A Year of Winter

one

August 18th, 2012

  

"So, what do you think?"

I mused over Andrew's question in my mind for a moment, giving a great deal of thought into something that should've been an easy answer. I made sure my mind had completely absorbed it before I told him, though, just the way I always did when pressed with a question. After a moment of silence, I'd decided; and to prove my point, I scrunched my nose in disgust, crinkling my face in a look of dissatisfaction.

I shook my head, mortified. "I think it tastes like bitter dog shit," I told him, handing the beer back to him. The rancid taste of alcohol was still in my mouth, and I made a feeble attempt at expunging it by wiping my tongue off on the back of my sleeve, which, to no avail, didn't quite help.

And suddenly, at my expense, a whoop of laughter broke out between the observers around me, including Andrew, my supposed best friend. A collosal guy with the build of an SUV named Tyrone, who was too stupid to be in any of my classes seemed to be laughing the hardest, rocking back and forth, droplets of his own beer flying out of his bottle. "Looks like we've got our designated driver!" He said, patting me hard on the back with the force of a bus. I guessed it was true what they said about beer killing brain cells.

I choked on air for a moment, trying to get my breath back, only making the rest of the guys laugh harder. A blonde kid from Andrew's remedial English class named Nick who tried too hard to be Tyrone's "brotha-from-anotha-motha" turned his Ed Hardy hat backwards and smiled crookedly, revealing a silver tooth that I couldn't determine was just a result of poor dental care, or the result of poor parenting. "Bro, I've got a Capri Sun in the fridge if you can't handle it!"

I grimaced, annoyed by their unceasing torment. As much as I would've liked a Capri Sun in that moment, I simply scowled angrily at them all, wondering how long I'd be subjected to listening to them go on and on about how much of a loser I was. It wasn't like I needed them to tell me that-I'd spent seventeen [almost eighteen] years of my young life in front of a book and/or a video game console in a dimly lit room with my mother routinely bringing me up my meals of chicken nuggets and my Juicy Juice. And no matter how many times Andrew criticized me for it, it was a sacred ritual I did not intend on breaking.

"Oh, leave Henry alone," said quarterback Tony Dupree, his dark eyes glossy and bloodshot. He steadied himself by holding onto Tyrone's shoulder, an exchange I had to imagine happened a lot when you went to as many parties as he did. I wouldn't be wrong to assume that alcohol ran through his arms like blood. "I'm sure he'll drink plenty when his balls finally drop," he drawled in a way that made all his words seem like one big, messy sentence, which made the rest of the boys break out in another fit of surly laughter.

Nick laughed louder and slapped Tony a supportive high five in a way that said "hey! We both may be ass holes who'll never get into college, but at least we've got this boy of average intelligence to torment now! Hooray for the present!"

And while I supposed it was true what they said about not getting drunk so you can the one to tell all your friends the idiot things they did earlier, at that moment, I wasn't feeling too hot.

"This kid's a riot!" Said the last of my tormenters, who was a tall, awkward kid named Freddie. I didn't know why he was here anymore than I was. He was a history nerd in my AP US History course whom I was pretty positive could list every state's capital in a song he'd learned in fifth grade and still remembered. But I supposed he was one of those nerds that could get pretty hammered, because he was on his fourth beer of the night.

"I bet you he could have a fun time," Tony said with a wicked grin, implying something that I obviously didn't catch. He looked around to the other boys, who seemed to fully understand whatever he meant. He nodded, smirking with amusement, "...if he let himself."