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Eighteen-year-old hockey prodigy Elliot Wexler has three goals for senior year. One: somehow graduate with a 3.5 GPA. Two: hide his bipolar disorder from his peers. And three: make it in...
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IT'S DARK OUTSIDE, and Elliot still isn't home from work. Snowflakes drift over the backyard, and the kitchen lights create a warm glow on the granite countertops. I sit at the island and shred a piece of paper towel until it creates a messy pile shaped like a snowflake.
I've been alone for over eight hours, and for the most part, I didn't know what to do with myself. I watched TV, attempted to play video games, showered. Mostly, I laid in his bed, submerged in the smell of his linen, interlaced with the fabric of his duvet like I was part of it. I thought about Elliot, if he really likes me, about his life at work and school and the people he knows. Other times, I allowed more personal thoughts to enter my head, because...
Where else?
Hormones are stupid. I'm pissed at him for the whole Katie thing, but thinking about him like that still makes me feel hot inside, like I'm sinking into an abyss where I lose all my sensibility.
Stupid.
The front door clicks. I spin on the stool and chew my lip until Elliot enters the kitchen wearing his FarmCo apron.
"You look like a dork," I say. He just laughs. "How was work?"
"It was fine. Katie called in sick, thank God..." He sets his keys on the counter. "Did you have a good day?"
"It was fine. I tried to play your Playstation, but I suck."
"We can play later, if you want."
"Okay."
Elliot opens the cupboard beneath the sink. "I'm not allowed to drink anymore, so my parents don't keep booze in the house. But when my dad cleared out his liquor cabinet, I stole this." He sets a massive bottle of Sailor Jerry's on the counter. "Been hiding it in plain sight for a while."
"Oh, wow. Okay."
He takes two glasses out, then some eggnog from the fridge.
"So, wait," I begin. "You were allowed to drink before?"
"Yep."
"What happened?"
Elliot adds the eggnog, then the rum. The yellow swallows the amber and creates a vortex as the two liquids combine. "It's just, you know. Underage. And stuff."
"You'd think they'd let you drink when you got older, not when you were younger..." Suspicious; he's hiding something. He tosses back the cup and chugs nearly half. I gag just thinking about drinking that much rumnog in one go. "Yikes, chill," I say.
When he puts the cup down, he has an eggnog mustache. It's hard to keep myself from smiling, even though I'm supposed to be mad at him. He looks like he was bopped on the head with a hammer. I know he's getting wasted to make this conversation easier. Maybe it's not such a bad thing. Something about drunk words being sober thoughts echoes in my mind, so I sip from my cup and cringe at the thick, nasty taste.
