Every Happy Family by Dede Crane

closer and he inhales the flowery scent of her shampoo.
    Quinn explains his anthropomorphic game and the whole room is suddenly listening and asking his opinion on their “building type.”
    â€œRitchie here’s a sprawling monster home in a gated community. With monster fuckin’ pool, hot tub, SUVs in the double garage. You,” he says pointing to Jehoy-something. “Serious ultramodern movie theatre or library. Lotsa glaaaass. And Rebecca here, sorry, Rebecca, is your third-world modular housing unit.” He has people laughing, exclaiming agreement, arguing for themselves.
    Quinn hums inside. He feels profoundly connected to these people, his fellow architectural students. In fact, he fuckin’ loves every person here and feels their love in return. He feels the love of the architects of this basement suite, of the people who made these clothes on his back, of the brewers of this rum and everyone behind the Coke feel-good empire. Making things is love he wants to tell this long-legged tragedy beside him. His parents made him. God, he loves them. He loves his macho brother, his frivolous sister. He loves his demented grandmother and his munchkin-sized aunt. He loves Lauren and knows she loves him back. She loves him.
    â€œWhat about the Quinn man here,” says Ritchie, “What’s he?”
    â€œJapanese hotels,” says Jehoy-something. “The beehive kind with those little sleeping holes.” He starts buzzing.
    â€œI’d have said energy-efficient townhouses,” says Vanessa. “But hell, after tonight, I realize I don’t know you at all.”
    Quinn leans over and tucks a tendril of hair behind her ear, thinking it’s very small for an ear. “If you’d like to get to know me, I’m all yours.”
    Her laugh is a trilling songbird. Whether that laughter is directed at him or with him, he suddenly understands, is completely up to him.
    â€œYou’re so pretty,” he says.
    â€œYou’re pretty drunk.”
    â€œYou’re fucked-up drunk,” comes Todd’s voice behind him.
    Quinn laughs. “My grandpa used to sneak me sips of his whiskey. Been drinking since I was five.”
    Someone lights up a joint. Quinn rarely smokes dope, and never socially, but after Vanessa takes a hit, so does he, holding it in like a pro.
    His last memory of the party is of Todd pushing a card into his hand, the fourth king?, of people cheering, squealing, him stepping up onto the coffee table and in a grand gesture hoisting over his head the Ring of Fire cup.

    â€¢â€¢â€¢

    After his breakfast of boiled egg, dry toast, two slices of orange and a dehydrating coffee – still no water – he’s cuffed before being taken outside the cellblock to make his one phone call. Then, so he can actually use the phone, one hand is released and, as if he’s some dangerous criminal, the other cuffed to a ring on the wall beside the phone.
    His sister, Pema, answers, rap music in the background.
    â€œHi Pema, can you put Mom on, please?” His headache has settled into an even throb, his stomach a nervous swirl of caffeine.
    â€œShe’s in bed.”
    â€œShe’s sleeping?” he asks, though can’t imagine it. She’s always up early.
    â€œDon’t think so. Where are you?”
    â€œJust put Mom on, please.”
    â€œOnly if you tell me where you are.”
    â€œPema.” He grinds his teeth, knows she won’t back down.
    â€œTell me where you are or I’ll hang up.”
    â€œI’m in jail for sexual assault.”
    Her laughter is so spontaneous, he laughs too. Yeah, it’s so impossible it’s funny. The music grows fainter as she walks the phone to another room and he scrambles to remember what the hell he did last night. He doesn’t want to lie to his mother.
    â€œHello?” His mother’s voice is at once a balm and a censure. He wants to stop there with her open