boston {h.s.}

onze.

"OKAY, SO, YOU flip the quarter," Bracken models, flipping the quarter off his thumb and watches as it lands on the flattened pizza box that sits in the midst of our makeshift circle. Rooney and Jack are sitting on the bed, Wheeler is sitting on the cooler that he dragged inside, Bracken brought in one of the camping chairs, leaving Harry and I sitting on the bench that they had dragged in front the porch.

It's dark outside now, cold. Inside the cabin, the small radiator is blowing warm air around us. Even just sitting in the close proximity to the first room in Jack's cabin is more than enough to keep us warm. Or maybe it's just the fact that I'm sitting right next to Harry.

When the boys got back from their hike, we light a fire and started grilling up a storm. Bracken sat over the grill, flipping hot dogs, hamburgers, and sausages galore. They were gratified and exhausted, fresh from the showers. I had spent the morning sitting on the porch, reading my books. I'd opted for a vacation, reading a book for pleasure instead of rereading the section from Romeo and Juliet for my class, and I also took a break from reading Gatsby, too. I prefer reading from my own copy. I even avoided the reading for my exclusively senior young-adult fiction class.

The boys pulled back in at about half past one. Four of them were sat in Rooney's car. He had driven them all to the mountain in one car. Only this time, there was another car following closely behind.

Predictably, the boys stopped in front of my cabin, the windows down. Bracken was hanging out of the car, calling dramatically to me, flirting in his easy way. For a moment, I even allowed myself to bat my eyelashes right back. Jack hit him and it stopped harshly, but they all seemed to be in good spirits following the hike. More than that, they seemed like they were ready to start drinking and I was all too eager to join them.

We grilled and ate, filling up happily for when the drinking began.

By the time that the sun went down, we were all intoxicated. We moved from around the fire into Jack's cabin, rowdier still. That's where we find ourselves now. The small shelving unit that is probably meant to be a makeshift indoor table is instead filled with all of the alcohol that we could manage to fit. Handles of vodka, gin, rum, and tequila line the walls; much more alcohol than the six of us could need. Mixers are sprawled out on the floor beneath and a stack of red solo cups has been torn and is exposed for each of us to grab at whim. Presently, everyone has a cup filled to the brim with whatever their drink of choice is.

My eyes tear down to the quarter and where it landed on the pizza box. As set up, we had each written our name in the singular blue sharpie that I had found in the bottom of my teacher bag that I had brought with me this weekend. No one else had thought to bring any sort of writing instrument. Each of our names is circled.

The quarter hadn't landed in or touching the circle with any of our names on it, and Bracken looks relieved for this. He takes the sharpie from me—I had been the last person to use it—and a smile comes on his face. "Since it landed on an area of the board where nothing is written, I can now take this sharpie," he holds it up as though to model, "and I can make my own circle. It can be as big or as small as I would like," as he is speaking he makes a circle that's approximately twice the size of the quarter. "Now, I get to write my own rule in it."

As Bracken writes his rule in, the rest of us watch with some sort of fascination. Lick Rooney's left nipple is written in a messy scrawl. "That's disgusting."

"I'm offended, princess."

"No way in hell would I ever lick your left nipple."

"Would you prefer I had said his right?" Bracken challenges, a wolfish smile on his features.