Burnt Orange

by Melody Carlson

  Claire changes the subject as I drive us to school, and I must admit, I like her choice of topics much better.

  “What are you going to wear on Saturday?” she asks. “Do you have any ideas?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about—”

  “You better think about it. This is your chance to pull out your best threads and really look hot. Know what I mean?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, I may have to come to the aid of the fashion impaired.” She pauses to study me. “You’re a little taller and skinnier than me, but I might have something that will work for you. Can you stop by after work?”

  “That’ll be too late,” I say quickly. “My parents expect me home by nine thirty.” I’m actually relieved since I don’t exactly like the idea of being at her house and the likelihood of being offered a drink again. I have no doubt that Claire actually drinks on a daily basis. For all I know, she drinks on an hourly basis.

  “Okay, maybe we can figure out how to get you some things tomorrow. Maybe after work or something.”

  “That’d be great.” I’m not sure why I don’t tell her I have Friday off. Maybe it’s because I’m afraid she’ll plan something—something that won’t be so good. It amazes me how I am really drawn to this friendship with Claire and how at the same time she sometimes gives me the heebie-jeebies. Kinda freaky.

  I park my car, and the two of us head toward school. It’s weird, but I have this sudden urge to ask Claire about how much she really drinks, because I do remember reading this one thing last night about teen alcoholism. At the time it seemed pretty far-fetched to me, like how can a teenager be an alcoholic? but now I’m feeling kind of curious. I’m about to say something, but she beats me to it.

  “Hey, did you finish your English lit project yet?” she asks suddenly.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you think I could look at it? Not to copy, but just for some inspiration. Mine just seems to be falling flat.”

  Well, everything in me is saying, “Don’t do this,” but like an idiot, I hand over the paper that I just finished the other day. “How will you be able to get yours done in time for class?” I ask.

  She just shrugs. “I don’t know. But I gotta pull this off if I want to pass. Thanks so much, Amber. I promise to give it back to you right before class.”

  I don’t see Claire again before lit class, but that’s not so strange since we don’t have any other classes together. I wait outside the classroom for her, but finally the bell rings and it’s time to go in. Thinking that I might’ve missed her and that she’s already in class, I look for her inside. But she’s not there. Neither is my paper.

  I don’t know what to do. I keep watching the door, thinking she’ll come in late. But the hall looks deserted. I lean over and ask Haley if she’s seen Claire.

  Haley nods with wide eyes and whispers. “Yeah, she’s up to it again.”

  “Up to it?”

  “She must’ve put away about a fifth of vodka this morning. She was a mess in history class. She told Mrs. Lenox she was sick, and I took her to the bathroom.”

  “Something you’d like to share with the class, ladies?” Mr. Sorenson is looking directly at us.

  We both shake our heads and sit back in our seats. Now he is asking for our assignments, and I don’t know what to do. I could pretend to be sick. I actually do feel sick. Or I could make something up—yeah, like my dog ate it. That should go over nicely.

  “Miss Conrad?” He’s standing over me now with his hand out.

  “I—uh—I must’ve lost it. I thought for sure it was in my bag, but it’s not there.”

  His expression is one of boredom and disbelief. “That’s too bad, considering this assignment is worth one-fourth of your grade, Miss Conrad.”

  I swallow hard and look down at my desk without answering.

  Then he clears his throat, “But should you miraculously find it, I will mark it down only two marks for being late.”

  Two marks? That would make an A into a C. Not that I can be sure I even have an A. But I was hoping for at least a high B. And to qualify for the church scholarship, I have to pull at least a B out of this class. Now I’m feeling seriously freaked.

  Suddenly Claire is coming into the room. Okay, she looks like crud and her face is white as a ghost, but she is waving some papers in her hand.

  “Mr. Sorenson,” she says in that sweet voice that she knows how to use so well. “I just found this paper mixed up in my things. Amber gave me a ride this morning, and I must’ve picked it up by mistake.”

