to my house instead. Watch a movie or play some Donkey Kong.” After growing tired of Grand Theft Auto, DK has become our new obsession. Normally, I’d be all over that suggestion, but tonight—
“No.”
“My mom made her amazing chocolate cake.”
“Your mom hates me.”
“She—” Larry stops. He doesn’t like to lie. “Donkey Kong?”
“Yes, I have a weakness for Donkey Kong.”
“Yeah. Donkey Kong rocks.”
I laugh, for a moment forgetting I don’t really like Larry. It happens occasionally. “Yes, he does, but not tonight. Tonight we rock. It’s gonna happen exactly the way I’ve been telling you. Once they see what we’ve brought”—I jingle the jars in the bag at my feet—“they’re gonna roll out the red carpet for us. Just trust me, okay?”
Larry wipes his sweaty palms once more, gulps, wiggles his butt in his seat, before finally grinning. “Yeah. Yeah!” He fist-pumps the air. “You’re right, it’s gonna be great.” He sounds like he believes it. As if my saying it makes it true. As if I am someone worthy of trust.
Cleary, Larry is not the sharpest guy around.
. . . Or maybe not, because at first everything does go exactly as I said it would.
We walk in like we own the place, not slinking in the back past the idiots doing keg stands, but strolling right through the front door and straight into the kitchen. One by one I pull the mason jars out of my bag and line them up on the glass table. I can feel a crowd gathering behind me, but nobody says a word. Grabbing the first one, I spin the lid off and let it hit the shiny hardwood floors. Larry snags a plastic cup and holds it out to me, but I push it away. “You always drink moonshine straight from the jar,” I say. It’s not strictly true—tradition only dictates that the first swig comes straight from the jar—but I like the way it sounds. I push the shine into Larry’s hand and then pick up a second one for myself. Off comes the second lid.
“Make a wish,” I say to Larry, holding up my jar.
This is another moonshine ritual I’ve seen performed a million times. Everyone buying shine needs to have a drink with my uncles first. Uncle Rod usually takes the lead, slurping a bit from the jar of shine and then pouring a few fingers into some Looney Tunes glasses they got from a gas station years ago. My uncles sit at the kitchen table with the poor schmuck, and as he lifts the glass to his lips they tell him to make a wish. Usually it’s some eye-roll-worthy, sad-sack nonsense like, “I wish my wife weren’t so mean to me” or “I wish I could get that promotion at work.” “Penny-ante shit” is what Uncle Jet calls it, but then he’s quick to add it’s better that way.
They never miss a chance to remind me to dream small.
I’d coached Larry in the car, not wanting him to ruin our first impression by saying something stupid like, “I wish I was home playing Donkey Kong.” I told him to say, “I wish I were the king of this party. Bow down, bitches!” He practiced, but every time it came out of his mouth like a question. And he refused to say “Bow down, bitches.” He thought it sounded too mean.
Now Larry’s eyes meet mine and I can see the panic in them. “Um,” he says. Around us people snicker.
Larry gulps. “I hope my mom isn’t mad at me tomorrow.”
I narrow my eyes, promising retribution, but make my mouth smile as I give Larry his wish—with a little embellishment. “To your mom and everyone else’s parents’ staying chill, no matter what!” Then I add the words I’ve heard my uncles utter so many times: “May all your wishes come true, or at least just this one!”
He clinks his jar against mine. Then in unison, we drink.
The liquid dribbles out the sides of my mouth and burns going down. Smiling, I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. Next to me, Larry is doubled over, coughing hoarsely. I make a big show of taking the moonshine from him and patting him on the back. “Sometimes the first sip’s like that,” I say.
Another half-truth. The first sip is always like that.
My uncles rubbed the stuff on my gums when I was a teething newborn, poured a finger of it into hot tea anytime I had a cold, and every April Fool’s Day they find