Swell by Julie Rieman Duck Page B

putting my hands back under his shirt, but he brushed them away and stood up.
    “Let’s go,” he said, taking his keys and heading out the door like he always seemed to do. I remained on the couch, stunned. He didn’t so much as come back in to see why I hadn’t come out. After a minute, I threw my hands in the air and followed. He was in the car, flipping through CDs as if it was any other day and he was simply waiting for me.
    The ride back to my house was deathly silent. My fingernails dug into my palms as I went over what I did wrong. Then I thought about how I needed just one more beer, and scratched harder into my flesh because I knew there was nothing to drink once I got home.
    Christian pulled into the driveway and sat there, hand draped over the steering wheel as I looked ahead, waiting for him to say something… anything.
    “I’ll call you later, okay?” I said, breaking the ice.
    “Sure, call me later.” He nodded.
    When it was obvious that he wasn’t going to kiss me, I got out of the car, and he immediately backed away. I waved to him, but he ignored the gesture and continued looking straight ahead, driving away like a bullet train.
    I tore my room apart looking for something. I’d had a few airline nips of whiskey that Allison had given me, but they were empty. I placed them in my pocket and headed to the trashcans, stopping at the fridge on the way to see what I could pilfer from there. Just a little wine, not enough for me to have and not be detected by the parental police. At the trashcans, I sank to the ground and cried.
    “Of all days, when I need it most,” I muttered.
    Not one to wallow in my slop, I gave Allison a call to see if she wanted to hang out. It wasn’t her I wanted, but her easy access to booze.
    “Will’s on vacation, so no brewsky. We can go to the mall or something else instead,” she said without a care. In this way she was like Jenna, not feeling the sense of security I did in knowing a drink was stashed somewhere — my liquid safety net. She couldn’t appreciate the instant calm a tiny swig brought me or the pounding headache its denial caused.
    “Aw, that’s okay. Just thought a little partying would be fun. I should probably study instead.” My excuse, though poor, was necessary. I didn’t want to cruise the mall, or hang out with someone I otherwise detested were it not for her beer connection.
    My need did not go away, however. I was on a mission, and it was time to pimp.
    Tony’s was the closest place that I could walk to. I only had a few dollars, enough to get a tall can of malt liquor. Buzz-wise, it was the equivalent of two beers. With more bang for the buck, it would be my choice.
    The first guy I approached was a contractor type, about my dad’s age, hopping out of his muddy stakebed truck. I could smell the day on him.
    “I don’t buy for kids,” he said in a gruff voice, walking into the store. The Mexicans snickered at me, the poor white girl who didn’t score.
    The next guy was younger. A bit greasy and tall, wearing a black Ramones t-shirt. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. He looked like a tweaker.
    “Can you buy me a tall can?” He looked at the dollar bills crumpled in my hand.
    “What do I get out of it?” My paltry sum wasn’t enough to convince him to buy one stupid beer for me.
    “Look, just one tall can and you can keep the change.”
    “No.” He waited. My mind figured that he was probably an okay person, even if he was a bit strange and pale. There were no track marks on his arms, and he could have been a rock star for all I knew.
    “Get me a beer and we can drink it together,” I said, shocked at my suggestion. He looked me up and down, considering the proposition for a moment.
    “How old are you?”
    “Eighteen.”
    “Okay.” He took my money and went into the store. Now the Mexicans looked curious, wondering if I’d really go off with the guy. I thought twice about it, too, but he already had my money and I