The Spectacular Now

Lately, though, my hangovers have started to take on a mean streak. It’s the opposite of that fine redemption feeling—a vague, weird guilt instead. Maybe it’s just a chemical thing, the old brain misfiring, the wiring short-circuiting. Or maybe it comes from not exactly being able to remember everything you did the night before.

For example, I’m not exactly sure how I got back in the house without Mom and Geech finding out I was ever gone. Normally, you’d just chalk something like that up to being God’s own drunk—he’s looking out for you in your beautiful intoxication—but then you start wondering what else you might’ve got up to the night before, what you said, what you did, who you did it with. Then, the next thing you know, you end up spending half the day feeling like the Antichrist when the fact is you didn’t do a thing to hurt a soul.

That’s the kind of hangover that hits me the morning after the party. I say morning, but really it’s after twelve when I wake up. For some reason, as soon as my eyes open, I start in worrying about Aimee. It’s ridiculous. I didn’t do anything but try to build the girl up. She liked the kissing. There’s no doubt about that. And to tell the truth, I didn’t mind it myself. I would’ve laid another one on her when I took her home, but I ended up having to hold her hair while she puked off the side of the porch instead.

But what happened between the time we left the pier and when we said good night is a little sketchy. I keep trying to remember what all we talked about on the drive home, but my memory is like a broken watch that you can’t find all the pieces to. I know we talked about doing something else together, but I’m not sure what it was. There’s a gnawing feeling that I might have told her I’d take her to the prom, but that might just be a trick the hangover’s playing on me. I mean, why would I do that? The prom is still a good way off, and I’ll probably be back with Cassidy by that time.

Then another memory slinks back in, and this time I’m pretty sure I really did it. I told her I’d help with the paper route this morning. I meant it too. I sincerely did intend to get up at three a.m. and drive to her house with a big thermos of instant coffee. Apparently, I never did actually set the alarm, though. It was an honest mistake. Could’ve happened to anyone. Still, the idea of her sitting and waiting on that cold front porch is enough to smack the Antichrist heebie-jeebies right up the side of the pope’s head.

The best thing to do for a hangover like this is take a shower, consume some hearty protein, take a shot of whisky, and go over to Ricky’s. Nothing makes you feel more regular than just being around your best buddy. With Mom and Geech out hobnobbing all afternoon, I shouldn’t have any problem getting away, except for one extraordinary development. When I call Ricky’s house, his mother says he isn’t back from going to church with Bethany. This is astounding. Ricky at church? What’s the world coming to?

Luckily, he calls back about an hour later, and I talk him into heading over to the mall for our usual people-watching deal. I don’t mention a thing about church. Not yet. On the way over to the mall, I do take note that he’s not firing up a fat blaze, though. When I ask him about it, he says he’s out of weed completely.

“You’re out? Since when do you ever run out?”

“I told you, dude, I’m cutting back. I mean, what’s the use of getting high all the time? It’s not special anymore. There’s no celebration to it.”

“I guess that’s one way of looking at it.” I’m really starting to wish I’d never hooked him up with Bethany.

“Besides, it gets a little tiresome when you’re so high you go to the movies and look up at the marquee and think the starting times are the ticket prices. I mean, I remember standing there going, ‘Ten-fifteen? What kind of price is ten dollars and fifteen cents?’ It’s a hassle.”

“Yeah, one time I was putting gas in my car and thought the number of gallons was the price. I even got into an argument with the cashier. It was hilarious.”

“I mean, it’s not like I can’t go pick some up if you’re wanting to get high.”

“That’s all right. You know me—I only smoke the stuff if I’ve had a few drinks first. Besides, my head’s already hungover-weird enough.”

“Wasted last night?”

“I wouldn’t say wasted. Just heavily fortified.”

Chapter 34

At the mall, we snag a couple of lattes and park by the escalator for prime people-viewing. The only thing is, I keep feeling like everyone’s staring at me instead of the other way around. They’re not, but it’s just this creepy paranoia that I don’t quite fit in, kind of like how it is sometimes if you don’t drink enough before hitting the killer weed. Like everyone else is something normal—beagles or dachshunds—and I’m this big hairy cross between a Newfoundland and a Shetland pony. I can practically hear them thinking, What’s that damn Shetfoundland pony doing with that latte over there?

Ricky goes, “Kind of a boring crowd out today,” and I’m like, “That’s because you’re not high. I could use a drink myself.”

“I thought you were cutting back.”

“Where’d you get that idea?”

“From you. We were talking about it. I said I was cutting back to just partying on weekends.”

“It’s Sunday, dude. It still is the weekend, officially.”

“You know what I mean. Quit overdoing it. All things in moderation.”