We had other literature-themed parties that summer, besides the Gatsby one. Literature was my subject so at those parties I was especially painted and displayed. We had a party based on “Macbeth” at the very end of the summer, when it got dark eerily fast and made us start looking for ghosts. There are ghosts in “Macbeth” everywhere. After Macbeth kills his best friend, he sees a ghost at dinner and his wife just pats his shaking hand and says “oh dear just go drink some water” and then she rolls her eyes. At that point, she hasn’t told him yet that she sees phantom blood all over her hands, blood that she can’t clean off, ghost stains. All the murders in “Macbeth” are her idea. She makes his hands, Macbeth’s hands, do all the physical killing but it’s all hers, the entire mess.

“Macbeth” was what made me fear being female. Lady Macbeth was the cruelest character I’d ever encountered and all her wickedness derived from her sex. All the coercion , the sideways words and the secret wildness. I related to her; she was the most real woman. And she created a mess with her little needle fingers, thin enough to be harmless but also sickly sharp.

Of course I was cast as Lady Macbeth for the party. And of course Saul was Macbeth and of course he didn’t understand that by making him Macbeth we were blatantly calling him weak. He was always too light-colored to pick up on things like that. Jack was Banquo, the innocent friend who is murdered, mostly because of his nature, which is unfortunately kind. Jenna was King Duncan because her breasts were the biggest. Valerie was Macduff because she was good at unravelling things. Stupid, long-haired Calvin wasn’t cast and neither was Simon, but they both came anyway.

I had tried to highlight the angles in my face to appropriately embody my cruelty. Dark green-gray shadow went all the way up to my eyebrows and my lips were dark too. My dress had sleeves and was dark green-gray as well, almost papery thin. I had a little tiny knife from Girl Scouts tucked into my bra, just in case. I was particular about what I drank and I just kept thinking about the line “unsex me here, unsex me here, unsex me here” over and over.

Simon’s black eyes were silent as usual, regarding me respectfully. His palms were open on the coffee table and they were the same color as the small of my back, which had become browned by lots of time outside in the sun. My hands were restless and sweaty the whole night and to stay in character I kept looking for blood on my cuticles. I played cruelty how I thought it should look: straight-backed, decadent, restrained. I thought about my power, the knife in my bra.

As the night got more blurred by alcohol everyone started seeing ghosts and looking everywhere for more. Simon and I weren’t drunk so we stayed in Jack’s dark basement and I kept sipping my wine while he fiddled with a strand of Christmas lights. He asked me how I was doing and his voice was lower than I remembered it. I slid my eyes over , away from him, performing female cruelty. He wanted to touch me and I knew that just from the way we both smelled and the sticky climate of the room. I was abusing my power, staying folded and straight with my wine glass.

We talked briefly about “Macbeth”, which he hated. I asked him who’s fault it was because I was accustomed to asking everyone that. He didn’t say Lady Macbeth and I was horrified. He said Banquo, Macbeth’s little friend. According to Simon, Banquo could’ve done more to take care of Macbeth and recognize his sickness before his wife used it to conquer. He blamed the most innocent character and I wanted to cry. Simon’s eyes were so dark and mine were just surfaces, cold ones that would numb people’s sweet fingers.

I unfolded my legs slowly and got up to go to the restroom. The string of Christmas lights snagged on my heel and my wine glass fell. Shards rained on Simon, and drops of dark red on his clean white shirt. I had no glass stuck in my hands, but they were drenched in wine, the darkest red. I had stained hands like Lady Macbeth’s.

I went home after that, walking alone in the sick dark warmth. I was a cruel animal and I would hurt anyone I touched. I tried to decide to never touch anyone so the surface of the earth would stay smooth. Even after I washed my hands and wiped all the paint off my face, I thought of how bruised Simon’s organs would become if I ever touched him. I ended up touching him anyway, of course. There’s only certain sexual parts of me that are predictable, controllable.