“Good.” Ronnie slams the door behind her.
12:08 . . . HALFTIME
Come on, Shane, let’s just try a liquor store.”
Shane holds the two-liter bottle up in front of my face. He’s a little sweaty from crawling around under his bed. For a minute it looked like his bed was going to swallow him right up.
“No way, man.”
“But with my letter—”
“With your letter, you might be able to convince someone to let you buy some booze, but can we just pretend for a second that you don’t have your letter?”
I’m kind of relieved. The whole idea of trying to buy liquor makes me a little queasy. Almost as queasy as looking at what Shane’s swirling around in that bottle of his.
“I’ve been sneaking this stuff out of my parents’ liquor cabinet one pour at a time.”
The liquor is greenish, kind of yellow, and a little blue. It mostly looks like finger paint gone wrong.
“What’s in it?”
“A little bit of everything.”
“Is it gonna taste good?” Which is a stupid question to ask. Nothing that looks like a head cold is gonna taste good.
Shane shakes his head, confirming my fear. “Probably not. But it’ll do the trick.” Shane pauses. “We can go do something else.”
“I know.” This isn’t on either of our lists but it’s probably the closest I’m ever gonna get to doing the normal teenage rebellion stuff. It’s pretty much a two-man party in the woods behind Shane’s house with a bottle of something vile, or nothing at all.
I take the bottle from Shane and unscrew the top. It smells like sweet buttery hell with a hint of mint. “Peppermint schnapps?”
“I guess,” says Shane. “How’d you know?”
“Dad likes it. Says it reminds him of college.”
“My dad doesn’t have too many memories like that.”
“That’s ’cause your dad’s a certified rocket scientist who probably spent all of college actually learning. Whereas my mom says my dad partied for two and a half years before dropping out and going to culinary school.”
Shane and I head out to the woods. They’re not really proper woods on account of everything in Moriville is mega-
overdeveloped, but it’s what we have. We built a fort out here in the scrub when we were like seven and called it the Bunker. It’s not really a fort though, it’s just some metal sheeting we found at a construction site and an old mattress that smells like wet dog.
“So what made your dad decide to bail on college and be a chef, anyway?” asks Shane as we walk. He pushes aside a palm frond that smacks me in the face. “Sorry.”
“Mom said it was ’cause of a girl.”
“Nice.”
“Mom didn’t think so,” I say as I laugh. “It wasn’t her.”
“So, here we are.” Shane drops the bottle and flops down on the mattress.
“Yup.” I flip my phone and look at the time. “I got plenty of time before my parents will miss me.”
“Don’t worry, dude, they miss you already.”
I pause and look at him funny. Funny like “Whaaa?” not funny like “Ha-ha.” “You’re not gonna cry, are you?” I ask him.
“Maybe a little at the end. I make no promises.”
Dirt and dust and God knows what else flies into the air when I hit the mattress. I wriggle around and prop myself up next to Shane. “Don’t worry, dude, the guy handbook says it’s okay to cry when a friend or a dog dies. Since I’m your only friend, I give you permission to cry as much as your little heart desires.” Shane smirks and I punch him in the shoulder. “Just not right this freaking second, ya big girl.”
“Deal, Travers.” Shane unscrews the bottle and hands it to me. “As the dying man, you get the first drink.”
“You know, this—whatever it is—is probably what does
me in.”
“Just drink, wuss.”
The concoction of every liquor from the Grimsleys’ liquor cabinet doesn’t smell any better in the Bunker than it did in Shane’s house. In fact, I think the humidity actually makes it smell worse. And unfortunately, I’ve never encountered a food or drink that smells better than it tastes. However, since I’m not a pansy, I put my lips around the mouth of the bottle and tilt it back.
“No backwashing!”
The liquor burns going down my throat, and while it doesn’t exactly taste like steamy, wet dog poop, it runs a pretty close second. Luckily, the peppermint pretty much overpowers everything else in the bottle, and I find that if I focus on that, then I’m okay. Well, not okay, but not dead either, and that’s sort of the best I can hope for right now.
