Wedding, Day One - 9/6/2006 in 2005 - 2007: High School

Molly and Dave came over to my house Friday morning. We ran through everything we had, and my mother fed us lunch, and then we packed the big purple van full of equiptment and luggage and headed off to Tom's summerhouse by the beach. It was a nice car ride. We talked, and we listened to my ipod, which has some pretty awesome stuff on it, if I do say so myself. The entire conversation didn't center around the last night of band camp either. It was only discussed once, and that was to make a list of things that could have gone differently that would have prevented it. Dave could have had the talk he was planning to have with Brian before band camp. Any one of us could have tried to prevent him from leaving. The eight of us could have stayed in a cabin. Sarah could have stayed up with us. Nick could have told his cabinmates that he was going out for three hours instead of saying that he was going to brush his teeth. The rookie saxophone player could have not worried and gone back to bed. A million little things just could have been different. I blame myself a little. I think there are a lot of people who do. It doesn't feel so great.

Mostly though, we talked about music. Which is what we talk about all the time. It was a lot of fun. It made me look forward to the rest of the weekend. After heading the wrong way on the highway a couple of times, we arrived in a yuppie little beach town, where Tom greeted us at the end of a long driveway.

The Rousseaus' beach house is absolutely palatial. The giant foyer is covered on one wall with giant windows that open up to a giant stone deck with steps down to a rather tiny but very nice private beach. The giant front yard is surrounded by pretty trees and an old stone wall. There are at least five bedrooms. Let's just say I understand why someone would want to have a wedding here. I was never aware that the Rousseaus had so much money. It was weird. Especially when the whole family was wearing tie-dyed shirts, except for Tom's little sister, who was instead dressed like Kurt Cobain.

"So, how was band camp?" said Mr. Rousseau to all of us.

We looked at each other.

"That good, eh?"

"No, no, it was good," said Molly. "There was just an... incident... at the end of it."

"Really? What happened?"

"...Some kids got caught smoking and got kicked out."

"Oh," said Mr. Rousseau.

"Not Brian-" said Tom.

"Yes Brian."

He smacked his forehead. "Idiot."

"Who's Brian? I don't think I know this Brian."

"Yes you do," said Tom, and gave him a look.

"Oh. That Brian."

When we walked away from the conversation, Tom said, under his breath, "Thank you for bringing up drugs in front of my father while I have a dime in my pocket. Don't do it again."

"Listen Tom, about that..." I said. "Would you mind... not smoking while we're here?"

"Yes. Yes I would mind. This wedding is not going to be a good time, and I plan to be stoned for most of it."

"Oh. It's just that it's kind of a sensitive issue right now, and I'd rather not be in two situations in a row where people get caught..." Molly and Dave murmered agreement.

"I do not get caught," said Tom. "There was that one time, but I'm not stupid anymore. Brian was stupid. He was an idiot. If you get caught, you're doing it somewhere where you shouldn't be doing it in the first place. I do it in my own house on my own time."

"Well, it's just..." tried Molly.

"I don't get caught."

"Alright."

That afternoon, we ran through our stuff again. Molly started acting weird. Panicky. Irrational. She would spontaneously curl up into a ball on the floor, and freak out if she played a wrong note. We were all a little worried, actually, but Molly let it show. She was playing timidly, and sometimes not playing. Tom reappeared from his room to listen to us and then assured us that "one hundred percent of our stoned audience members thought we sounded fine." Except for when Molly would stop playing. He told her to stop doing that. She yelled at him. Then she went into the kitchen with Mr. Rousseau for some tea, during which time Dave and I played random jazz songs and took turns skatting the melody. It was unreasonably fun.

We hung out doing nothing and listening to second wave ska in Tom's room for a long time until Mrs. Rousseau made us go to bed. I was kind of glad. I was pretty exhausted and also a little nauseous, but it was clear that no one was planning on going to sleep of their own free will. A few minutes after Molly and I went down to our room, she said, "I kind of don't want to go to sleep."

I made an indifferent noise.

"I kind of want to go hang out with the guys again."

I didn't say anything. She got out of bed and left the room. When I got up later to go to the bathroom, I heard heavy breathing.

I stopped. That's definately what it was. Someone was breathing, very loudly and very fast, somewhere upstairs. Dave was. It was Dave.

Are you sure? I said to myself. Are you sure Mr. Rousseau's not having sex with his wife? I listened. No. Definately Dave. No one else's heavy breathing would be that low pitched.

Bed springs creaked.

My arms went numb. I went back into the room and came back out again, trying to get myself to think straight so that I could figure out what to do. I went to the bathroom and came back out again. It was still there. Very clearly. I didn't even have to listen for it. They were moving more often now. I could imagine exactly how they were moving. I could hear him getting on top of her, pushing her under him. I could hear how excited he was as his breathing got even faster. I could hear them kissing. The worst part of it was that it turned me on. I couldn't help it. I didn't want for it to, it was automatic. Just hearing all that emotion coming through with the sound - they sounded so... I remember that feeling. But it was real and it was raw and... somehow it seemed wrong. That it wasn't suggestion or fantasy, it was actually happening. I had forgotten that when stuff like that actually happens, it's different from the way it is in my mind. It's... weirder. More imperfect. More disgusting.

That's how I felt, I guess. But I couldn't even articulate any of this to myself at the time. I just felt my heart beating too fast, and I felt my head spin, and I felt a horrible tightness in my stomach that I couldn't stand - I just had to get rid of it. I'm sorry you guys. I should leave you alone, but I can't.

"Molly?"

Pause.

"Yes?"

Pause.

"Oh I... I just didn't know where you were."

I went back into the bedroom, and immediately came back out.

"Molly?"

"Yes?"

"Will you come down please?"

She didn't respond, but she came down. I had gotten back into bed when she came into the room.

"Sorry," she said softly, awkwardly.

I didn't say anything.

"Are you upset?"

"A little." I realized that I was shaking visibly. It was not at all cold.

She got into bed and there was more silence.

"I could... I could... hear..." I finally managed.

"Oh. That's awkward."

"I... I'm sorry. I just couldn't deal with it."

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright."

I didn't sleep well at all. I couldn't get my stomach to unclench enough. I tossed and turned and made noises during the night. When I went from being half conscious to being fully conscious at seven am, I got up quietly and threw up into the Rousseaus' fancy toilet.