Bad Influence {An original Short Story}

We were both called Emma and we were school friends, but we’d rarely met up socially until we’d left school because we'd commuted to our independent girls' school from different towns. She was a heavy weekend drinker and had been for years, and me? Well, when in Rome...

“My mum thinks you’re a bad influence on me.”
“Me?” I asked, surprised and confused.
“Ugh, my parents are such snobs, they make me sick, they only think that because you live in Stevenage.”
“What’s so posh about Hitchen?” I replied, so confused that I practically snorted.
“Nothing, they’re just ridiculous.”
“Funny, my mum thinks you’re a good influence on me.”
It was her turn to look confused, “What? why?” she asked incredulously, “I thought you said you only got smashed when you visited me?”
“I do. She's just hates it when I have a boyfriend, I guess she thinks drinking and hanging out with you is better. She’s a silly cow.”
“God, why are parents so dumb?”
I shrugged and grimaced in reply, nostrils flaring.

I remember one of the first times I visited her: I was okay when we left the pub but later, at the after party, in a field, I knew that if I uttered a single word, I would puke and there was no way I was vomiting in a field with over 50 kids that I didn’t know. Besides, we weren’t even supposed to be there: parties in the field were banned, and the owner would kill his daughter if he found out she’d disobeyed him - again.

Emma introduced to me to some people, but almost immediately went off with some guy, heading towards the tree line at the edge of the field. I was starting to feel very woozy and I found myself standing alone. I looked around; most people were sitting on the ground, so I sat down cross-legged, head slumped, eyes closed, and hair hanging over my face. I focused on the queasy feeling in my stomach and everything else became background, the music, the voices, and the crisp air of an English moonlit night.

I was woken from my drunken meditation by a voice I recognised; it rang out, over the music and the babbling crowd. I’d met the owner once before, but then he’d barely spoken being morbidly shy and dressed all in black, hiding behind his hair and barely distinguishable from the background, but he’d recently bounced out of the closet and was now flamboyant, with a distinctive gay drawl: “Oh, that’s Emma’s bag, where’s Emma? Has anyone seen Emma? Oh, where’s her friend? Has anyone seen her friend? I wonder if they’ve gone home, they were both really pissed; she probably forgot it. I’m going home now, d’ya think I should take it? I’d better take it...”

“I’m here,” my voice was so weak that even the people sitting a foot away couldn’t hear me. I tried to turn around but my head moved about 3 inches before slumping back down into my chest. I tried to raise my arm, but it wouldn't move.

It didn't matter how much I drank, if I focused on my stomach, without interruption, after about an hour, I was almost completely sober. I looked up, but before I could even think about where Emma was, I was spotted by one of her friends. He was an extremely blond youth with the palest skin, tall and solidly built. “You’re alone, where’s Emma?” I explained what had happened with her bag and that I hadn’t seen her since we arrived and he offered to take me back to her house. I must have looked pretty pathetic and very relieved because he looked at me with great sympathy. Emma told me later that he really liked me, but I said that he wasn’t my type: too quiet and I was too naive to see that he was just like the youngest brother in every fairy story: a prince that was dependable and loyal.

The walk back to Emma’s house was through the woods and there didn’t seem to be a path, we twisted and turned and my attentive guide even seemed to know when I needed a rest. He was the perfect gentleman; I can’t even remember his name.

I rang the door bell hoping that Emma would answer, but it was her parents, looking at me with a mixture of alarm and disgust. They grilled me about where Emma was, and how I got back, and eventually they let me go to sleep in the downstairs study. Emma had planned for us to sleep downstairs so that we wouldn't wake them when we returned, late, drunk and clumsy.

“Emma, are you awake?” asked Emma, in a loud whisper.
“Wha? Huh?” I was barely conscious.
She was very irritated: “I’ve been knocking on the window for ages, didn't you hear me? I had to ring the bell! My parents are seriously pissed off!”
That got my attention: “Oh shit, sorry, I didn’t hear, I must’ve been totally out of it.”
“I was knocking for ages! I'm freezing and I can’t find my bag, my keys are in it, I thought you might have it, but my parents said that you woke them up too, they’re so pissed off, they're gonna kill me tomorrow, we woke them up twice!” she sounded extremely distraught.
“Oh shit…” I explained what happened to her bag and I was relieved when she said that it wasn't my fault.
“What happened to you, anyway?” I whispered, “I saw you walking to the trees but you never came back.”
“You remember that guy? Paul. The one that fancied me when we were on that school trip?”
“The one with the really bad skin?”
“Yeah, that’s him but his skin isn't bad anymore. He's fancied me for years," she said matter-of-factly. "He wanted to talk to me; then we started snogging and, do you get that thing? You know where you’re absolutely busting and it makes you feel turned on? Really turned on, does that happen to you?”
“Oh yeah, I suppose it does,” I agreed, with surprise, not suspecting what she was about to say next.
“Yeah, well I felt so turned on, so we just did it up against a tree. It’s only because I needed a wee,” she explained with mild annoyance, “I don’t even like him in that way!”

Well, she wasn't about to confess any of that to her parents! So the next day, after I left, I guess she let her parents blame me for everything.

Looking back, she may even have framed me, and probably not for the first time, to make herself appear innocent, and to paint me as the bad influence.

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