some way to make me take an unwitting taste of the stuff, whether by soaking my toothbrush in it or mixing it into the milk I pour over my Cocoa Krispies. And yet, despite all that, I have no tolerance for it. The shine leaves a scorched path from the tip of your tongue all the way to your belly. The only reason I’d been able to take a swig without coughing was the bottle of Chloraseptic I’d sprayed onto my throat before leaving the house.
By now the entire party is trying to squeeze its way into the kitchen. Everyone wants to know whether we’ll be welcomed or thrown out on our asses.
Here’s the thing about Michaela Gordon’s party: only the coolest kids are invited. The rest of the school comes to ride it like a bucking bronco—you hold on as long as you can until someone throws you out. For the cool kids, finding horrible new ways to let the unworthy know they’re unwelcome is part of the fun. And for everybody else who comes to school the next week with Sharpie-covered faces, or still clutching their stomachs after being force-fed laxatives, there is a strange mixture of shame and bravado in announcing that they were at Michaela’s for thirty-eight-and-a-half minutes and three of them were at the exact time the Barney twins performed their topless table dance.
If we’re gonna get tossed, this is the moment it’s gonna happen.
Just when things can’t get any tenser, Michaela Gordon herself comes pushing through the crowd until she is standing right in front of me.
Own it, I remind myself.
I brazenly shove one of the jars at her. “Have some moonshine,” I say. Then, holding up my own jar, I officially throw down the gauntlet. “Make a wish.”
“I wish this party would never end,” she says with a smile that makes her look rather sharklike. “At least for those who last till morning.”
Of course, she had to get her dig in, knowing I’ll be ushered out long before the sun rises. But I’d rather she talk shit to my face than my back as I’m being tossed out the door, so I only reply, “To a party that rocks all night and forever more! May all your wishes come true, or at least just this one!”
Michaela doesn’t bother waiting for me to finish before she tips the jar back and takes a long swallow. A moment later she is bent over and gasping, waiting for the fire in her throat to go out.
I suddenly doubt the wisdom of this whole plan. Michaela Gordon does not like to look like a fool. Gently, I reach down to take the jar of moonshine from her, but she jerks it away and slowly straightens to face me. Her watering eyes have made her mascara run in streaks down her cheeks. I am tempted to apologize, to minimize the damage I’ve already done. I think about how right my uncles were—the stars in the sky are not to be reached for, but to remind us how small we truly are.
But then Michaela Gordon clinks her jar against the one I’m still holding. “Look out liver, here it comes,” she says, her lips tilting into a sly smile.
Grinning, I bring the jar up and take my second deep swallow. And this time—the crowd cheers.
It is perhaps the best moment of my life. I am at the biggest party of the year and I am owning it.
Bow down, bitches.
BEST
After that, things get blurry. Every time a new group of partygoers pushes its way into the kitchen for a taste of the moonshine, I go through the whole routine. Wish. Toast. First sip.
It’s a lot of first sips. I lose count after a while.
Even people who make a point of letting me know my place in the universe at least once a week get in line, make a wish, and drink with me. Some of them high-five me when they finish, like we’re suddenly best pals.
In between I keep asking for, “Water. I need to drink water so I don’t get drunk.” Someone presses a glass of it into my hand, and I drain it in a few long swallows.
Then there is dancing. Another thing I hate that suddenly feels good. Larry and I thrash and spin and sing along, not caring that we’re getting most of the lyrics wrong.
Next thing I know, I’m lecturing a group of freshmen who were lucky enough to make the official list of invitees