I push past the crowd at Shoshanna’s already full house and make my way to the downstairs bathroom. It’s where the keg is always kept, in a bathtub full of ice.
“What’s up, Number One?” Matt Boyd asks as I enter the room. He’s in there with a group of sophomore girls. One of them—a girl with feathers dangling from her earrings—hands me a cup. I help myself to a second and fill them both. “Awesome comeback tonight, dude.”
I chug one beer and hold it out to be refilled as I down the second one.
“When do you hear from UCLA?” Matt asks.
“I heard,” I say halfway through my third beer. “Not gonna happen.”
“Oh, dude, that sucks. Well, you’ll get in somewhere, man. I know Coach has other recruiters coming to watch some games later in the season.”
My head is getting cloudy. The girls aren’t joining in on the conversation. They stand there, pretending to be interested in everything we’re saying.
“Nope. I’m done. I quit the team.” I refill my cup again.
Matt gapes at me. “You quit?”
“Yup. Not playing for that asshole O’Toole ever again. I have absolutely no chance of playing D-One or going pro, so there’s no point in sticking around. Like everyone keeps reminding me, I have bigger responsibilities now.”
I leave the bathroom, full cups in my hands.
The whole downstairs is packed. You’d think coming to this same house after every single game would get old, but Shoshanna has made it something of a tradition. Her parents don’t care, there is always more than enough beer, and her house is on this huge piece of property with no neighbors within hearing distance, so we can be as loud as we want. It’s actually the perfect party situation.
I glide in a daze past couples making out and girls dancing in little groups and what appears to be a pretty intense game of flip cup and search for a place to sit down. All the couches are taken. I stop in front of a love seat where a guy from the JV soccer team is sitting with some girl I’ve never seen before. She’s got braces and huge boobs.
“Hey, Ryden!” the guy says. I have no idea what his name is. “Great game tonight!”
“Up,” I say, jerking my thumb over my shoulder.
He looks at the girl and back at me. “Uh. Okay.” The two of them leave.
Nice to know I still have some power.
I collapse into the love seat and work on beers four and five. Or is it five and six? Whatever it is, I’m not anywhere near drunk enough yet.
My phone buzzes with a text from Joni: How’d the game go???
I put the phone back in my pocket.
Time goes by, and it’s like I’m in one of those movies where the guy’s at a party but he’s really depressed or on drugs and the camera is focused on him sitting, unmoving, staring at nothing, while the rest of the party happens in blurred fast motion around him.
I must ask someone to get me another drink at some point, because one minute my cups are empty, and the next they’re full again.
I’m vaguely aware of people talking to me, sitting beside me, but I’m pretty sure whatever they have to say is not worth the energy it takes to engage. Because engaging equals effort and effort equals cognizance and cognizance equals pain.
Then Shoshanna comes over. She stands right in front of me and doesn’t move until I make eye contact. Her eyes are glassy, her cheeks flushed with a boozy glow. But her lipstick and ponytail are as perfect as ever.
“This is a party, Ryden,” she says. “The point is to have fun. So cheer the fuck up or go home.”
“S-sorry, Sho,” I slur. Hmm. Guess I’m drunker than I thought. Excellent.
She sighs and sits next to me, her thigh against mine. “Here.” She hands me an orange Fanta bottle.
I shake my head. “That shit’s gross.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Just try it.”
Whatever. I unscrew the cap and take a sip. The liquid bites my tongue and scorches the back of my throat. I look at Shoshanna. “Is this vodka?”
She smiles. “You know I don’t like beer. But don’t tell anyone—that’s my parents’ one rule: beer only. It’s like they think there’s a limit to how drunk beer can get you or something.”
I laugh. “You know what? They might be right.” I take another long swig of the vodka. It tastes better now that I’m prepared for it.
We sit there, sharing the “Fanta” until it’s all gone and I’m wasted out of my mind. My face feels hot and cold at the same time, and my hands feel like they’re made of pipe cleaners and putty. I move the empty bottle around in front of my face, trying to make my eyes focus. The conclusion of my very scientific experiment is that four inches away from my nose is the sweet spot. Any closer or farther and the bottle becomes a jumbled blob of orange.
Shoshanna rests her head on my shoulder and drapes a leg across my lap. Her hair smells like hair spray.