An Extra Pump of Sugar

Chapter 4

"So, there I was, high on like three tabs of acid, driving my friend to the ER for alcohol poisoning, and the world is like...technicolor at this point, you know?"

I smiled with my eyes, desperate to escape the unfortunate situation I'd stumbled into. The finance major encroaching on my personal space had chosen to wear a tank top and salmon pink shorts in the dead of winter. He twirled his vape around in his fist like a fidget-spinner, and he reeked of liquor.

He laughed himself into a fit. "I park the car like shit and basically drag my buddy into the hospital lobby, right? Both of us are covered in—"

"Hiya!" Baker interrupted, materializing out of nowhere like the blessed angel she was. She stuck her head between me and my intoxicated companion, then grabbed hold of my wrist and slowly pulled me toward her—like a fisherman reeling in a flaccid, empty line. "I'm gonna need to steal this gem, sorry man."

Before Salmon Shorts had a chance to finish his story, Baker dragged me into the sea of party guests and away from the most disturbing conversation of my life.

"Why do guys think bragging about their exploitation of drugs is attractive?" I complained, weaving through bodies and unfamiliar faces. Music blared from the speaker in the living room, and the bass vibrated through my body like a war drum. "Like, do they want a reward for surviving this long? Are they seeking praise?"

"It's your own fault. You have to stop feigning interest to preserve people's feelings."

She wasn't wrong. I'd tried to dodge his flirtations by asking him about his Christmas. Little did I know, by skirting his advances, I'd sentenced myself to fifteen minutes of a low-budget Pineapple Express.

"I was just looking for genuine conversation."

She shot me an annoyed look over her shoulder. "You're not here to talk philosophy and politics, Rivas. It's a party! You're supposed to forget real life, remember?" Her gaze dipped to my empty hands. "And where's your drink?"

"I finished it."

She gawked at me. "The tolerance of giants amazes me." She nodded toward the kitchen and the collection of vodka bottles and red solo cups strewn across the counter. "Let's get you another. You're way too sober for a Friday."

We made our way to the other side of the house, circumventing the living room dance party, sweeping past a beer-pong tournament in the dining room, and cutting through the line for the ice luge on the back porch—an activity that had kept the engineering students entertained for several hours.

Once we reached the kitchen, I felt much better in the open space it provided. Crowds always made Carl irritable, and as soon as Carl was grumpy, it was a fast track to my mattress.

Thankfully, the townhouse was too small to accommodate more than sixty people at a time. The unit was one of many old buildings within the Village, an apartment complex off campus known for its neighborhood-wide holiday parties. The hosts usually alternated between club presidents, student body representatives, and someone from the ultimate frisbee team, and while the gatherings attracted more than enough people, they didn't promise the chaos of other college spaces. People weren't breaking floors like they did at the football parties, and the girls looked out for each other here, as opposed to the frat houses, where you risked your sanity and your safety.

The Village also didn't attract any cops until well after 2 am, and the laid-back environment was the only reason Baker had pried me away from the comfort of my own home tonight.

The pocket-sized extrovert examined the row of half-consumed alcohol bottles with a grimace. Sighing, she lifted a bottle of Smirnoff to her nose and sniffed its contents. "Cheap ass bastards..."