“Thanks, Mom.” But as I head down the hall, I’m thinking spaghetti or any kind of food sounds gross right now. In fact, my stomach is a mess. I’m not sure if it’s the result of alcohol or all the stress I felt while driving home. I make a stop in the bathroom across from my bedroom while telling myself that I don’t want to keep drinking like that. It’s stupid and risky and makes me sick. Yet even as I say these things, I’m not sure that I’m really listening. I have a feeling that I’m going to hurl, and worried that Mom will hear and come rushing in here, I lock the door and turn the shower on, hoping the sound of water will disguise the noise.
I take in some shaky breaths and try to steady myself as I sit on the edge of the bathtub. I wrap my arms around my sides and wish that I hadn’t drunk so much. I had really intended to just have one drink. But then Claire kept playing bartender and pool boy and, well, I’m not sure how many I finally had. Maybe I thought the fruit juice might’ve helped. But suddenly the mere thought of fruit juice is totally disgusting. I feel hot and then cold and then hot again. And the next thing I know, I am hugging the toilet and throwing up like my guts are trying to come out. Or maybe it’s my brain that I’m barfing out—I’m not sure. But by the time I’m finished, I feel as wrung out as my hoodie sweatshirt, and I am crying too. I know this is a miserable way to live, and I know I’ve blown it, but even so, I’m not sure that I’m ready to end this thing. What on earth is wrong with me?
Since the water is still running in the shower and I can tell that I’m reeking of chlorine and who knows what else, I decide I might as well hop in. I guess I’m hoping I can wash away all the crud that seems to be clinging to me right now. I turn the water on extra hot, thinking maybe I can burn the badness out of me with some kind of pseudoholy fire. And then I just stand there as it runs and runs. I stand there so long that the water eventually gets cool, and I quickly turn it off. My dad hates it when anyone uses up all the hot water. He says it’s not only wasteful but also bad for our old water heater. Well, I hope I haven’t done any permanent damage.
I get out of the shower and step into a cloud of white mist. It’s like the whole bathroom is underwater now, and it’s so blurry that I wonder if I may still be under the effect of alcohol, like maybe I’ll see a pink elephant trotting by next. But then I tell myself that most of the alcohol has probably been flushed down the toilet. I turn on the fan and dry myself off, rubbing and rubbing as if I can rub my mistakes away.
I’m fairly sure my parents have left the house by now, but I just barely open the door and listen to be sure. The house is silent and so I think the coast is probably clear. With the towel wrapped around me, I dash to my bedroom and close the door. When I see myself in the full-length mirror, I am shocked. It’s like I’m not even me. At first I am horrified that I can look so awful, but then it’s like I’m fascinated too.
My skin is red and puffy-looking. I’m sure this has as much to do with my scalding hot shower as the alcohol, but it definitely is not attractive. My face is also red and puffy, and my eyes (usually my best asset) are bloodshot and watery. Not only that but I have these odd little spots around my eyes and I’m not even sure what that is about. All I know is that I look extremely ugly—frighteningly ugly. And so I turn off the light, pull on a T-shirt and boxers, and climb into bed. I have no idea what I’ll look (or feel) like in the morning, but I really wish I could sleep for about a week. I wonder if I can pass myself off as sick tomorrow. Maybe I really am sick.
I tell myself to pray—to confess my sins and ask forgiveness—but I am unable to do this. I guess I’ve always been a little on the stubborn side. My dad says it’s a good thing when your stubbornness helps you to remain true to God. But if it goes the other way, well, you better watch out.
I don’t know how long I’m asleep, but the sound of something ringing wakes me up and I groggily reach for my cell phone. It’s like I don’t know exactly where I am or how I got here. My heart is pounding like it wants out of my chest as I answer the phone and realize it’s Simi.
“What is going on with you?” she demands in an angry sounding voice. “I tried to reach you on your cell earlier today and you didn’t answer. And I’ve tried your house all night, but no one seemed to be home. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say as I sit up and rub my aching head. “I was asleep.”
“Asleep or passed out?”
“Real funny.”
“Come on, Amber, I’m not stupid. Both you and Claire reeked of alcohol. What had you been doing? Bar hopping?”
“Yeah, you bet. Like there are so many bars that let eighteen-year-olds come inside and drink.”
“Whatever. But seriously, Amber, what are you thinking? Are you really becoming an alcoholic? It’s like you’re changing almost overnight. I’ve heard it’s like that with alcoholics—like they take one drink and then it’s all over.”
“Get real, Simi. I’m not an alcoholic.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, tell me, how much did you drink today?”
“I don’t know.”
“Right.”
Her voice is so full of judgment and condemnation that I’m about ready to hang up.
“And how much did you drink last night?”
“None of your business.”
“And the night before?”
“Simi!” I’m really getting irritated now.
“You go to a drinking party on Friday, then you skip out on youth group to go drinking again on Saturday, and then I see you at the mall on Sunday—right after church—and you and your new buddy are plastered.”
“We were not plastered.”
“Whatever.”
“And this isn’t any of your business anyway. You’re just like those Pharisees who were always picking on Jesus. They said he was a glutton and a drunkard.”
