Page 93 of Cackle

He nods.

“Pascal is from Vermont. Vermont is beautiful,” Jill says. “Have you ever been, Annie?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “Too busy burrowing in my NYC trash mountain.”

I look at Dan, who is busy examining the cheese he’s spilled on his shirt.

It occurs to me as he dips his napkin in his water glass and begins to pat away at the congealed orange glob that maybe this isn’t the best approach. Maybe I should accept that this night isn’t going my way and take the loss with grace, instead of getting drunk and sarcastic, doubling down on the unpleasantness and actively contributing to a collective misery.

When the waiter brings my next whiskey, I ask for a ginger ale and push the whiskey away. But it’s too late. I know I’m already buzzed by the motion of the room, by the way my eyes are reluctant to focus. I’ve been too nervous to eat anything all day, and while I’ve built up my tolerance over the past few months of excessive drinking, it hasn’t made me insusceptible.

I take a deep breath and spread my napkin across my lap.

“Did you grow up in the city?” Jill asks me.

“No,” I say. “I grew up in Connecticut. But I went to the city for college and never left. Well, until now, I guess. Obviously.”

“Why leave?” Pascal asks. It’s the first question out of his mouth all evening, and it’s rude.

“Personal reasons,” I say.

“What’s that code for?” Dan asks.

Code for “none of your damn business.” “Long story.”

“We’ve got all night,” he says.

But then the food comes, and everyone’s distracted.

I stab at my sad salad. Droopy romaine. Pieces of tough gray chicken. A pool of watery dressing at the bottom of the bowl. My stomach withers.

The good news is that the rest of the table is preoccupied with eating, so the quiet that ensues isn’t painful; it just is. I let it exist, find some sanctuary inside it. I’m getting through it. I’m doing it. I’m surviving.

“How’s your salad?” Dan asks.

“Good,” I lie.

“Here,” he says, leaning across the table and plopping a greasy chunk of sausage on my plate. “You need some meat on your bones.”

I gawk at the sausage, at its charred skin peeling away to reveal a too-pink center, the most unappealing, cratered texture. It oozes liquid onto my already damp, overdressed salad.

I push the plate away, unable to stomach its appearance.

“Uh-oh, better call the guidance counselor,” Dan says. “We’ve got a problem.”

He points to me and then mimes making himself throw up, indicating he believes I’m bulimic.

Jill slaps his hand, a playful rebuke.

“Fine,” Dan says. “Don’t take my advice. But if you’re wondering why Pascal is so quiet . . .”

“Dan!” Jill says, but it’s through laughter. She’s genuinely charmed by everything he says. It’s mind-boggling.

“All right,” I say. “Thanks for the tip.”

“There it is! Some gratitude. You’re welcome,” he says, smiling. A big dumb, self-satisfied grin. He has no idea how much of an asshole he’s being. I imagine it started in his youth, a few bad off-color jokes that people laughed at to be polite, or because they had terrible senses of humor, or because they were family and loved him so much they’d marvel at anything he said or did, or because his primary audience was a bunch of prepubescent peers. And as time went on, he continued to get this positive reinforcement. If the occasional person didn’t laugh at his bad jokes or bullying or general shtick, he’d assume it was their fault, that they were no fun, sticks-in-the-mud. In adulthood, he’s surrounded himself with like-minded idiots to insulate himself from any negative feedback.

And through this lifelong cycle of validation and fortification, his ego has transformed into something large and dangerous. I picture a Godzilla-like creature with an enormous, destructive body and a teeny-tiny brain. Terrorizing those smart enough to recognize it, entertaining those too stupid to realize they’ve created a monster— and monsters can’t be unmade.