  He frowns at her. “And why are you late?”

  She makes a pained face. “I was in the health room. I’m sick today, and Mrs. Wiley was about to send me home when I found Amber’s paper.” She hands him the paper. “I thought I should get it to you.”

  He nods as if this is completely understandable.

  “Well, if you are that sick, you should get out of here before we all get exposed to your germs.” And to my amazement, he doesn’t even ask her about her paper!

  But I’m mostly relieved that she came through for me. Haley tosses me a surprised glance, like she never expected to see Claire do something like that for a friend. I guess I’m pleasantly surprised too, and now I realize that I need to forgive Claire for this little scare. I mean, I was ready to really tear into her. But now I realize that it’s not really her fault—well, not exactly. Even so, that was close!

  twelve

  I FEEL LIKE I’M WALKING A TIGHTROPE SOMETIMES, LIKE ONE MISSTEP and I’m toast. The problem is that I really want to continue being Claire’s friend. I mean, she’s fun and funny and exciting and kind of edgy. But at the same time, I don’t want to alienate Simi. Even though she’s kind of preachy and stuffy, I really do love her, and she’s been my best friend for years. But beyond that, I don’t want Simi or Lisa or any other youth-group kid to leak out that I’ve been hanging with the “wrong” kids, because I know that’s what they’re thinking. I also know they’re probably all praying for me like crazy I’m sure they think I’m some messed-up excuse of a Christian, like some demented sheep that has strayed from the flock and is about to become the big bad wolf ‘s dinner. I know that’s what they think. And in some ways, I’d just like to show them.

  The good news is that I haven’t had a drink since the night Claire came to my house and we both got wasted. Even today when she insisted on taking me to Merenda’s for lunch and then offered to order two glasses of wine so that I could drink one with her, I refused. I was seriously tempted to have some wine—not because I wanted to drink it, although I might not have minded loosening up a bit, but because I thought it would feel kind of risky and grown-up to be sitting there drinking a glass of wine when someone like Haley or Stacy or Megan just happened in, which they didn’t.

  But when Mrs. Bannister (the drama teacher) walked into the deli, I just about died right there on the spot. Claire’s back was to the door, so I tried to convey by eye contact that she better watch out. Claire, as cool as could be, picks up her wine glass (carefully so it’s in front of her and can’t be seen from behind) and downs it all in one long swig and then discreetly slips her glass into the foliage of the potted plant that was right next to her. Pretty smooth. But trust me, my adrenaline was rushing.

  So now it’s time for the track meet, and by now I’ve broken down and told Claire that I don’t work today, so we’re planning to hang together. But I’m still getting this tightrope-walking feeling, like I’d better watch my step. I’m waiting for her at the entrance of the stadium so we can sit together, but I’m thinking she should’ve been here by now. Then I see her coming toward me. She’s got two soft-drink cups in her hands, but she’s not coming from the concession stand.

  “I got you a Dr Pepper,” she says as she hands me my cup, “and I’ve got red licorice in my purse.”

  “Cool,” I say as we begin to traipse up the stairs. But I have this feeling that I may not be carrying a straight Dr Peppe
r. Even so, I can’t exactly ask, since there are kids and parents and teachers all over the place.

  Claire leads us over to where Haley and Stacy and some of her other friends are sitting, and we sit down on the bleacher behind them. The girls turn around and greet us and then focus their attention back out onto the field, where it looks like they’re getting ready to run a hurdles event.

  I glance nervously at Claire, but she seems to be avoiding my eyes. Then I take a tentative drink. I’m surprised that it tastes pretty much okay, although it isn’t exactly what a Dr Pepper should taste like and I do suspect she’s spiked it with something—maybe vodka, since it has the least bitter taste. I give her an elbow as if to question this, and she just turns and winks at me. And then I know

  Even so, I take another drink. I realize that absolutely no one has the faintest idea that the two of us are sitting here drinking booze, and I have to admit that kind of amuses me. Okay, maybe I am seriously twisted.

