My grip tightens around the bottle in my hand and I quickly force the biggest grin that I can possibly manage upon my face. I spin around to Rachael. I’ll show Tiffani reckless. “Okay, let’s get drunk.”
“I know where Dean’s parents hide the good stuff,” she whispers. She grabs my wrist and yanks me out of Dean’s grip, and we sneak away from the game. We hover by the archway to the living room for a few seconds, and when everyone gets distracted by another mud-water shot that Meghan has just drunk, Rachael gives me a thumbs-up and we skip through the living room and into a small hallway, where the music sounds muffled and the air is cold.
“Are they here?” I ask.
“Who?”
“His parents.”
Rachael smiles and points to the roof. “Upstairs.”
There’s another door and she yanks it open, opening up a dark, cold room. It’s not until she pushes me down a step and my hand hits a car that I realize we’re standing in the garage.
“Where’s the light?” Rachael mutters as she fumbles around on the wall, searching for a switch, and when she finally finds it, she flicks it on.
I’m standing next to a black BMW, and I quickly take a step back from it, careful not to touch it again, and I glance around. There are stacks of cardboard boxes in each corner, but the walls are completely covered in red and white football merchandise. There are football jerseys in glass display frames, huge flags and banners that stretch from the top of the wall to the floor, a small shelf with gold helmets in cases and a couple footballs, and then a collection of photo frames.
“His dad’s a total 49ers fan,” Rachael muses as she dances toward the shelves on the far wall, which is lined with bottles of alcohol. I watch her for a second as she picks up a few of the bottles and examines them, nodding her head in approval. “I told you I knew where the good stuff is!”
Rachael’s still scanning the booze, so I move around the car and run my eyes over the photos on the wall. A smile plays at my lips as I recognize Dean, draped in a San Francisco 49ers jersey and a red cap on his head, a few years younger than he is now. A man stands by his side, equally as dressed up for the game as Dean, and one hand rests on Dean’s shoulder while the other holds a hot dog. It must be his dad, and they’re standing outside the entrance to Levi’s Stadium. There are a lot of pictures like this, of Dean and his dad. It’s like every time they attended a 49ers game, they documented the moment.
One photo stands out. Instead of there being just two people in it, there are four. Dean and his dad are in their permanent pose, but on one side of them there’s a boy standing next to Dean, both of them around the age of twelve. Dean’s friend is dark-haired and green-eyed.
“We’re going to drink this tequila, and we’re going to drink it straight, like total badasses, without the salt or the lime,” Rachael states solemnly, her chin raised, bottle of Cazadores in hand as she twirls over to me.
I throw a skeptical glance down to the bottle before I swallow and point to the photo. “Is that Tyler?”
For a second, her eyes widen and then narrow into slits as she leans toward the photograph to get a better look. “Jesus Christ, he looks like a fetus!”
I stare at him again, the Tyler in the picture. The jersey on his back matches Dean’s, but his expression doesn’t. Dean’s smiling wide, Tyler’s frowning. In fact, he’s not even looking at the camera. He’s looking off to the side, his eyes heavy and his attitude far from what you would expect of a kid attending a 49ers game. Even his body is slightly angled to the side, despite the fact that Dean’s arm is thrown over his shoulders. Maybe Tyler just hates the 49ers. Maybe he’s a Chargers fan.
On the other side of the photograph, there’s another man standing next to Dean’s dad. His hair is black, his back is to the camera, and he’s pointing to the name on the back of the red jersey he’s wearing. It’s personalized. It says GRAYSON.
Something flutters in my stomach. I move back from the photo and my eyebrows knit together, my lips parted. Tyler’s dad. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him, or at least some of him. I have an overwhelming need to see his face.
I turn back to Rachael. “Is that his dad?”
“Dean’s?” She glances up from beneath her eyelashes while she flicks off the cap of the tequila. “Yeah.”
“No,” I say. “Tyler’s dad. Is that him?”
