Chapter 11

* * * *

We stretched out on the floor to watch the

movie, our beers half-empty for most of the film. I only sipped at

mine, trying to keep enough in the bottle that Mikey wouldn’t think

it time for me to go down for more, but he made quite a show every

time he picked up his own beer and swished the last swig around in

the bottom. I was feeling the booze pretty heavily—I had drunk too

much too soon and probably couldn’t have stood without swaying if I

tried. So I concentrated on finishing the pizza and washed it down

with one of the water bottles Mikey had brought up with him. By the

time the movie ended and Mikey switched the disc out for its

sequel, my stomach was leaden, my brain fuzzy, and my eyelids

heavy. I curled my arms beneath my head and wondered vaguely if

maybe I shouldn’t head to the bathroom before falling asleep right

here on the floor. I could feel my heart pound in my dick where it

pressed against my body and though I wanted to relieve the ache, my

arms and legs refused to move.

Unfortunately, Mikey wasn’t as sleepy.

Nudging me in the kidney, he muttered, “Wake up. Movie’s starting.

You gonna finish that?”

I opened my eyes to see him pointing at my

half-empty beer bottle. I almost started to shake my head—let him

have it—when I realized then we’d be out of booze and he’d send me

downstairs. So with a conscious effort, I pushed away from the

floor and brought my legs up under me to sit Indian-style, reaching

for my beer before Mikey could take my silence as an answer. “I’m

almost done,” I told him, raising the bottle to my lips. The chill

had long since dispersed, leaving behind a tepid, almost flavorless

liquid that left a sour aftertaste in my mouth. I forced down

another swallow and shook my head. “Man, I’m beat.”

“You’re drunk,” Mikey said with a laugh.

“Lightweight! Not even two beers in and you’re about to fall

out.”

I gave him what I hoped was a sardonic stare,

but it only made him laugh harder. “And you want more to

drink?”

Mikey nodded as he munched on a leftover

slice of pizza. “Dude, one more wouldn’t hurt. You’ll sleep like

the dead. Is this the movie where she runs around in her underwear

trying to find that damn cat?”

I glanced at the television, eager to turn

the talk away from booze. “Is this two or three?” I had already

lost count.

“Three.” Mikey thumbed the remote to fast

forward through the slow opening credits.

“This is the prison planet one.” I took

another swig of my beer—it wasn’t as bad tasting this time, and I

gulped down more than I wanted. When I lowered the bottle, only the

smallest of swallows remained in the bottom. “She’s in her

underwear in the first movie.”

Mikey threw the remote down, angry. “Damn it!

I knew we should’ve started there.”

I didn’t have the energy to point out that

watching the second movie in the series had been hisidea.

Instead, I stared into the depths of my bottle and wondered if I

could beg off getting refills without looking like too big a wuss.

Over the sounds from the television, I strained to hear anything

from downstairs—earlier in the evening, loud shouts had erupted

whenever one of the guys won a round, followed by a chorus of

cursing from the others who had lost.

Now I could hear nothing. Was the poker game

over? Had the guys already gone home? I glanced at the display on

the DVD player but it just blinked at 12:00 because Mikey never

bothered to set it. “What time is it?”

Beside me, Mikey shrugged. “Time for more

beers. You going?”

I didn’t want to. “What about your dad’s

friends?”

At first I didn’t think Mikey would answer.

He stood, stretched, and flopped sideways onto his bed, the springs

creaking beneath his weight. Flicking up the bottom of his curtain,

he craned his neck to look out at the street below. “Two of the

cars are gone,” he said as he rolled onto his back, his attention

once again on the movie. I tried to remember how many cars I had

seen out there earlier and couldn’t recall. “I think the card

game’s over. No one will see you.”

“Your dad,” I argued. I hadn’t heard Mr.

Pierce’s heavy footsteps on the stairs, which meant he hadn’t gone

to bed.

But Mikey shrugged that off, too. “Probably

passed out on the couch in the den. You’ll be fine. Just go down,

grab two bottles, and run back up here. If he sees you, tell him

you’re getting something to drink. He doesn’t have to know

what.”

I still didn’t want to do it, but I couldn’t

see any flaws in Mikey’s logic or any reason why I couldn’t

do it without looking bad.