More Than Water

by Renee Ericson

  La-di-fucking-da.

  “They’re having a fundraising ball in a few weeks,” he tells me, referring to his family’s firm…again. “Everyone will be there—the mayor, a few Major League Baseball players, and the governor. It’s the biggest event in the area this season. Of course, I’ll be there to mingle and network. I’ll likely have to spend most of my time occupying the mayor’s son since we went to school together, but it should be fun.” He winks at me…again and plasters a stupid machismo smile across his face. “You should come, too.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask, confused.

  “To the event. You can be my date.”

  “Um…”

  This guy is oblivious. It’s been over thirty minutes since I last uttered a word. Has he not noticed?

  “You think about it, doll,” he says way too confidently, rising from his chair. “I’m going to use the loo. That’s what they call the restroom in Europe. I’ll be right back.”

  He motherfucking winks again—I swear, he must have a tic—and then he crosses the room toward the bar.

  Hopefully, when he takes a piss, his head will deflate a little.

  While Jeremy is great for Chandra—nice, decent, and normal—it’s painfully obvious that his roommate is a totally douche and nothing I want near my vagina.

  “So, what do you think?” Chandra asks when Anthony is out of sight, and Jeremy is talking actively with his friends. “He’s cute, right?”

  “Yeah…” I down the rest of my pint. “And totally into himself. Maybe he should date a mirror.”

  “Oh, c’mon. He’s not that bad. I thought you two were getting along. I heard you laughing.”

  I give her an are-you-serious look. “I was laughing at him, not with him or beside him. There’s a total difference, and unfortunately, I don’t think he could tell.”

  “Maybe he’s nervous. You can be a little intimidating sometimes.”

  “Even if that were true, I haven’t had a chance to get a word in edgewise. He’s been talking about himself the entire time. I swear to all that is holy, if I hear about his father’s firm one more time, I might stab myself with a fork.” I assess the table. “Just my luck. No forks. Looks like I might have to beg you to poke me in the eye with your finger.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, truly remorseful. “I thought you two would hit it off. Honest. He’s never been like that before when I’ve spoken to him. He’s usually really great. Maybe he’s just had a bad day. You know how that is.”

  “True.” I tap my glass with my fingernails. “I’ve had a pretty crappy one myself. Maybe I should call it a night before it gets worse and just go home.”

  “At least stay for one more drink,” she insists, “and then I’ll go home with you.”

  “I thought you were staying at Jeremy’s place tonight?”

  “A girl has every right to change her mind,” she singsongs. “It’s our prerogative.”

  “You’re such a dork.” I shake my head, laughing at her attempt to cheer me up. “One more drink.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m going to use the restroom and get a refill,” I say, emptying myself from the booth, holding the drained glass in my hand. “Do you want anything?”

  “Sure,” she says, lifting her half-full pint. “Same as the last time would be great.”

  “You got it.”

  “And, EJ?” Chandra calls as I turn toward the rear of the bar. “I’ll be sure to…” She winks and gestures toward the vacant seat where Anthony was seated, indicating that she will help to take care of the narcissistic dickwad.

  Thanks, I mouth.

  Then, I head to the restroom, pausing only for a moment more when I spy Anthony heading back to our table. Sure, I’m avoiding him like a child afraid of clowns at a circus, but this guy is one freak show I’ve had enough of for a night.

  After freshening up, I circle toward the bar and order a drink for Chandra and myself.

  “Here you are,” the bartender says, sliding the beverages in my direction.

  I pay the gal, leaving a generous tip because working around the holidays likely blows ass chunks, and I grab the two cold drinks. Turning around to walk back to where Chandra and Jeremy’s friends are seated, my attention is caught by a table of men hollering boisterously to my right. Three guys laughing and chanting while the fourth slams a shot glass and then places it in the middle of the table with a collection of other empties.

  I recognize one of the laughers and chanters as my coworker.

  Foster slaps the hard wooden surface in front of him and then shoots up from his seat before heading straight in my direction.

  “Hey,” I say. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “EJ?” He squints his blue orbs behind his black frames. “Did you change your hair?”

  “Yeah. Red. It was time for something new. No one wants to look like a snow cone for too long.”

  “So, you splashed a little color onto yours. I got ya.”

  He’s in a good mood tonight. I’m glad that someone is.

  Foster sidles between the bar and me. “I thought you were in New York for the holiday weekend.”

  “I was, but I decided to come back early. Change of plans.”

  He raises his hand, signaling for the barkeep. “Couldn’t grow fins fast enough?”

  “What? Are you drunk? How much have you had to drink?”

  “In ounces or alcohol content?”

  “Don’t talk nerdy to me.”

  “Har, har. Hardy, har, har.”

  A small spurt of laughter escapes my lips. I’m laughing with him, beside him.

  “I assume you spent the holiday with your parents?” Foster continues.

  “Yeah, just like every year.”

  He leans a little closer, and the scent of whiskey wafts off his breath. “And you couldn’t grow fins?”

  I narrow my eyes.

  “To change into a mermaid,” he says slyly.

  “You remembered,” I say, impressed that he recalled the somewhat serious conversation we’d shared a few weeks back.