Rachael fully looks up now. She stares at me and then shifts her eyes to the photograph again. “Yeah,” she says again with a shrug. “The older Tyler gets, the more I think they look identical. At least from what I remember. His dad is probably super old with a beard by now. Do they let people shave in jail?”
“I don’t know,” I say, but my attention has turned back to the picture. There’s something unsettling about it. Dean and his dad look so happy, so thrilled to be at the 49ers game, beaming proudly next to each other. Yet next to them, it’s quite the opposite. Tyler and his dad are standing at opposite ends of the photograph, and Tyler just looks lifeless, with his heavy eyes and slumped shoulders. It makes me wonder what the circumstances were and why he wasn’t as happy and thrilled as Dean was to be at that game. “What is it with Tyler and his dad? I just know that there’s something.”
Rachael shakes her head and presses a finger to her lips as though to silence herself. “I don’t know. We have this unspoken rule in the group. We don’t talk about Tyler’s dad unless we have a death wish, and we don’t talk about STDs in front of Meghan, because her biggest fear in life is waking up with chlamydia.”
I ignore this unspoken rule and press the matter. “What if he was adopted?”
“Adopted?” Rachael considers the possibility for a moment as she stares at the photo again. She shakes her head. “Nope, he’s definitely his dad’s kid. Too similar not to be. Now, c’mon,” she says. “We need to hurry up! We’re gonna fall behind.”
I frown and look away from the photograph. She’s waving around the bottle that’s in her hand. “Okay, okay, I’m ready.”
A huge grin forms on her lips and she takes a deep breath. “It’s going to taste like you’re on fire, but it’ll get us drunk in no time, so grow some lady balls and suck it up.”
“God,” I say, but I clench my fists by my side and squeeze my eyes shut, mentally preparing myself. The last time I drank tequila I made a beeline for the sink. And that was with the salt and the lime. “I’m ready.”
Rachael gives me a nod before she presses the bottle to her lips and takes a quick shot. She immediately doubles over and presses a hand to her mouth, her arm extending as she shoves the bottle into my hand. “Oh my God,” she gasps, her face scrunching up as she shakes her head, as though it’ll get rid of the taste.
I almost chicken out then. What’s the point of putting myself through the torture of tequila? I stare doubtfully at the bottle while Rachael heaves next to the car, waving her hands erratically in front of her mouth, and it makes me question what I’m doing. But then I remember what Tiffani said on Thursday at the mall, about her not having to worry about me getting drunk, about me not being reckless.
My grip tightens around the bottle of Cazadores, and I tilt it to my lips, throwing my head back and pouring as much of the tequila into my mouth as I possibly can. And all at once, my mouth feels like it’s on fire, burning from the bitterness. Tequila looks like urine and tastes like gasoline.
I almost drop the bottle as I quickly rush for a swig of my Twisted Tea, and suddenly it tastes like water in comparison, so I keep on drinking. And drinking and drinking until I’ve completely downed the entire remainder of the bottle. I collapse back against the wall, exhausted and out of breath, and I stand there breathing heavily for a few long seconds.
“Again,” Rachael says. She reaches for the bottle of tequila and yanks it from my hand, repeating the pattern of tilt-swig-die once more.
I manage to follow the cycle, and we pass the bottle back and forth to one another until we get to our fourth round and I simply can’t do it anym
ore. The second the tequila hits my tongue I splutter it everywhere, unable to force it down my throat. It goes all over the side of the BMW, the tequila running down the side of driver’s door. I throw Rachael a shocked glance.
“Eden!” she screams, but bursts into laughter immediately after and doesn’t stop for another three minutes.
I’m horrified. Dean will hate me, his parents will sue, and I’ll end up in juvenile hall for criminal damage. “Why is there a car in here?” I yell in exasperation, and I feel my cheeks grow red.
“It’s a garage!”
“I thought this was the basement!” I scream back at her in between a fit of laughter, and I find my footing becoming unstable and my body swaying into the walls, and the only thing that I can think is this: Tequila is a bitch.