“That’s terrible,” I say, handing Shane the bottle. “I officially christen it the Grimsley Gut Punch.”
Shane grins. Seriously, it’s measurable in megawatts. “I have my own drink. That’s so cool.”
“I wouldn’t get too excited. You haven’t tried it yet.”
“Down the hatch!” Shane gulps it without hesitation. I have to give him mad credit. If I’d seen the face I made after drinking it, I wouldn’t have touched it with my worst enemy’s lips. Add being the bravest person I know to the list of reasons why Shane’s my best friend. Of course, that bravery doesn’t stop him from almost spewing. He has to hold his hand over his mouth to keep it down and I, of course, laugh at him. “Holy crap! My drink tastes like a blended corpse!”
“You said it, not me.” I begin to experience a warm feeling in my navel that slowly spreads like tentacles to my lungs and fingertips. I snatch the bottle away and take another swig before I lose my nerve. I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s worse the second time around. Maybe it’s because I know what to expect or maybe because I let it linger on my tongue a fraction of a second longer than the first time, or maybe it’s because whatever’s in that bottle is a fermented potion of pure, unadulterated suck.
It does make me feel tingly, though.
Shane takes another drink, followed by another scary face, and leans back. “I can’t feel my lips.” He tries to make motorboat noises but just spits everywhere, making me laugh even more.
“Cool.”
“Is this what pot was like?”
“Nah. This is different.” I feel so worldly casually talking about pot and liquor.
Shane leans on his elbow and looks over at me. “How?”
“Just is.” The words claw at my throat to get to the surface and I struggle to put them in order. “This is like being all warm in your covers on the coldest morning of winter when everything feels relaxed and right in the world. Being high felt like I was on Mars. And hungry.”
Shane laughs so hard I’m afraid he might actually swallow his tongue. “That made no sense.”
“It did before I said it.”
“That doesn’t make sense either.” That makes us laugh even harder, though I’m not even sure why I’m laughing. I’m just glad I am. You know how there are all kinds of laughter, right? There’s the belly kind that makes your whole body shake and shiver and sometimes you forget why you’re even laughing. And there’s the kind of nervous laugh you make when you’re afraid or when you’ve just ripped a stinky and you hope everyone will think it’s the dog. And then there’s the sarcastic kind of laugh you do to cover the fact that you’re royally pissed. My favorite, though, is the kind of laugh that frees you. It’s like your laughter is the key that unlocks the shackles of unhappiness. It’s the kind of laughter that you don’t question, you don’t think about, you just let it carry you like a boat down the river. That kind of laugh is just what I need, right when I need it.
When the laughter finally fades, I take another drink and hand the bottle off to Shane. “You know. I’m kind of proud of you for not smoking.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Don’t make it a big deal. I just thought one of us should stay sober.”
“Unlike now.”
Shane shrugs. “We’re w
ithin walking distance of my house. I’m pragmatic not a saint.”
A loud belch tears outta my throat and damned near takes one of my lunches with it.
“Good one,” says Shane.
“Thanks.” It takes a couple of swallows before I’m okay enough to talk again without being afraid I’m gonna bring up some chunks. “Either way, you’re awesome, man. You don’t give a crap what anyone else thinks.”
Shane rolls on his back and rests his hand on his belly. The air between us feels awkward, like maybe I crossed the line between sharing and scary.
“Ollie—”
“Shane—”
We both laugh and Shane says, “No, you go.”
“What do you think dying’s gonna be like?”
“Quick?” He looks at me and says, “Sorry. Wrong time for a joke.”
“Seriously.”
“Depends. We Grimsleys aren’t big on the religion thing. If you can’t use math to prove it then it’s not really real.”
“So you think I’m just gonna be . . . gone?”
“Don’t know, dude. I hope not.” Shane drinks some more punch. “I don’t know about the God thing but it makes me feel better, somehow, thinking about you maybe hanging around, watching over me. Just not while I’m in the shower, okay?”
I chuckle. “Deal.”
