hair and in my cheeks.
The off-white smoke somehow always escaped her control. The tendrils coiled and crept up from windowsill to ceiling. She waved her hands around frantically.
“Grab my perfume from the bathroom!”
“‘Kay”
Despite Sophia’s fears, her house always smelled like essential oils (her mom wasn’t a fan of recent developments in the medical field, and preferred natural remedies).
“So what’s the plan for tonight?” Sophia choked through allergy-stricken eyes.
“Fuck if I know!”
“I think Ryder guys wanna go Kakela Makai.”
“‘Kay”
Juliette was Sophia’s older sister. She was our chauffeur, who coincidentally, also loved to smoke. She drove a navy blue 2004 Civic. I later totaled this car after trying to make a sharp turn onto a gravel road from the highway at 60 MPH. We crashed into the side of a mountain, the airbags went off and a white powder filled the car. I bruised my sternum. “We are so fucked!”
My favorite part about nights like these was getting ready. Juliette, Sophia, and I listened to shitty rap and meticulously plucking eyebrows, straightening hair, or whatever else we thought these men would like.
“Emme, you want to smoke tonight?”
“Nah, I’m too paranoid.”
We got into Juliette’s car and picked up Ryder, Adan, Kieran, Brennen, Gannon, and Giovanni. There were not enough seats or seat belts but it was a short drive, and none of us really cared about the consequences. I laid over the laps of all of them while the car gained speed, twisting and looping through tiny backroads. The atmosphere in the car slowly became less air, more smoke. I felt like I could not breathe, so I cracked a window. I watched the black shadows of trees speed past our window as my nausea tried to crawl its way out of my throat.
We got to the pool and after 4 minutes, we were all out of the car. Upon opening the gate I made a jarring observation, my ex-boyfriend was here, with his friends and his new girlfriend. I took a deep breath and we all walked past his group of friends, who were all sitting extremely close to one another in the hot tub. I made a mental note to call security after we left, to make sure these trespassers were escorted off the premises. All nine of us, barefoot, walked into the dank bathroom. The floor was slimy and there was not enough room for all of us. I leaned against the clammy wall and flinched.
Adan reached into his bag and took out a 24-inch bong and presented it to us like it was (metaphor), he caressed it and said, “The thing about this bong is that it makes the smoke spin, so it hits your lungs way harder than normal. You guys are gonna get so stoned!”
A hush went over the crowd. Excitement buzzed in the air surrounding the audience. The circus had finally begun! The show quickly became glazed over and blurred by a screen of smoke. Everybody took turns. Grinder, pack your bowl, lighter, smoke it. The listless rhythm was interrupted by a frantic pounding on the door. The pounding was a predecessor to the door being immediately flung open.
My ex-boyfriend and all of his friends shuffled into the room. We made eye contact and he quickly averted his gaze to Adan.
“Yo, what happened to sharing?” He inquired, louder than necessary.
“You got your own weed?” Adan rebuked, the drip of condensation punctuating their lines.
The answer from my ex was expected and met with a prompt eviction notice from Adam. In my mind, the only natural response to the scene that was taking place was to look at the walls and ceiling, convince myself that no one could see me, and realize that there was not enough oxygen in the room for me to breathe. My ex-boyfriend faded into a bass line, taking part in the symphony I was about to present. I made my way from wall to stall, got to my knees, and began to worship my porcelain, Jesus.
After four million years of yakking, I had finally purged my sin. I got up, looked at my face in the mirror, and came to a horrifying realization. My skin was turning yellow, the first sign of liver failure. The guava juice I drank earlier must have fermented into a wine! I knew it! I had committed treason in the eyes of my doctor; I had consumed alcohol on Accutane.
“Can you guys shut the fuck up? My liver is going to fail.”
The crowd became paparazzi and I was the latest star, involved in a particularly confusing scandal.
“I'm serious, why the fuck would I joke about this? Juliette, can you take me to the hospital?”
Single file, the circus clowns piled into their little clown car. I was playing all the good moments in my life on loop in my rapidly decaying brain while Juliette interrogated me.
“Are you sure we need to go to the hospital? Are you high? Did you really drink? You’re not going to die right? Ok well, the hospital is 45 minutes away so if you’re going to die immediately I don’t even know what we could do.”
My liver was still feebly pumping blood to my frantic brain, so I said, “Juliette can you shut the fuck up and drive?”
I was shaking in the passenger seat for another ten minutes when Adan had an epiphany:
“Yo my mom is a doctor, want me to call her?”
No shit. Maybe I would live to get athlete's foot in another public bathroom! However, it was 3 am. Two calls and five texts later, Adan’s mom told us to make the eight-minute commute to their home so she could check my vitals. I sighed and things began to turn black. I had done everything I could and if I died, I accepted it. I felt sharp pains in my chest as my liver limped on its last leg. I regained my perception of the world around me when I was sitting down on a bed. The bed was a queen, and took up almost the entire room, save for two, two-foot-wide runways on either side.
Adan's mom placed her warm, leathery hands on my neck and took my pulse and everything else a doctor needs to know when taking your vital organs into account. She contorted her face. She was holding something back. Withholding news that would make me wish I had spent my last night on earth differently.
Suddenly, and loudly, her contorted face became a smile filled with pity. Then, just as suddenly, she burst out laughing, “Dude how high are you?”
“I didn’t smoke,” I replied. She assured me six times that I was in perfect health, and even if the guava juice was fermented, that much alcohol would not cause liver failure. Juliette and Sophia exchanged glances amongst themselves, then everybody else, and suddenly, the show became a comedy, my lungs were less concrete, more lace, and I could finally take a breath.