  Tapping his forehead, he replies, “Big brain.”

  “Extremely.”

  The bartender arrives, and Foster places an order for sixteen shots of flavored vodka, which is pure insanity. Without any question, she sets the glasses on a tray and then begins to fill them with the strong clear liquid.

  “Party hard,” I say as the last glass is being filled. “Nothing like a vat of rocket fuel to warm you up on a cool evening.”

  Foster pulls out his wallet, gives the woman a few bills, tells her to keep the change, and then lifts the tray from the bar.

  “Are you starting a fraternity house?” I ask.

  “Nope. Drinking game. Care to join?”

  “I would kick your ass at quarters, and I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of your friends.”

  Slowly walking back toward his table, carrying his tray of rocket fuel for the soul, he says, “Not quarters.”

  With my interest piqued, I follow at his side while holding my beer in one hand and Chandra’s in the other. I should be getting back, so I don’t worry my roommate, but a few more minutes can’t hurt. Besides, the longer I avoid Anthony’s company, the better.

  “Then, what are you playing?” I ask when we are with his companions.

  His friends all stop talking, lifting their gazes to Foster and me.

  “It’s elemental,” Foster states, divvying up the shot glasses among the men at the table. He places two in front of each of them and sets the rest at the center of the table.

  “Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Nope.” He places the empty tray on the unused table next to them and then takes a seat. “The periodic table of elements. Care to join?”

  “Aren’t you going to introduce your friend?” one of the dark-haired men says to Foster.

  “Guys, this is EJ.” He swipes a chair from the nearby table, placing it in the tight space between himself and a dark blond guy
. “EJ, this is the guys.” He pats the wood surface. “Take a seat.”

  Curious, I oblige and set my drinks on the table in front of me.

  “I’m Graham,” the blond states, offering a hand.

  I shake it, noticing a firm grip but not enough to cut off circulation.

  “Peter,” the stocky dark-skinned guy says.

  “James,” the third man, a bit on the slight side, offers with a slight nod.

  “So, are you in, Evelyn?” Foster asks, teasing.

  “Fozzie,” I chide in warning. “Is your brain broken?”

  “Nope, it’s on overdrive.” He scoots closer to the table.

  “How do you two know each other?” Graham questions.

  “We both work at the library.” I take a drink of beer.

  “You don’t look like the typical engineering major,” James states, openly judging me.

  “She’s not,” Foster interjects. “She’s an art major, slumming it with me.”

  “Art history,” I correct him even though I wish his statement were true. “I’m minoring in art.”

  “And communications,” Foster adds.

  “No, I’m not. Where did you get that idea?”

  “From your conversational techniques. Why else would you ask a guy about his masturbation habits the first time you meet him?”

  Every set of eyes at the table lands on me.

  “She did not,” Graham hoots.

  “She most definitely did.” Foster leans his elbows on the wooden surface. “Her communication skills are like no one’s I’ve ever known. So, are we going to play or what?”

  “That’s highly advised,” says James. “Anything, so I can stop visualizing you whacking off.”

  “Don’t pretend like you don’t do it all the time anyhow,” Foster taunts.

  “All right, you two,” Peter says. “We’re playing now. Where were we?”

  “We were just about to start on actinides,” Graham states. “And James is up.”

  Oh, shit, what kind of nerdfest did I just sit down to?

  “Are you in, EJ?” Graham asks me.

  “I don’t think so. I have no freaking clue what an actinide even is.” I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Unless it’s some sort of anti-blemish cream for horny and overly hormonal teenagers, I think it’s best I sit this one out.”

  Again, all eyes land on me.

  “Now, you have to play,” Foster states, grinning like a fool and patting my hand. “If nothing else, I need to hear your answers. That explanation of actinide was perfection.”

  “Right,” I say sarcastically. “Fine. I’ll play your silly drinking game. First, explain to me the reason we’re talking about acne medicine and then tell me the rules.”

  Foster purses his mouth. “The actinides series of metals on the periodic table of elements—”

  “Oh, right. So silly of me not to know that.”

  “Yes, indeed it is.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “Each round revolves around a different series, but we only discuss one element at a time. The way it works is the guy…” He pauses for a moment and then corrects the statement, “or girl who answered incorrectly last chooses the next element for discussion. Once the element is given, we go around stating facts about that element from the periodic table. Now, you don’t have to be right or wrong. It’s more about how confident you are in your answer. Kind of like poker and bluffing. If someone thinks your statement is false, he or she can challenge the validity of the answer. Then, we look up the answer online, and the loser has to drink.”

  “And you want me to play this Poindexter game? Me? The art history major?”

  “Yes.” He laughs. “I have a pretty good feeling that you’ll do better than you think.”

  “Fine.” I huff, exaggerating my annoyance. In reality, this game sounds hilarious, and I really want to see it in action. “I was looking to get drunk tonight anyhow. Bring it.”

  “You heard her, James,” Foster says, focusing on his friend. “Give us an element. Do your worst.”

  James closes his lids, deep in thought for a few seconds. He then blurts out, “Thorium.”