We let our words fade for a while, passing the bottle back and forth between us. The Grimsley Gut Punch starts tasting less like reheated ball cheese and more like scabby puss and fish heads, which, while slightly better, still sucks. I can’t feel anything in my lips, and my fingers and toes feel like they belong to someone else. An alien maybe. I take off my shoes and socks just to make sure they aren’t green or scaly.
“Seriously,” says Shane. “You trying to make me hurl?”
“What?”
“Put your stinky-ass feet back in yo—,” Shane starts to say, but he’s interrupted by maybe the loudest burp I’ve ever heard come out of that boy’s mouth. It’s so loud it sounds like a machine gun firing. Rap, rap, rap, rap, gurgle.
“Nice.”
“I aim to please.” Shane beats his chest with his fist to make sure it’s all up. I’m laughing but when I look at him again, he’s all serious. He’s Captain Serious.
“Are you scared?” asks Shane.
The question blindsides me harder than Shane’s sucker punch in the school hall. I mean, I know he’s probably been thinking about it. And maybe he’s just been waiting to get me liquored up enough to gush about it.
“I’m sorry,” says Shane. “I didn’t mean to ask. It’s just that I’m scared of dying. Shit, I’m scared of living. I’m scared of everything that comes after every second.”
“That’s not true. You’re a badass.”
“Ollie, I’m generally scared of picking out what to wear to school. I’m not the badass. You are. You’ve been running around all day, jumping off bridges and stealing shit and making plays for any girl you can get your virgin hands on.” Shane teeters like he might fall over, and he looks like he might fall asleep, but he takes another deep drink of his punch and barrels on. “So, I just have to know if you’re scared and you’re just doing a good job of hiding it, if you’re too stupid to be scared, or if you’ve got titanium balls the size of watermelons.”
I don’t know how to respond and not ’cause I’m drunk. Even sober I wouldn’t know what to say to that.
“None of the above?”
“Ollie—” says Shane, but I cut him off.
“Wait just a second for me to finish.”
“You haven’t really started.”
“I will if you’ll let me.”
Shane mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the key.
“Better. The truth is that I’m doing my effin’ best to ignore it. I’m pretending like I’m not gonna die, ’cause if I do . . . if I stop and think that this is my last day . . . if I stop and think about all the shit I ain’t ever gonna get to . . . well there’s a really good chance I might lose it.”
“What?” Shane looks confused. And to be totally honest, the moment the words leave my mouth they leave my memory, so I pretty much have no idea what I just said.
“I’m not brave, Shane. I’m the opposite of brave. I’m that guy in dodgeball who hides behind the fat kid.” I sit up and drool onto the bed. “I guess I just hope that if I do enough stuff, if I run fast enough and hard enough, I can outrun death. So yeah, I guess I’m scared. I’m a big freaking coward.”
All three Shanes shake their heads. “You’re not a coward, dude.” I know he’s holding something back, but every time I think I’m close to figuring it out I start to feel like I’m riding a roller coaster that’s doing a double loop followed by a corkscrew.
“We would have had fun,” says Shane. “Senior year.”
“Senior girls.”
“Prom and parties.”
“Parties we wouldn’t have been invited to.”
Shane laughs. “We would’ve had our own parties.”
The silence falls again. The funny thing about silence and best friends is that unlike, say, tequila, peppermint schnapps, and rum, they actually do mix. It’s an awesome feeling to be around someone and know that every second doesn’t have to
be filled with talking. Sometimes just existing near each other is as cool as it needs to be.
The only thing that could possibly make this better is Ronnie’s hand holding mine.
“What’re you thinking?” asks Shane.
“That I hope heaven serves breakfast.”
“Ollie, I’m being seriously serious.”
“Serious. Got it.” My head’s swimming in punch. “I don’t know. I was just sort of thinking about how you’re my best friend.” I decide not to tell him about missing Ronnie, too. It would probably just annoy him and I’m sure he already knows.
“Lame.” Shane tries to sit up. It takes him a couple of tries. I’d help him but I’m laughing way too hard to help.