  We eat some licorice and continue sipping our drinks, and in my opinion the track meet becomes way more interesting. We stand and loudly cheer for Slater, and the other girls join in, and it’s like Slater has his own personal cheering section. He looks up to the stands after winning a race and waves, and we cheer even louder.

  To my relief, our drink cups are finally empty, but worried that someone might still discover the secret of our jollity, I gather them both and dispose of them in a nearby trash can. Then, following Claire’s lead, I pop in a breath mint. All in all, it’s the best track meet I’ve ever gone to, but I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or me. Slater wins two out of three of his races. I think he takes second in the other one, and all the other guys seem to be doing really well too. When the whole thing is over, it turns out that we have won. South Ashton High has defeated its crosstown rival, North Ashton High. Everyone from our school is ecstatic. Claire and I rush down to the field to congratulate the team, and, of course, we both give Slater a hug.

  He seems genuinely happy that I came, and he even thanks me. Then we hug again, and to my surprise we actually kiss. We KISS!!! Right down there in full public view. And I’m not sure if I’m the one who initiates this kiss, or if he does, but I do feel slightly shocked—okay, happy shocked. Then Slater leans over and whispers in my ear.

  “I see you girls are starting the party early.”

  “Party?”

  He grins. “Yeah, aren’t you coming to the celebration party tonight?” He turns to Claire. “Have you heard about it yet? Some of the guys started planning it when it looked like we might win. It’s going to be a kegger down at the reservoir. You girls coming?”

  Claire looks at me. “Are we coming?”

  I shrug. “Yeah, I guess so.” Okay, even as I say this, I know it’s a bad idea—a very bad idea. But it’s like I can’t help myself. It’s like I’m on this ride that’s just going all on its own.

  But Claire has already pulled a twenty out of her purse and discreetly given it to Slater. “Here’s our contribution,” she says with a grin.

  “We should get something to eat,” I tell Claire as we leave the meet. “I really need some solid food in my stomach.”

  She nods. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

  And so we go to Pizza Hut and split a small cheese pizza, and by the time we finish, I feel better—and worse. I feel better knowing that the food has helped to sober me up, but I feel worse to think that I agreed to go to a kegger down at the reservoir. I’ve heard about these parties, and I’ve heard it can get out of hand. And I’m feeling a little freaked to think of what my parents would say if they knew. Finally I decide to express these feelings to Claire.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I know a special place to park. Even if the party did get raided, we could get away.”

  “But I don’t like the whole idea,” I admit. “I mean, something about all those kids down there, drinking and being near the water and then driving. Well, it’s a little freaky, you know?”

  She laughs now. “Man, you think way too hard about this stuff. Why don’t you leave that kind of worrying for the old folks? You’re a kid, Amber. Start acting like it.”

  I’m a kid? I’m an adult? Which is it, really? I’m just about to state another objection when Claire cuts me off.

  “Look, Amber, you don’t have to drink anything, if that’s what’s worrying you. Maybe you can just be the DD.”

  “The DD?”

  “The designated driver. That way you know we’ll get home safely and on time. I really want to go to this party. And besides that, I think Slater really wants you to go too. I saw that kiss.”

  I kind of smile. “Yeah. I guess I could go and be the DD. But you have to promise to get a ride with someone else if you want to stay late.”

  “No problem.”

  So I call home and tell my mom that we won the track meet and that I’m going with Claire to a victory party. Not even a lie this time. And she seems genuinely happy for me as she says, “Have a good time.” Well, okay.

  When we get to the reservoir, it’s obvious that a lot of cars are there. I’m guessing at least thirty. And just as she promised, Claire shows me a secluded place to park that is hard to see from the road. It means we have to walk a little farther, but it seems worth it.

