For a second, her eyes widen and then narrow into slits as she leans toward the photograph to get a better look. “Jesus Christ, he looks like a fetus!”
I stare at him again, the Tyler in the picture. The jersey on his back matches Dean’s, but his expression doesn’t. Dean’s smiling wide, Tyler’s frowning. In fact, he’s not even looking at the camera. He’s looking off to the side, his eyes heavy and his attitude far from what you would expect of a kid attending a 49ers game. Even his body is slightly angled to the side, despite the fact that Dean’s arm is thrown over his shoulders. Maybe Tyler just hates the 49ers. Maybe he’s a Chargers fan.
On the other side of the photograph, there’s another man standing next to Dean’s dad. His hair is black, his back is to the camera, and he’s pointing to the name on the back of the red jersey he’s wearing. It’s personalized. It says GRAYSON.
Something flutters in my stomach. I move back from the photo and my eyebrows knit together, my lips parted. Tyler’s dad. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him, or at least some of him. I have an overwhelming need to see his face.
I turn back to Rachael. “Is that his dad?”
“Dean’s?” She glances up from beneath her eyelashes while she flicks off the cap of the tequila. “Yeah.”
“No,” I say. “Tyler’s dad. Is that him?”
Rachael fully looks up now. She stares at me and then shifts her eyes to the photograph again. “Yeah,” she says again with a shrug. “The older Tyler gets, the more I think they look identical. At least from what I remember. His dad is probably super old with a beard by now. Do they let people shave in jail?”
“I don’t know,” I say, but my attention has turned back to the picture. There’s something unsettling about it. Dean and his dad look so happy, so thrilled to be at the 49ers game, beaming proudly next to each other. Yet next to them, it’s quite the opposite. Tyler and his dad are standing at opposite ends of the photograph, and Tyler just looks lifeless, with his heavy eyes and slumped shoulders. It makes me wonder what the circumstances were and why he wasn’t as happy and thrilled as Dean was to be at that game. “What is it with Tyler and his dad? I just know that there’s something.”
Rachael shakes her head and presses a finger to her lips as though to silence herself. “I don’t know. We have this unspoken rule in the group. We don’t talk about Tyler’s dad unless we have a death wish, and we don’t talk about STDs in front of Meghan, because her biggest fear in life is waking up with chlamydia.”
I ignore this unspoken rule and press the matter. “What if he was adopted?”
“Adopted?” Rachael considers the possibility for a moment as she stares at the photo again. She shakes her head. “Nope, he’s definitely his dad’s kid. Too similar not to be. Now, c’mon,” she says. “We need to hurry up! We’re gonna fall behind.”
I frown and look away from the photograph. She’s waving around the bottle that’s in her hand. “Okay, okay, I’m ready.”
A huge grin forms on her lips and she takes a deep breath. “It’s going to taste like you’re on fire, but it’ll get us drunk in no time, so grow some lady balls and suck it up.”
“God,” I say, but I clench my fists by my side and squeeze my eyes shut, mentally preparing myself. The last time I drank tequila I made a beeline for the sink. And that was with the salt and the lime. “I’m ready.”
Rachael gives me a nod before she presses the bottle to her lips and takes a quick shot. She immediately doubles over and presses a hand to her mouth, her arm extending as she shoves the bottle into my hand. “Oh my God,” she gasps, her face scrunching up as she shakes her head, as though it’ll get rid of the taste.
I almost chicken out then. What’s the point of putting myself through the torture of tequila? I stare doubtfully at the bottle while Rachael heaves next to the car, waving her hands erratically in front of her mouth, and it makes me question what I’m doing. But then I remember what Tiffani said on Thursday at the mall, about her not having to worry about me getting drunk, about me not being reckless.
My grip tightens around the bottle of Cazadores, and I tilt it to my lips, throwing my head back and pouring as much of the tequila into my mouth as I possibly can. And all at once, my mouth feels like it’s on fire, burning from the bitterness. Tequila looks like urine and tastes like gasoline.
I almost drop the bottle as I quickly rush for a swig of my Twisted Tea, and suddenly it tastes like water in comparison, so I keep on drinking. And drinking and drinking until I’ve completely downed the entire remainder of the bottle. I collapse back against the wall, exhausted and out of breath, and I stand there breathing heavily for a few long seconds.