HOW THEY FELL

FIRST

       I WAKE UP WITH DRUMS BEATING INSIDE MY SKULL and the sun beaming behind my eyelids and for a moment, everything is great and pleasant and just fine.

The sun overflows through the window shutters and spills in hazy lines on the wooden floor. The birds in the oak tree outside my window chirp and chitter and flock about. I'm laying on soft sheets and my pillow feels impossibly plush smashed beneath my cheek.

But then reality hits me like a punch to the jaw and I remember what day it is and I jolt upright.

And then immediately regret it afterwards, when The Hangover catches up to me and sinks its claws into my skull, forcing me to ask myself: Christ, why is there a fucking rock band inside my skull? and then suddenly the sunlight's all too bright and the birds are too loud and nothing is great or pleasant or just fine. I groan loudly.

A glance at my watch tells me it's almost twelve, and that's enough to jettison my ass off the bed and scramble for my clothes. Through the trademark hangover fog, I fumble with my pants, cursing under my breath.

Today's moving-in day at Brimble Academy. In other words, today is the day my pain-in-the-ass, moronic roommate takes up residence in my—sorry, our—dorm, again, ending my blissful three month streak of not having to see his hideous face. But more important than that, today is the day my parents are coming to see their son after blatantly ignoring him all summer. I button up my shirt in the mirror.

But that's fine, I get it—mom's announcing her campaign at the end of the summer, so that has everyone running around like headless chickens. Or at least, that's what my sister told me. I wouldn't know—I wasn't invited to the headless chicken party, but, like I said, that's just fine.

I mean, I spent the summer with James, in his family's villa in the South of France, legally drinking, so really, who got the better end of the deal?

Thinking about James trudges up memories of last night. My reflection winces. Camille and Sam had arrived early enough in the morning to witness me having the brilliant idea to take that yacht mother gave me as a sorry-not-sorry-we're-really-busy-right-now-can't-make-it birthday gift out for a spin.

And so, everything was going just fine—we were on deck, sunning like a crew of fat, lazy cats. I really think France upped my melanin tolerance, because I hadn't even burnt, yet, when Camille announces that she stole a bottle of vodka from her father's wine cabinet.

So really, it was her fault that I gleefully watched as we contaminated the orange juice with vodka, but whatever I wasn't going to actually drink it.

. . . Until James egged me into a drinking contest with one particularly well-aimed comment about that one night where we tried to sneak into this nightclub. I mean come on, I just had to after that. The dickface was practically begging to be reunited with his old friend: Shameful Defeat.

So we quickly lost track of time, drinking the sunlight away, and pretty soon it was dark out and the moon had stolen the sun's spot in the sky, and Sam—bless him—was the only one still sober enough to navigate us back to the docks.

We were about to call a cab, when the astonishingly wasted James Friar actually tipped over deck and fell straight into the water, his trajectory like a harpoon. A giant splash followed his truly stunning entrance, and the last thing I remember is laughing myself hoarse and having to sit down or risk pissing my pants.

I mean, look at me, I think it's pretty impressive I even managed to make it back to my dorm in one piece, after all that.

So now, I tighten the buckle on my belt and slip on my shoes and take one last look in the mirror and, Christ, I still look like death! so I put on a pair of sunglasses and, well, that's as good as it's going to get. And with that, I bravely head out the door and get ready to ride out into battle—sorry, I meant, meet my parents.