“Again,” Rachael says. She reaches for the bottle of tequila and yanks it from my hand, repeating the pattern of tilt-swig-die once more.
I manage to follow the cycle, and we pass the bottle back and forth to one another until we get to our fourth round and I simply can’t do it anymore. The second the tequila hits my tongue I splutter it everywhere, unable to force it down my throat. It goes all over the side of the BMW, the tequila running down the side of driver’s door. I throw Rachael a shocked glance.
“Eden!” she screams, but bursts into laughter immediately after and doesn’t stop for another three minutes.
I’m horrified. Dean will hate me, his parents will sue, and I’ll end up in juvenile hall for criminal damage. “Why is there a car in here?” I yell in exasperation, and I feel my cheeks grow red.
“It’s a garage!”
“I thought this was the basement!” I scream back at her in between a fit of laughter, and I find my footing becoming unstable and my body swaying into the walls, and the only thing that I can think is this: Tequila is a bitch.
I know Rachael is a lightweight, I just didn’t figure that I’d be equally as intolerant of alcohol as she is. Skipping dinner probably wasn’t the best idea, and now that stupid tequila rhyme is starting to make sense. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.
When I glance down, the floor is exactly where Rachael is. She’s sprawled out on the concrete, giggling and not even bothering to push herself up. She’s happy just lying there looking like a dead seal.
“We need to keep going!” I say as I reach down for her arm and try my hardest to yank her up and onto her feet, but I only lose my balance and topple on top of her, probably crushing her spine.
“Yes, yes! Keep going!” Rachael shouts through hysterical laughter as I roll off her.
“What’s next on the agenda, Rachy baby?” I snort. Everything seems so hilarious, so carefree, so reckless. I can’t help myself. I’m lying on my back now by Rachael’s side, staring at the white ceiling of the garage, and it’s only just occurred to me that the walls are all painted. “This garage is so beautiful.”
Rachael’s still laughing, so hard that she’s not even making a sound anymore. Her lips are parted and her eyes are squeezed shut and the only thing I can hear is the sound of her choking on the air. “What is wrong with us?”
I push myself up onto my knees and stare at her, forcing my lips into a straight line. Fifteen minutes of tequila shots and the pair of us are totally buzzed. Remarkable. “We need to keep going! Drink as much as we can, remember?”
Rachael nods with enthusiasm and struggles to get to her feet, gripping the wing mirror of the BMW for support. If I were sober I’d be worried about damaging the car, but I’m not sober, so I somehow couldn’t care less.
“J?germeister!” Rachael cheers. She grabs the dark bottle from among the collection on the shelves and turns back to me. Grinning, she holds the bottle up in the air and toasts, “To alcohol poisoning!”
Another fifteen minutes and two deadly shots later, I’m wondering why I was stupid enough to drink so much in such a short time frame. It’s the type of thing your parents and teachers warn you about, the type of thing that they tell you will kill you. But none of that matters. No one ever cares about the consequences, because in the moments between taking a drink and the effects hitting you, everything always seems like the best idea in the world. This explains why Rachael is on the hood of the car, using the Cazadores bottle as a microphone as she switches between performing the national anthem and stripteasing her way onto the roof.
“Eden, you are hilarious to get drunk with,” she announces with a bow after her slightly warped rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” She’s standing in her maxi skirt and her bra, having tossed her tube top to the ground.
The muffled music from inside the house grows louder all of a sudden, and when I glance away from Rachael’s performance for a second, I notice it’s because the door to the pantry has opened. Dean’s standing there with his arms folded across his chest. Both Rachael and I stop laughing, freezing in position, sheepish smirks on our faces.
“Rachael,” Dean says slowly, “please get off the car.”