I know Rachael is a lightweight, I just didn’t figure that I’d be equally as intolerant of alcohol as she is. Skipping dinner probably wasn’t the best idea, and now that stupid tequila rhyme is starting to make sense. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.
When I glance down, the floor is exactly where Rachael is. She’s sprawled out on the concrete, giggling and not even bothering to push herself up. She’s happy just lying there looking like a dead seal.
“We need to keep going!” I say as I reach down for her arm and try my hardest to yank her up and onto her feet, but I only lose my balance and topple on top of her, probably crushing her spine.
“Yes, yes! Keep going!” Rachael shouts through hysterical laughter as I roll off her.
“What’s next on the agenda, Rachy baby?” I snort. Everything seems so hilarious, so carefree, so reckless. I can’t help myself. I’m lying on my back now by Rachael’s side, staring at the white ceiling of the garage, and it’s only just occurred to me that the walls are all painted. “This garage is so beautiful.”
Rachael’s still laughing, so hard that she’s not even making a sound anymore. Her lips are parted and her eyes are squeezed shut and the only thing I can hear is the sound of her choking on the air. “What is wrong with us?”
I push myself up onto my knees and stare at her, forcing my lips into a straight line. Fifteen minutes of tequila shots and the pair of us are totally buzzed. Remarkable. “We need to keep going! Drink as much as we can, remember?”
Rachael nods with enthusiasm and struggles to get to her feet, gripping the wing mirror of the BMW for support. If I were sober I’d be worried about damaging the car, but I’m not sober, so I somehow couldn’t care less.
“Jägermeister!” Rachael cheers. She grabs the dark bottle from among the collection on the shelves and turns back to me. Grinning, she holds the bottle up in the air and toasts, “To alcohol poisoning!”
Another fifteen minutes and two deadly shots later, I’m wondering why I was stupid enough to drink so much in such a short time frame. It’s the type of thing your parents and teachers warn you about, the type of thing that they tell you will kill you. But none of that matters. No one ever cares about the consequences, because in the moments between taking a drink and the effects hitting you, everything always seems like the best idea in the world. This explains why Rachael is on the hood of the car, using the Cazadores bottle as a microphone as she switches between performing the national anthem and stripteasing her way onto the roof.
“Eden, you are hilarious to get drunk with,” she announces with a bow after her slightly warped rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” She’s standing in her maxi skirt and her bra, having tossed her tube top to the ground.
The muffled music from inside the house grows louder all of a sudden, and when I glance away from Rachael’s performance for a second, I notice it’s because the door to the pantry has opened. Dean’s standing there with his arms folded across his chest. Both Rachael and I stop laughing, freezing in position, sheepish smirks on our faces.
“Rachael,” Dean says slowly, “please get off the car.”
Rachael bites her lip to stop from laughing as she sits down and attempts to slide off the roof of the vehicle, but she promptly falls off the side and hits the ground with a thud. The bottle of Cazadores smashes into a million pieces. I do the honor of laughing on her behalf as she groans through a series of giggles.
“Damn, Rachael,” Dean mutters. “Watch the glass.” He looks stone-cold sober now in comparison with us. He steps into the garage and leans down to pull Rachael up, grimacing in disgust at the state she’s in, and once he’s steadied her, he searches for her top on the floor. “We’re ready to go,” he says, but I can tell he’s annoyed at us. While I’m still laughing in the corner, he pulls Rachael’s top over her head and fixes her with a stern glare. “How much did you drink?”
Rachael doesn’t answer his question, only glances over her shoulder and motions for me to come over. I awkwardly place the bottle of Jägermeister down on the floor and shuffle around the car, my eyes never meeting Dean’s. He heaves a sigh and directs us back into the pantry and through into the living room, where Jake is holding open the front door.
“What the hell have you two been doing?” Jake asks. Rachael and I exchange a glance and laugh once more, because for some reason we just can’t seem to stop.
