Читать книгу Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride - Brian Sweany - Страница 28

Chapter twenty

Prep beat the Ridge tonight in football 35–0, so Hatch and I have decided to get shitfaced. Truth is, we’d be getting shitfaced even if the Ridge had won 35–0—I’m a wrestler and Hatch is a golfer, so it’s not like we really care—but a belligerent drinking binge is always preferable to a melancholy one.

We get to the party at Claire’s house just past ten o’clock. The beer and the shots are flowing. I don’t see Claire or Beth. Hatch heads straight to the bar.

“Undefeated against Prep for three years,” I say. “We had never lost to those fuckers before tonight.”

Hatch pats me on the back. “I know, Fitzy. It fucking sucks, man.”

Our drink of choice tonight is “triple shots.” Hatch lines them up on the bar: a shot of beer, a shot of whiskey, and a shot of cough syrup, the last of which I’ve hit more than a few times since the Great Black Butt Incident.

Hatch pours a second round of triple shots, which we down in short order. The music is loud, but not loud enough to mask an unmistakable background sound.

Knock, knock, knock.

I turn my head. “You hear that?”

Hatch cocks one ear higher than the other. “Hear what?”

Knock, knock, knock.

“That!” I point to the ceiling and turn my ear to the offending noise. “Somebody’s knocking pretty fucking hard on both the front and back doors.”

Claire comes running into the room. “Cops!”

A laid-back affair turned frantic. Teenagers scurry around like carpenter ants just after you stepped on their hill.

The Empire Ridge Police Department moves us into the family room. Hatch sits in front of the fireplace by himself, sobbing and inconsolable. Off the top of his head, he invents a touching story that incorporates “breaking his dad’s heart” and “Butler University pulling his football scholarship.” Neither of these things are true, given that Hatch’s dad has never cared for him, he’s going to Indiana University with me, and I doubt Butler is clamoring for the services of a golfer with a fourteen handicap and the arm strength of Karen Carpenter.

The cop motions to Hatch. “Mr. Hatcher, please blow into this.” The cop holds in his hand a breathalyzer, a black remote control-like device tipped with a disposable plastic mouthpiece.

The cop’s eyes narrow. He grinds his teeth, looking at Hatch. “Again, please.”

Hatch blows again.

The cop stands back, eyes still narrowed. “I got a negative here.”

According to the Empire Ridge Police Department’s breathalyzer, after no less than six shots in the last ten minutes, Elias Hatcher has not consumed a drop of alcohol.

“Negative?” My best friend screams and hugs one of the cops. He leaves the house without so much as a passing glance or cursory “hang in there” to anybody in the room.

Beep.

“Son.” The policewoman pulls the breathalyzer out of my mouth. “Step over here please.”

They arrest me and Claire. We’re sitting together in the back of a police car. She appears to be sucking on something.

“Claire, what the fuck is in your mouth?”

“Pennies.”

“You know that doesn’t work, right? I suppose you gargled with hand soap before you left the house, too?”

Claire blows me a kiss. I catch a perfumed whiff. “Dish soap, actually,” she says.

“Jesus,” I say.

“You need to relax, Henry David.” She winks at me, unfazed by all of this, her green, saucer-like eyes accentuated by the strong jawline and thin neck of her mother. Every guy has his one Hottest Girl I Never Tried to Sleep With, and Claire Sullivan has been my undisputed titleholder for the three years I’ve known her. She’s that one girl all your girlfriends hate because she deems it her prerogative to flirt with you in front of them. That one girl who makes you feel small without even trying and makes you love every second of your unworthiness.

Handcuffs are where it begins and ends for us. No fingerprints. Nothing. We’re escorted into a room where they administer a more accurate breathalyzer test. I blow into a long, clear tube that ends in a square machine resembling an electronic produce scale.

The police officer looks unconvinced. “Point-zero-two.”

He might be unconvinced, but I’m downright disappointed. “Point-oh-two? The least I could’ve done is make this arrest worthwhile.”

I laugh. The cop doesn’t.

Claire takes her turn, her breath reeking of dish soap and Abraham Lincoln.

“Point-one-eight,” the cop says. Even he seems impressed, and Claire basks in the notoriety.