“This isn’t anything like that, Amber.”
“How would you know?”
There’s a pause, and her voice softens just slightly. “Because I care about you, and I’m worried. Graduation is so close, and you’re up for that scholarship and—”
“The scholarship is in the bag.”
“But I don’t like what you’re doing to yourself, Amber, and I think you should—”
“Look, Simi, I know you don’t understand this, but I’m only hanging with Claire to help her. She’s really having some problems, and I think she’s starting to trust me. I’m hoping that—”
“She just wants a new drinking buddy,” says Simi in that I-know-everything voice.
“That’s not true.”
“Oh, yeah? Why do you think all her friends have dumped her? They’re fed up, Amber. She’s a mess, and everyone knows it.”
“You don’t know her, Simi. And you have no right to judge her like that.”
“Hey, I’m just calling a spade a spade.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Maybe you should figure it out.”
I sigh. “Simi, I don’t want to fight with you. You’re my best friend, and I kind of need a friend right now.”
“I’m trying to be a good friend,” she says in a sincere voice. “I just don’t know how to help you.”
“Maybe you can help by believing in me—by being a good listener, by not being so critical of Claire and making such outrageous accusations. She’s really struggling, you know.”
Simi is quiet for a second. “Okay, okay—you’re probably right. The truth is, I might just be jealous. But even so, I don’t think it’s right for you to drink with her.”
“I know, I know. And I know you’re right about that too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I can admit I let it go too far, but it’s hard spending time with someone and getting them to trust you. It just gets kind of confusing.” Okay, even as I say this, I can smell the insincerity of it. It’s like I know that I’m just trying to make Simi believe in me. Maybe I’m afraid she’ll blow my cover to t
he youth-group kids and that my parents will find out, but it’s like I suddenly need Simi to trust me again.
“So you’re really not going over the deep end in this drinking and partying thing?”
“No. I’m just trying to be a light in the darkness.”
Then there’s a long pause. “Well, I guess I should try to do that too. I’ll try to be nicer to Claire,” she says, “and kids like her.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah, I guess I was being too judgmental with you. I just naturally assumed the worst, Amber. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, it’s understandable. And I forgive you.” Okay, I almost choke on that. I mean, how ironic it is that I’m sitting here saying I forgive her, when I’m the one who’s screwing up. I mean, how twisted is that? Really, I am pathetic.
So we talk some more, and she seems totally reassured and okay about me now, and that makes me feel more guilty than ever. Like, how am I going to live this thing down? But after I hang up the phone, I tell myself that things are going to change. I simply experienced a crazy three-day drinking binge, but it’s finished and done now. This will be the end of it.
But even as I tell myself this, I’m not entirely sure I believe it. As a matter of fact, I think I’m turning into a big fat liar!
seven
TO MY SURPRISE I WAKE UP VERY EARLY. THE SUN’S NOT EVEN UP. AND I actually feel perfectly fine. What a relief. I’m thinking, Today is the first day of the rest of my life, just like what the dorky poster in my dad’s office says. And I’m going to straighten up and start acting the way that I know God wants me to act. I’m done with the crazy drinking thing—for sure.
So I get up and dig through my bag to find a couple of assignments that I neglected to do this weekend and flop down on my bed and get right to them. It’s weird how it feels kind of good to do schoolwork, like it makes my life seem normal again. And after I finish and go take a shower and get dressed, I actually start to wonder if the strange events of the last three days even happened. Then my cell phone rings.
“Hey, Amber,” says Claire. “How’s it going?”
“Okay.” I shove my notebook into my bag, which I hoist over my shoulder.
“Do you think I could bum a ride off you today? My mom left early for work, and, well, I’m not speaking to Michael at the moment.”
I consider this and then wonder if I should just blow her off. I mean, it seems like every time I’m with Claire, I start heading for trouble. And yet I know that’s not fair. It’s not like she forces me to drink. Besides, I rationalize, how can I possibly be enticed to imbibe at this hour of the morning? It just seems crazy.
“Sure,” I tell her. “I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
I grab an apple and head out the door, pausing to let Mom know that I’m giving Claire a ride to school.
“That’s nice,” she says with a smile.
Yeah, I’m thinking that is nice. And God certainly can’t have a problem with my helping out a friend. Even so, I feel a little uneasy.
“Get over yourself,” I say into the rearview mirror as I back out of the driveway.
Claire must’ve spotted my car from the house because she comes out as soon as I pull up. She has on these big dark glasses with plastic frames, and her face looks paler than usual. I wonder if she got sick last night too.
“How are you feeling?” I ask as she climbs in.
“Wiped out,” she says as she leans back and sighs deeply. “Sometimes I think this school year will never end.”
“Did you get sick last night?” I ask.
“Sick?” She turns and peers at me through her sunglasses. “What do you mean?”
“I mean from drinking too much.”
She just laughs. “Not hardly. Why? Did you?”
“Yeah.”
“No way!” She yells this out like it’s pretty funny that I’d get sick.
“Way!” I yell back.
“But you barely had anything to drink.”
I shrug. “To be honest, I lost count.”