  Now, here’s what’s kind of funny—at least I think it’s funny. No one else seems to see the humor. When we get to the “party,” there are about fifty kids there, and everyone is like waiting for something to happen. There is no keg. Apparently, as the story goes, the money had been collected and then handed over to the “responsible” adult who was going to do the purchasing of the keg, but then the keg never showed.

  We hang around for a while, listening to everyone grumbling and complaining, and it’s not long before the guys are blaming each other, and the celebration party starts feeling pretty gloomy.

  “Kent called his older brother,” says Slater, “and he might bring out a couple cases of beer.”

  Claire just laughs. “A couple of cases isn’t going to do much for this crowd.” Then she turns to me. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Slater looks clearly disappointed, but Claire reminds him that we have plans for tomorrow.

  He nods. “Yeah, come to think of it, I’m kind of tired. Maybe I’ll head out too.”

  And that’s when most of the kids start to split. Some of the die-hards remain behind, continuing to claim that “the beer’s gonna show up any minute.” But I’m just as glad to get out of there.

  “What do you want to do?” asks Claire.

  “I don’t know.”

  Claire slaps her forehead. “We almost forgot.”

  “Forgot what?”

  “We were going to get you an outfit for tomorrow night. Let’s go to my house and you can pick something out.” She glances at her watch. “Or if that doesn’t work, maybe we’ll have time to go to the mall.”

  Due to the current shape of my finances, I’m not too eager to go to the mall. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll find something in your closet,” I say quickly. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. This’ll be fun.”

  Now, even as I drive to her house, I am giving myself this little silent lecture: You will not have a drink—not one single drink—no matter what she does to encourage you. You will not give in. And strangely enough, I think it’s working.

  The house is quiet, and Claire finds a note on the breakfast bar. “Big surprise,” she says. “They’ve gone out.”

  And no surprises here, she heads straight for her green vase, extracts the key, and opens the bar. “What’ll you have?” she asks.

  “How about a Sprite,” I say.

  “Yeah, but what do you want in it?”

  “Just give it to me straight.” I kind of smile.

  She just shrugs. “Okay, whatever.”

  Now this surprises me. I expected more of a protest. But she pulls out a Sprite, pours it over some ice, and hands it to me.

>   I sip my Sprite and watch as she mixes herself some strange concoction that has just about everything but the barroom sink in it. I’m pretty sure she must be making up the recipe as she goes along.

  “What on earth is that?” I finally ask as she pours this mysterious dark-brown mixture into a tall glass of ice and then adds a lemon.

  “Long Island iced tea,” she says and then takes a swig. “Yummy.”

  I frown. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

  “It is.”

  “Yeah, sure, I’ll take your word for it.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  I laugh. “I believe you’d drink anything, Claire. Even if it tasted like paint thinner.”

  She holds out the tall glass now. “Here, take a sip and see for yourself.”

  “But I said—”

  “Hey, all I said was one sip. I’m not trying to get you plastered. I know you’re getting worried about driving and stuff. And to be honest, I am too. But one little sip is not going to hurt.”

  So I take a sip, and to my surprise, it does taste good. “Okay, you were right,” I admit.

  Then she gets that sly grin. “You want one?”

  “No . . .”

  “Oh, you do, don’t you?”

  I shake my head. “No, not really.”

  “How about just a little one?”

  “A little one?”

  “Here, I’ll pour a little of mine into a small glass.”

  Before I can stop her, she’s done this and is handing it to me. “Okay,” I say to her. “I’ll drink this only if you promise not to offer me another—and if you lock up the bar right now.”

  “Okay. I’ll lock it up right after I remake the other half of my drink.”

  So I wait and take turns sipping on my Sprite and my “tea” as she goes back to work mixing another one. Then, respecting my wishes, she puts everything away and locks the bar. “How about if I put the key away for safekeeping?” I suggest.

  “What? You don’t trust me?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  She shrugs and hands me the key, which I pocket. Later when she’s not looking, I put it beneath the green vase instead of inside it. I figure I can tell her later.