  Like rapid fire, the men begin spouting off facts regarding the given element.

  “Atomic number ninety,” Peter states.

  “Unstable isotopes,” says Graham.

  “Once used in gas mantels,” James adds.

  When the men all look to Foster, he says, “Discovered in 1828.”

  Then, they all turn their gaze to me.

  “You’re up, EJ,” Foster encourages. “What do you say?”

  I snort. “I should probably just forfeit and take a drink.”

  “That’s no fun. C’mon. Give it your best shot.”

  This is ridiculous. “Fine. What the fuck am I talking about again?”

  “Thorium,” Graham reiterates.

  “Thorium.” I grab my glass, ready to drink. “You know, the most godly of them all, being named after Thor, god of thunder. Bring on the giant hammer man with rippling muscles.”

  James laughs. “I’m calling bullshit on this one.”

  I lift my glass to my lips.

  “Wait,” Peter says. “The rules state that we have to verify if she’s wrong first.”

  “Do we really need to?” I ask, lowering my drink. “Everyone here knows that it’s wrong.”

  “Actually,” Foster says, chuckling at my side, staring at his phone. “She’s right. James, take the shot.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he protests.

  “Not at all.” Foster flips his phone around for everyone to witness that I am indeed correct.

  James picks up the shot and downs the vodka in one gulp. “Looks like I get to pick again.” He balances the empty glass upside down on another one at the center of the table. “Einsteinium.” He turns to me. “Named after Albert Einstein.”

  “Well, I’m up shit creek now with zero paddles, life vests, or lifeguards to speak of,” I mutter.

  Graham says, “Discovered in the debris of the first hydrogen bomb explosion.”

  “Atomic number ninety-nine,” Foster offers.

  “Symbol is E-S,” Peter adds.

  It’s my turn, so I say, “The geekiest and smartest element of them all, complete with a pocket protector.”

  Foster slides my beer closer to me. “That’s a really good guess, but you should prepare to drink.”

  “You think?” I ask, dripping with sarcasm.

  Graham lifts his head from his phone. “Surprisingly, the einsteinium element does not have a pocket protector. Time to drink, EJ.”

  “Nobody saw that coming,” I snark. I lift my glass, drinking close to half the pint. “I guess this means I get to choose next?”

  “That’s right,” Peter confirms.

  “Well then, you are all completely out of luck because I’m still convinced that an actinide is a pimple potion.”

  Everyone laughs at me, beside me—and soon, I realize, with me.

  “I can pick one for you,” Foster offers. “Since your chemistry knowledge is a little remedial.”

  “You’re being a little generous by even saying it’s remedial. So, yeah, go for it. Your pick.”

  “Very well. Let’s go with californium.”

  “I’m guessing that being named after California won’t be sufficient?” I mumble.

  “Is that your input?” asks James.

  “No. I’m still formulating my Nobel Prize winning answer.” I dramatically rub my temples, like massaging my brain will relax it into geeky submission. “Why don’t you brainiacs free your cerebellums of analytic thoughts first?”

  Graham guffaws. “Sure, EJ. I’ll go first. Slowly tarnishes in air at room temperature.”

  “Can disrupt the formation of red blood cells,” James offers.

  “Heaviest naturally occurring element on earth,” Peter follows.

  “Atomic number ninety-eight,” Foster finishes.

  They all
turn their expectant faces toward me.

  “And the smart table award goes to all of you,” I say playfully, spreading my arms wide like a game show hostess. “Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner.” I grab my beer, prepared to drink.

  “Aren’t you even going to take a guess?” Foster inquires.

  “Oh, sure.” I set my drink back down. “Why the hell not? Californium. The tannest and most valley girl element at the party just below the Sunset Strip.” I raise my glass. “Cheers, gentlemen.” Then, I take another swig of my beer.

  “I don’t think we need to verify that one,” Peter says, shaking his head. “Everyone knows that elements don’t have melanin, and therefore, can’t tan.”

  “Of course they don’t,” I tease. “Everyone knows that.”

  “Shut up, Peter.” Foster laughs, flicking a cardboard coaster at him. “No need to kick her while she’s down.”

  “It’s okay.” I giggle with them. “It’s pretty obvious that I know jack dick when it comes to the acne cream elements. Talk about taking advantage of a gal and her tiny brain.”

  Drinking games have always been a forte of mine, and admittedly, so far, this is one that I’m failing at miserably. Sitting back, I search through my head for a way to get a leg up on these guys. They all have more knowledge than fourteen-year-old boys have hormones, but there has to be something. I hate losing.

  Then, I recall one little trick I might have up my sleeve.

  “Let’s change the subject,” I announce, leaning my elbows on the table and capturing everyone’s attention. “Could I interest you all in a bet?”

  “This should be good,” says Peter, intrigued. “What is it?”

  “I bet I know a little something about physics that you all don’t.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Foster says, sitting up in his chair. “Is that right?”

  “It sure is.” I glance at my beer, still more than a quarter of the way full, Chandra’s untouched beer, and Foster’s two shots, ready for consumption. “Are you game?” I ask my coworker.

  “What do you have in mind?”