Sasha, Not Aleks

fourteen - face of an angel mouth of a sailor

CORALINE

"Okay, listen," Sasha holds out his hand, trying to stop me from talking, "it was classified as a soft drink until fucking 2011. Did you drink soda when you were a kid?"

I nod, lips around the end of my bottle, "but not in excess-"

"Well, me neither, I'm just saying that there's a reason Russians can dri-"

I cut him off, tapping my beer down on the table, "it's like the junior Olympics to regular Olympics pipeline."

"There, yeah," he smiles, setting his mouth on the top of the bottle, lips pressed to the cool glass, and knocks it back, taking in the dregs of the bottle, jawline popping as he swallows the last of his drink.

"I'd like to make an argument," I say as I watch the bands in his forearm go tense as he sets the bottle back down on the table. "Russian's can drink but you had to give it up when you moved here and so you started on the same playing field as I did. Except maybe I got a head start with the partying in college and late high school-"

"How on Earth did you get into Penn, by the way?"

"Not important," I shake my head, "so I'm saying that my whole blue collar thing and my rather fun time in college probably puts me at the same level as you."

"And I'm saying that I was probably born with a blood alcohol content," he smiles, shaking his head.

"I could, one hundred percent, out drink you."

He pulls his lips between his teeth but can't help the laugh that bubbles out of his throat, "Cora, Cora Cora Cora," he shakes his head, "okay, here's my credentials, I'm Russian, I was really big into fucking dirt biking in late high school and right out of it before switching to track racing. I'm literally an ex-professional motorcycle racer, that was a lot of partying, not to mention I could and did drink beer as a child. A literal child."

I laugh that rather impressive list off, both of us are a drink in already, which is probably not making this better, "okay, here you go, I was popular in high school and-"

"Okay, okay, that has to be a lie," he shakes his head in disbelief, low voice chastising me just a little, "there's no way you were popular in high school, went to fucking Penn and now work as a goddamn mechanic."

I lean back in my chair and gesture at my body, "keep looking, if you find me that perplexing."

"Don't fucking mind if I do," he chirps back. "Explain that first, I want to know that first."

I roll my eyes, "I was popular and I'm fucking smart as shit, what's hard to understand about that? I took AP Calculus as a fucking sophomore."

He sits back, running a hand through his short hair, "no way."

"Hell yeah, dude," I slide my empty bottle next to his, "I'm smart as shit. I got into Penn with that shit and my essay which was about growing up around cars and family loyalty. It was weird that they let me in but I was good enough to go there. Let me get back to how I can out drink you."

"Okay, go," he taps his long fingers against the table.

"I was popular in high school, got my first drinking experience before I left for college, in college I studied more than partied but when I did, I went all out. Then I came out and now work with nothing but blue collar men, statistically one of the groups that's riddled the most with alcoholism."

"I still think that I win," he settles back into his chair, "and you're ignoring that chefs and bar workers also have an incredibly high alcoholism rate."