Dean turns off the music and calls upstairs to his parents that we’re leaving while I follow Rachael to the minivan outside. I vaguely hear Meghan tell me that Dean’s older cousin doesn’t mind chauffeuring us around despite the fact that there aren’t even enough seats for us all. Nonetheless, we pile in (quite literally—Rachael ends up having to sit on my lap), and Dean and Jake follow behind us, and soon there are nine of us crammed into the vehicle. I’m too buzzed to even care that Tyler and Tiffani are in the very backseat, her body swung over his and her hands wrapped around his neck. She’s laughing over the thumping music that’s playing, but Tyler’s not paying attention to her. His face is angled to the side as he stares out the window, and for some reason, when I steal a glance over my shoulder, he looks the soberest of us all. Immediately, he senses my stare and his eyes lock with mine.
I feel on top of the world, so all I can do is pull a giddy smile at him. My head isn’t quite balancing on my shoulders, and he notices this, because he narrows his eyes into either a disapproving or a concerned look. I can’t tell which, and I don’t get much time to figure it out, because he returns to staring out the window.
And so the rest of us spend the journey cracking jokes while we laugh and laugh and laugh, and it makes me feel better knowing everyone is just as tipsy as Rachael and I are. Actually, we’re not even tipsy. We’re drunk, and it feels good.
Chapter 27
The beach party is apparently a huge deal. Half of the beach, the one on the right of the pier, is sectioned off for the event, with roads closed and security guards patrolling the area. When we all tumble out of the minivan in the pier parking lot, I’m consumed by the noise of music and voices, and the atmosphere feels electric. I squint at the beach in front of us, and I notice a stage set up right bang in the middle of the sand, with huge black speakers attached, and on it, there’s a DJ entertaining the crowd.
“If any of you morons get us kicked out, I’ll personally kick your ass,” Jake threatens. He glances around us all, fixing us with a warning glare. “Unless you’re a girl. If you’re a girl, you’ll get the silent treatment.”
And with that, we all head for the sand, our heads hanging down slightly as we pass some security guards. It makes me wonder if I look as drunk as I feel. I really hope not. I’ll be kicked out within five minutes if I do, but thankfully we stagger onto the sand and blend in with the crowd of people around us. I expect the nine of us to stick together as a group, but we don’t. The guys nod us good-bye for now and head off in one direction, and I’m surprised Tyler heads off without Tiffani.
“We should totally skinny-dip!” Rachael suggests, her voice loud over the music. She catches the attention of some men around us, and they give her a quick nod of encouragement.
“We should totally not skinny-dip,” T
iffani remarks. She shoots the guys a death glare and pushes us farther into the crowd, and I’m so drunk that I almost twist my ankle just trying to walk.
Sand finds its way into my Converse and it is the most uncomfortable feeling in the entire world, so I simply kick off my shoes and bend down to pick them up, dangling them from my hands by the laces. I nod my head in sync with the beats of the music and am shoved from side to side by the people surrounding us. They’re all clearly adults and of age, but I don’t care.
“Jared and his friends are here!” Meghan screams at us over the noise, spinning around with a panicked expression. She touches her hair. “How do I look?”
“Like you’re looking for trouble!” Rachael yells, which is true.
“I’ll take it,” Meg says, and then she blows us a kiss and worms her way through the crowd. I doubt she’ll be coming back to join us anytime soon.
I’m now waving my shoes in the air and receiving glares from the people by my side, mostly because I keep almost whacking them in the face, but I feel too free and too on top of the world to apologize. Miraculously, I find myself dancing: wild and crazed dancing, but still dancing, which is rare for me. The DJ on the stage is playing house music and everyone has a hand bobbing in the air and my head feels fuzzy and even the ocean is starting to roll to one side.
I’m enjoying myself, jumping on the sand and waving my shoes in the air, when Tiffani grabs my and Rachael’s arms and draws us toward her. She doesn’t look to be having as much fun as we are, and I can’t tell if it’s because she didn’t drink as much or if it’s because she thinks the event sucks.
“I’m gonna go find Tyler,” she says loudly, and when she takes a step back, I can just about make out that she looks pissed off.