The Rocky Road Pact

Chapter 8: Crazy Nights

Here's the thing about wine coolers. They sneak up on you.

I don't like to drink, I never have. All those times I resisted my friends' urgings to hook away from class and go get drunk on the train tracks behind the school, they thought I was being a nerd, a 'goody-goody.' It wasn't that. Despite my excellent grades and accusations of 'teacher's pet' over the years, I did have a small but stubborn anti-authority streak, as evidenced by my recent valedictory rebellion. I don't like being told what to do.

So no, it wasn't because I was a goody two shoes.  It was because a) if I wanted to take a day off school, I'd just fake sick and spend it in my comfy bed napping and watching soap operas all day while my mom brought me soup and crackers, instead of shivering out in the cold, wandering around trying not to get caught with some of my seedier friends. And b) it was as though they invited me to go drink lighter fluid with them, mixed with Sprite to make it go down easier. Gross.

The couple of times I've tried it, I could barely manage a swallow. Booze made me gag. Plus, it makes people do crazy things, say weird shit that sticks with them long after the binge. I've seen how silly and stupid it makes people, and I never want to lose control of myself like that. I'd never get over the embarrassment. 

That's what I told myself and I was firm in my no-alcohol rule. That is, until the night of the bonfire.

I didn't even want to go that night, but the sneaking fear that I'd miss out on a really rad party kept me from staying at home. "Everybody's going to be there," Creegan assured me. I rolled my eyes. "Everyone?"

"That's right. I'm not letting you miss out on the party of the year just because you're still cracked over what's-his-face. You're going," he said. I knew he'd pester me all night so I gave in and got ready. Plus, what he said still stung about me being boring. I'm not boring, I mumbled to myself as I curled and teased my hair into a high waterfall above my forehead and lacquered it with enough hairspray to start a small fire if anyone got too close to me with a cigarette.

I'm grieving. It's different. I applied my eyeshadow - electric blue - over my entire eye, then used a matching liner, making my eyes sparkle, I thought. My white jeans and tennis sneakers and bright hot pink shirt completed the look, topped with a lime green sweater and chunky bangles to match. A frosted white lipstick perfected my makeup. I was ready.

"Alright," I said to Creegan, who was fluffying up his soft blonde hair in the mirror with a new product I just bought from the drug store: mousse. A kind of foamy stuff you put in your hair that was supposed to give it body. The mousse did the opposite for Creegan, slicking it down to his forehead, making him look like a drowned duckling. I couldn't help but laugh.

"It looks good," I lied, giving him a thumb's up. Hey, you always have to tell your friends they look good, even if they don't. It's a rule.

An hour later, we were at the shore. It was midnight-dark, the black lit up only by two huge bonfires on the beach. Guys threw aerosol cans into the fire periodically, and we all ducked the shrapnel as they exploded. It was the kind of party that would cause my mother to have a conniption fit if she knew where I really was; she was on a need-to-know basis about my whereabouts most of the time, and she definitely did not need to know I was there, partying with a bunch of people she wouldn't probably wouldn't let in the front door.

The night was warm and everyone was exuberant, the way you always are at the start of summer with so much good stuff yet to come. My stomach hurt from belly laughing, all the idiots were there including Moose, who never failed to make me laugh. He was a gentle giant and even though he still called me 'braniac,' I knew that he was alright, despite nearly beating my friend within an inch of his life. That was life in a small, rough town. 

 Someone gave me a wine cooler, I don't know who. "Here, it's sweet. You'll like it," they said and passed me the bottle with a straw. My throat was dry from yelling and laughing and the first few sips slid down my throat easily. I sucked the rest of it down, stifling a burp and asked for another one, and another. 

"Slow down there, Woman," Creegan said, taking the fourth bottle out of my hands. Or was it the fifth?

"Hey, give me that back!" I pouted like a toddler. 

"You'll get sick," he warned.

"I will not," I insisted, grabbing the fruity drink and downing it before he could say anything further. Someone produced a ghetto blaster and put in a cassette of Ozzy Osbourne, which sent the head-bangers head banging. 

I twirled and danced around the fire, looking up into the night sky and feeling good for the first time in ages. I saw what people liked about alcohol; I felt warm and giddy, like everything was alright, and going to be alright in the future. Absolutely everyone was funny and I loved them all, I was funny and charming. I had the world at my feet; there was nothing I couldn't do.

That's when I spotted Tommy Slade, standing back from the fire and sipping a beer, his face unreadable. I made my way over to him.

And that's all I remember. 

Now with sweat pouring off my face, I tried to vomit as quietly as I could while my forehead pounded. "Ugh," I moaned, flushing the toilet and lying with my face against the floor. I felt like death.

I was right the first time. I would never drink alcohol again, even if it did taste like refreshing peach juice.

The thought of it brought another round of retching, until I saw stars dance in front of my eyes. I turned the word over in my mind: retch. Wretch. I certainly felt like a pathetic wretch.

I'd been barfing since two in the morning when I snuck into my room and got the bed spins from lying down. I'd spent practically the whole night in the bathroom. I was never so sick in my life, not even when I got severe dehydration and had to be hospitalized with a bad flu.

I pulled myself up off the floor and was shocked at my appearance: hair stuck out on all ends, blue mascara smeared everywhere and bloodshot eyes. I downed two headache pills with a swig of tap water and prayed they'd stay down and washed my face until it was squeaky clean. Feeling a tiny bit better, I changed into my favourite pyjamas and crawled into bed just as the sun began to paint the night sky with slashes of gold. 

The phone rang hours later and I startled awake; the headache still a dull throb in my left temple. I fumbled with the phone receiver, holding it upside down to my ear. "Hullo," I mumbled before I finally turned it right side up.

"Cassie, what got into you last night?"

"Creegan?"

"No, it's Chris Henley, Tommy's friend? You left your sweater on the beach, Tommy grabbed it for you."

"Chris who? Why didn't he call me?" I was so confused.

"Um," he said, after a pause. "He thought you might not want to hear from him after what you did last night."

All the fatigue and brain fog evaporated, replaced by a cold splash of pure terror. I sat straight up.

"What did I do?" Think, brain, think. As hard as I tried, I couldn't remember anything in between going over to talk to Tommy and sneaking into my house. My heart pounded in my throat. Was I having a stroke? Did I drink so much I damaged my brain?

"Listen, do you want your sweater or not? I can drop it off on my way to work."

"No. I mean, yes. I mean - could you tell Tommy to bring it over? I want to talk to him." I gulped, fear gripping my heart and squeezing it like a tomato.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Thanks, Chris." I hung up the phone and slammed my eyes shut. Part of me wanted to hide under the blankets until I was about 27. But the braver part wanted to face whatever this was head on and deal with it. After all, I was an adult now.

Dear God in heaven, what did I do?