“As I recall, you were the one who was all sobered up after falling into the pool.” This makes her laugh. “I can still see you standing there, dripping wet and looking like someone had pulled a fast one. Did your sweatshirt recover?”
I frown. “I’m not sure. I think it’s still in the backseat.”
She glances over her shoulder. “Yuck. That’s gonna smell if you don’t get it outta here.”
“So, seriously, you never got sick?”
“No. I just went to bed and fell asleep.”
“Man, I was hugging John for about an hour I think.”
“Hugging John?”
“You know, the toilet. He and I are on a first-name basis now.”
She’s laughing really hard now. “Hey, don’t feel bad. I’ve been there and done that.”
“But how can you drink as much as you do and not get sick?” I demand as I turn down the street to the high school.
“Guess my body’s used to it. No biggie.”
I consider this as we drive down the street in silence. Finally I say, “But it can’t be very good for you, can it?”
“It’s not as dangerous as drugs.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not as dangerous as BASE jumping either.”
“Why are you so grumpy this morning?” she demands as I pull into the student parking lot.
“I don’t know. I guess I’m just thinking I shouldn’t be drinking so much.”
“Well, then don’t.”
I nod as I turn into an available parking space. “Okay, I won’t.”
“But can we still be friends?” Her voice sounds small and far away, and suddenly I feel like I must’ve been a little harsh, like I’m blaming her for my own stupid choices.
“Of course we can be friends.”
She smiles. “Good, because I wanted to take you to lunch today.”
“You mean in the cafeteria?”
“No, silly. There’s a new deli on High Street. I want to go there.”
“But we have closed campus. The parking lot is locked.”
“The deli is only three blocks away. We’ll walk. Kids go off campus all the time, Amber. It’s no big deal. They just don’t like you driving cars around. Come on, are you in? It’s my treat.”
Being taken out to lunch does sound like a good deal. And besides, Claire seems to really need me as a friend, and, I assure myself, a lunch date at a public restaurant can’t possibly involve drinking—well, unless she’s got her flask on her. But I can’t imagine her being bold enough to bring it to school. She’d be in serious trouble if she got caught. “Okay,” I finally say as we cross the street in front of the school. “Lunch sounds great.”
“Cool. Meet me by the west door near the gym.” She pauses before we part ways. “Thanks for being such a good friend, Amber. I really appreciate it.”
I see Simi’s little orange Volkswagen Bug turn in to the parking lot now, and I wave. She waves back but looks a little curious when she notices I’m with Claire. Oh, well. I tell Claire I’ll see her later and then decide to wait in front of the school for Simi.
“How’s it going?” Simi asks as she joins me. “Have you saved her yet?”
Now, I find lame comments like this seriously irksome. “You know that it’s not up to us to save someone,” I say in irritation. “Only God can do that.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “I’m just jerking your chain. Like, what do you expect when you’re playing barroom evangelism?”
“Barroom evangelism?”
“That’s what Pastor Glen calls it, and he says it doesn’t work.” “How did he figure that out?”
“In college. He said he tried to witness to people in bars before, but it usually backfired on him.”
“Maybe he wasn’t doing it right.”
“The problem was, he ended up drinking too and ended up looking like a total fool—not that you’d know anything about that.”
We’re going into
the school now, and I really don’t want to continue this conversation. “Can we talk about something else?” I ask.
So Simi tells me about how Lena has taken over the bonus room above her parents’ garage. “I thought the place was just a nasty rat-trap,” says Simi, “but you should see how cool it looks now. Lena fixed it all up.”
I make the appropriate comments, and then the bell rings and we part ways. “See you at lunch,” she calls as she hurries toward the art department.
I never have a chance to say that I won’t see her at lunch, but maybe it doesn’t matter. She’d probably just worry anyway. And it’s not like we eat lunch together every day—okay, almost every day. But maybe it’s time for a change.
I go back and forth all morning. Sometimes I tell myself that I need to bail on the lunch thing with Claire, and other times I wonder why I’m so freaked about it—and everything else. Why can’t I just relax and lighten up? Sheesh, maybe I do need a drink.
Anyway, it’s finally lunchtime, and I’m walking by the gym when I hear Claire calling my name. I join her, and when no one’s looking, we duck out the side door and head across the soccer field toward the street. It’s one of the few parts of our school that still hasn’t been fenced in yet, although I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. Honestly, I think someday they’ll have electric fences and guard dogs. I’m not sure if it’ll be to keep kids in or out, but it’s not fun feeling like you’re penned up in a prison camp.
“This is great,” I admit to Claire as we walk like freed people, breathing the air and feeling the sunshine. “I should do this more often.”
“That’s what I’m telling you.” She points to other kids who have escaped the confines of school. “See, everyone does it.”
I don’t mention that it looks like some of them have gone out for a smoke or that I’m a little concerned about the shape of the cigarettes that some of them are smoking. It’s no secret that a lot of kids at our school smoke weed. I just don’t happen to know any of them personally. In most ways, I suppose I’ve led a pretty sheltered life. And this recent thing with drinking and partying is something of an eye-opener, although I don’t want to admit that. I want to be cool with all this. I mean, I’m eighteen—isn’t it time for me to grow up?
Burnt Orange Page 5