“Whaddaya want me to be thinking about?”
Shane rubs his temples. “Is there anything else you want to do before the big splat?”
“God, I hope I don’t splat. I hope I die in a good way. I don’t want it to hurt.”
“Wouldn’t it be funny if you drowned in a giant tub of pudding?” says Shane, laughing all crazy and hysterical. Drunk Shane is odd.
“Not funny, no.”
“Oh God, it totally would!” Shane falls over and starts to hyperventilate. Well, not really hyperventilate, but I kinda wish he would.
“Still not funny.”
“I got it!” says Shane. He pulls himself up using the precariously placed beams of wood that hold up the metal sheeting. “Get up, Travers!”
“Stop shouting.” I try to stand up but fall. And up, and fall. Finally Shane tries to help me but I manage to pull him down with me. We’re all tangled arms and legs as we try to get back up. It’s like a terrible scene from a Jim Carrey movie ( just pick one, they all suck equally). Eventually we both get to our feet. We teeter back and forth, but we’re standing.
Shane grabs my shoulders and says, “Listen.”
“I’m listening but if I barf you’re gonna be right in the cone of possibility.”
“Then don’t,” says Shane, and backs off a little.
“Easier said than done,” I say. Ugh. I hope my breath doesn’t smell as rancid as Shane’s.
“You’re my bestest friend, Ollie.”
“We’ve covered this. Do you need a hug? I can do a hug so long as no one’s around.”
Shane shoves me. “I don’t need a hug. Yet. No. I think we should commiserate our friendship.”
“I don’t think that’s the word—”
“Stop talking.” Shane puts his index finger to my lips. Except that he sort of misses my lips and his finger kind of goes up my nose.
“Dude, trim your nails.” The room’s starting to spin and I pick a spot on Shane’s forehead to focus on.
“Forget
it.”
Shane tries to turn around but I stop him, mostly ’cause he’s the only thing keeping the room from turning into a Gravitron. “I’m kidding. Not about the nails. They’re freaky long.” I rub my nose. “Go on.” Only I don’t let him go on because I keep talking. “Doesn’t the air feel pretty? Like the blue and the green and—”
“Let’s get tattoos,” blurts Shane. Then he pukes on my shoes, which makes me throw up. Luckily for Shane I’m able to turn to the right and avoid puking on his back.
It’s fitting that Shane and I are drunk and sick together. However, let me just say that out of all the things I’ve done today, ralphing is the least fun. Less fun even than when Ronnie caught me getting biblical with Hurricane. Chunks of everything go into my nose. And FYI: Grimsley Gut Punch tastes about a hundred billion times worse on the way up.
“Tattoos?” I say as I hork up a big glob of mucous and bile and pizza. “Like the permanent kind?”
“Come on, it’ll be fun.” Shane looks like he’s less drunk than I am. Maybe puking got some of it out of his system. “There’s that place on Central. It’s a like a four-mile walk. Besides, it’s not like we have to get matching butterfly tattoos or anything.”
“I do have to get home at some point. Family dinner,” I say. Despite the fact that my stomach feels like a balloon poodle, the thought of food doesn’t make me want to blow chunky soup everywhere.
Shane checks his phone. “I’ll get you home in time. With your letter, they’ll put us in right away. Probably give you a discount, too.”
“Good,” I say. “I spent most of my money on pudding.”
“Ollie. You have nothing to lose. It’s not like your parents can ground you.”
I laugh. “Yeah, but they can kill me.” There are a thousand reasons getting inked is a bad, bad idea, but I’m not ready for my adventure to end. No matter what, Shane’s my best friend and if he wants to go get tattoos, then I’m on board.
“I’m in. But first I have to puke some more.”
9:18
OAT is my copilot’?” I say as we stumble back to Shane’s house. The last light from the day grasps at the clouds. “It looks like an ad for the stuff Nana takes to keep regular.” By the way, what is it about old people and poop? Nana’s always telling me to eat this or eat that so I’ll have nice firm poop.
The Deathday Letter Page 13