“You think the administration figured out who was spreading the rumors?” I ask.
Cinna tilts her head, not convinced. “I doubt it. I still think it’s Aubrey, and I think we need to have a talk with her.”
“Maybe. But not right now.” I take a sip of the latte. “Not until after the anniversary. I can’t deal with both at the same time.”
She accepts that and leans back against the bench, crossing one ankle over the other. Then, quieter, with a certainty that makes me wary, she says, “Just wait. She’ll slip up eventually.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
DORIEN
The ice cream truck music wakes me. It’s tinny, warped, and playing from inside my skull. A little boy is screaming in the background. I know his name but I won’t say it, not until later today.
My hands are shaking before my eyes open.
I find the joint on my nightstand by touch, then I locate my lighter and let the flame do its magic. The first puff tastes like burnt grass. I hold the smoke until my lungs protest, then let it out. My fingers stop trembling somewhere around the fourth drag, or maybe they don’t and I just stop noticing.
I dress for the day like it’s a normal day: Jeans. Leather jacket. Gloves last. They always go on last.
Why can’t this be a normal day?
I skip my classes, skip everything, even breakfast. By 10 a.m., I’m at a bar six miles off campus. The wood paneling is so warped it looks like the walls are trying to collapse inward. I order a bourbon shot. The bartender doesn’t card me because I must look like I desperately need it. One shot isn’t enough, so I drink two more until finally the room softens and the buzzingin my body fills my ears. The country music from the jukebox, which I hate, feels appropriate.
A guy at the end of the bar keeps glancing over at me. He has a thick neck, a baseball cap, and his hands are wrapped around a pint glass.
I look at him until he looks back.
“Problem?” he asks.
“You look like an idiot,” I say. It’s not true because how can someonelooklike an idiot? I don’t know the guy. He just looks like someone who has a quick temper, based on the way he’s choking that glass and then tension in his body.
His first reaction is shock because my statement was pretty random. “Excuse me?” he asks.
“You look like a weak idiot,” I say, standing.
He stands too and we exchange more words. The bartender says, “Hey, take it outside,” a few times but we both ignore him.
I shove Baseball Cap when it seems like he might back down, and I’m rewarded with what I’m craving: a punch to the jaw. My head whips to the side as a sickening ache reverberates up into my skull. The second punch lands below my ribs and folds me over the bar top.
The bartender is shouting. Someone grabs the back of my jacket and then I’m in the alley, on my knees in a puddle that smells like beer and dumpster runoff.
They either threw Baseball Cap out another exit or didn’t blame him for the fight. Either way, I’m alone with the garbage.
I light another joint because the pains in my body aren’t enough to make me feel better.
I lie down on the concrete as the world spins and mellows at the same time. The cold presses in through my jacket, my shirt, into my spine.Quel gâchis.What a waste. Of this day, of the bourbon. Of me.
The sky above the alley is a narrow strip of gray between two rooflines and I watch it until it blurs, then darkens, then disappears as I close my eyes.
I wake to a hand on my shoulder.
“Still alive?”
I crack open a single eye to find Carter hovering over me. He crouches as I sit up, his jaw set in a way that means he wants to hit me and hug me in the same breath. His eyes scan my split lip and the bruise probably on my jaw.
“How?” I ask. My voice is wrecked.
“Dude. This is what you do every year.” He pulls me up by the arm and steadies me as I stand. “Since you’re old enough to legally drink this year, I had a hunch you’d be out today. I hit up bars asking if a messed-up guy in a leather jacket has been causing problems. Only took three bars to find you.”
