“Why does Jizz have to go?” I ask.
“I’m his ride, remember? You’re such a lightweight, Janie,” says Jude, and throws a card at my face.
“Am not,” I say. “You guys are cheaters. You never drink when I get the ball in your cup. At least I’m not Gonzalo.”
“Yeah, Gonz.” Ander laughs, leaning over to slap Gonzalo’s shoulder. “Dude, he’s out. Damn, he had like, what, seven shots?”
“Piece of shit,” Wes snorts. “I brought the hard lemonade for the asshole and he gets wasted on the good stuff. Typical. Jude, fucking deal.”
“Shove it,” Jude says, but he flips a card at him. Ace. Wes throws back the last shot of the old bottle and flicks the tiny bit of leftover vodka at Piper, who’s sprawled on the ground in a crop top that barely covers her bra. I try to remember what Dad said about the carpets when we first moved, but I only remember that they were expensive. It doesn’t matter anymore. We’ve spilled enough that it doesn’t even pay to worry. I’m in one of Ander’s shirts because I spilled beer on mine. It has his name across the back in big red letters: C A M E R O N.
Piper flips him off and Wes grins at her, a big blurry grin. Jude hands her a card. Seven.
“Ugh,” Piper says. “Okay, okay. Um. Never have I ever . . . never have I ever finished a large order of fries from McDonald’s.”
“Bullshit,” says Wes. “Bull. Shit. Seriously? Girls, man.” All fingers down. Mine too. One large order of fries? Please. I’ve had five. Micah and I went through a phase where we’d go to McDonald’s every Metaphor Day. We built Jenga towers out of fries and threw them at ducks.
“There you go, Janie,” Wes says appreciatively as my finger goes down. He snaps my bra strap and snaps it again, picking me like a guitar. “At least you know how to live.”
How to live. I am living, living, living.
Jude hands me a three. “Me,” I say, “Ander, Piper.”
We throw our heads back and the vodka rushes down my throat and drowns all of the butterflies. If it didn’t taste like burning, it might have tasted like apples. Apple vodka, one of my dad’s fancy bottles. Micah once told me that he thought that he hated vodka. I don’t hate vodka. Vodka is easy. I don’t even need a chaser for vodka, not for vodka.
They cheer me on.
Ander gets a ten. We all drink. Jizzy gets another seven. We all drink again. Jude pulls a nine. “Nine,” he says.
“Wine,” says Wes.
“Swine,” says Piper.
“Line,” says Ander.
“Vine,” says me.
Sign, dine, mine, incline, aine. “Aine?”
We all look at Ander, who’s very, very blurry.
“What?” he says. “It’s a word. Old English or some shit. It was in the Shakespeare we read in class. Right?”
“No, shithead,” says Wes. “This is America. We play American FUBAR. Drink.”
He drinks.
And we go and go and go. Queen, five, ace. Ace, three, nine.
“This game is too complicated,” Jizzy complains, probably because he only has two brain cells: one that’s in charge of making sure his hair is perfect every morning and one that’s a balloon in his head, pushing on the sides of his skull so he thinks he’s smart. He grabs a bottle of vodka for the road and kicks Jude. “We should go.”
“Yeah, sure,” says Jude, and he leaves the deck while Wes calls them faggots.
“I don’t like that word,” I tell him. I try to frown. Come on, caterpillar eyebrows. Work with me.
“I don’t like you,” he says, and it’s true. Wes told Ander when we first started going out that he’d rather jump into the quarry than date me.
I don’t mind him. Wes is the kind of person that isn’t worth the effort of disliking.
“We’re going,” says Jude. He tries to pick up Gonzalo, who wakes up long enough to shout “No homo!” and stumble out. I wave at them, and it’s exquisitely funny that Gonzy can’t walk. He misses the door and hits a wall.
“Well, fuck them,” says Wes, and throws a two at Piper, who bats it away like her hand is heavier than gravity.
“I’m tired,” she mumbles, and curls up like a kitten. I pet her and laugh and laugh and laugh.
“Jesus, Janie, shut the hell up,” says Wes, and digs through the deck until he finds a ten. “Dude, you start,” he tells Ander, and Ander throws back the rest of his can.
I go. Wes goes. Piper raises her head long enough to lap at her cup.
Ander. Me. Wes. Piper. Ander. Me. Wes. Piper.
Ander.
Me.
Wes.
Piper.
Until the world is swimming in us and we’re swimming in the world.
“Ugh, I’m done,” says Piper, curling back up.
Ander, me, Wes. Ander, me, Wes. Eye contact and middle fingers, until Ander lunges forward and knocks Wes’s shot glass out of his hand and all over Piper. Piper squeals and her voice echoes in my brain. Wes tells Ander to fuck himself, but “Whatever,” he says, “I was done anyway, I’m not fucking insane.”
And then it’s just Ander and me. The whole world is just Ander Cameron and Janie Vivian. Ander and Janie. Janie and Ander.
Wait, that’s not right.