“Maybe I should get a drink first,” I suggest, stalling for time.
If Booker notices, he doesn’t let on. He pushes the chair back from the table so I can stand up, his hands sliding over my hips as I leave his lap.
Laz is on the other side of the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his phone in hand. He watches as I open the refrigerator and search the shelves.
“You’re drinking?”
“I was thinking about it.”
I always thought I was too nervous before, but maybe that was Mitchell’s anxieties transferring to me. Since he didn’t want to go to parties, it seemed easier to tell myself I didn’t want to, either. But now that I’m here, I wonder what I’ve been missing out on. My mom would, of course, be furious if she knew. Especially after what she told me about Carlene. But I’m not Carlene, I’m Dove. And I know my sister drinks sometimes—I want to try it, too.
But I don’t know where to start. Light beer or dark? Or should I mix something like Laz and Booker are drinking, with soda and liquor?
“Am I going to have to take care of you the rest of the night?”
“I’m not going to get drunk. I just want a drink. One. Will you help me?”
Laz peels himself off the counter and sets about making me a drink, ice and all. When he’s done, he turns around to hand it to me and says, “Let me know if it’s too strong.”
And then he stops. Stares over my shoulder. I turn around, expecting to see Booker, but it’s not him. This guy is short and skinny and white.
He glances at me before his eyes rest on Laz again. “Playing bartender?”
“Just making weak drinks for newbies over here.” The corner of Laz’s mouth turns up in an almost imperceptible grin.
“Make me one?”
“Can’t promise it’ll be weak.”
I look back and forth between them, and it takes only a moment for me to understand that this is him. The guy Laz briefly mentioned and has been too shy to talk about ever since.
The color in his cheeks deepens. “Greg, this is my friend Dove,” he mumbles.
“His best friend,” I clarify.
“Your name is Dove?”
“Just like the bird.”
Greg smiles at me and I decide I like him right away. He has a nice smile, with a couple of crooked teeth on bottom and a dimple in one cheek. “Nice to meet you, Dove.”
“You too. Thanks for the drink, Laz,” I say, starting to walk back toward Booker.
“Is it too strong?”
I take a sip and I can’t even taste any alcohol. Just cola and ice. I shake my head and hand it back to him. “More, please.”
“Seriously?”
“I watched you make it,” I say. “You barely even put any liquor in there.”
“You don’t sound like a newbie to me,” Greg says, still smiling.
Laz gives me a warning look like You’d better not get too fucked up tonight, but he obliges me and splashes in a bit more of the alcohol. Rum, the bottle says.
I taste the drink again. The rum hits my tongue instantly, and I think it might actually be too strong now, but I try not to let him see this as I say, “Much better. Thanks, Lazarus.”
“Lazarus, huh?” Greg says, turning his grin on Laz now.
I scoot away before Laz can yell at me for using his full name.
Booker is sitting at the table in the same spot. He stands when he sees me. Takes my hand and says, “Come on.”
We move through the crowded rooms of the house, passing through the dining room and living room, where people are playing more games and dancing and generally acting like school is already out for them. I guess the parties at my school look like this—I wouldn’t know.
I feel safe with my hand tucked in Booker’s, but my heart pounds a bit faster as we walk. My hand holding the cup starts to sweat, mingling with the condensation, and I tighten my grip. We go up the staircase, carefully weaving through people lounging on the landing and two girls who are making out on the steps.
“I take it you’ve been here before,” I say when Booker heads straight down the hall and stops in front of a door.
“It’s my boy Jackson’s house.” He turns the handle. “I used to play football with him.”
The room is dark, but moonlight spills in freely through the windowpanes, the curtain panels pushed to the sides. It’s small: a little kid’s room with a toy chest in the corner, a twin bed, and a bureau on one end. Booker sits on the edge of the bed, his cup still in hand.
“Where is his family anyway?” I ask, standing by the still-open door. Stalling again.
“They went to see his grandma in Indiana, but he complained about needing to study so much, they let him stay.” He shakes his head. “Let me try to throw a party when my dad is out of town.…”
“Is he strict?”
“Not too much, but he keeps tabs. Him taking this graveyard shift was a big deal. He’s still worried—” Booker stops and looks at me. “Why are you standing all the way over there?”
I haven’t budged from the doorway. I open my mouth and close it. When I open it again, I say, “I can’t have sex with you tonight.”
He laughs that deep belly laugh of his that I love, though I don’t know how to feel about it right now. Is he laughing at me?
“Sorry,” he says when he sees my face. “I just like how serious you are. How you say whatever you’re feeling.”
“I’m not like that with everyone.” I’m not like that with most people. I do say whatever I’m thinking with Mimi and Laz, but definitely not my parents.
“I like that you’re that way with me. And we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Dove. We don’t have to do anything.… I just want to spend time with you.”
I take a long sip of my drink, shudder, and then take another one before I close the door and join Booker on the end of the bed. “I want that, too.”
“Good,” he says with a small smile.
“Can I ask you something?” My drink is strong enough that I feel it almost immediately, feel my body and mind relaxing bit by bit. The alcohol makes me hazy but brave.
Booker nods.
“What did you do to get in trouble?”
“Oh.” He swallows a long drink and looks down at the cup. “I was going to tell you, it just hasn’t seemed like a good time to bring it up.”
“Laz told me you went to juvie, but I don’t know what happened.”
Booker started to say something once—the second time we met up, when it was clear that we liked each other. We’d been hanging out with Laz, and we were finally alone for a few minutes. I could see how difficult it was for him to get it out, so I told him it was okay. Laz had briefly mentioned something after I first met Booker, so I knew he’d been in trouble, but I told him he didn’t have to go on.
I need to hear it from him now, though. All of it, not just vague details from Laz.
“I’ve been this size since I was twelve,” he says, gesturing to his solid form. “The football coaches went after me hard as soon as I got to middle school. The first year, sixth grade, was good. Coach Reed was our main coach and he was always cool to me. He worked me hard, but it felt like he did it because he just wanted me to be better. But then I got to seventh grade and had to play under Coach Gibson, too.… He hated me from the minute he saw me. I could just tell.”