“Where the hell are you?!” he screeched, and, wiping my eyes again, I relayed the address.

“Jesus Christ,” Dad swore. “I’ve been trying to call you for an hour. What happened?”

“I’m sorry—I had it off by accident, I didn’t mean to.” I glanced at my comatose friend. “And Roger…Roger got drunk. He can’t drive. Please, I’m sorry, I need you to drive us home.”

Dad cursed under his breath, and I heard him mutter to someone—Mum, undoubtedly. When he came back to me, he said, “Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m going to call Roger’s parents. Where are you in relation to the house?”

“I’m in the front yard,” I replied. “Next to Roger’s car.”

“Stay there. Is Roger with you?”

“Yes.”

“Good—keep him with you.”

Oh, he’s not going anywhere, I thought, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

“Okay,” Dad said, sighing tensely. “I’ll be there in about forty minutes.”

“Please hurry,” I begged, not wanting him to hang up.

“I’ll try, Arik. Bye.” Click.

I slowly lowered the phone and held it like I was holding my mother’s hand. Alone, again.

I scooted over next to Roger until our shoulders touched. His eyes were closed, and his pale skin glowed in the darkness. Where the blood had dried red-brown, though, it looked like his face was rotted. He was deathly silent, and only through the slow bobs of his chest could I be sure that death hadn’t indeed claimed him. It was terrifying.

I grabbed his hand and held it tightly in mine, for he was completely zoned out and I was scared. His hand was bitterly cold. I’d never held it before, and I’d never known how thin and bony it was. Regardless, I clenched it and leaned my head against his shoulder, waiting out the storm.

And behind the barricade of Roger’s tiny black car, the party raged on.

Forty minutes is an eternity. I’d deduced this years ago when stranded in mind-numbing classes so excruciating the slow tick of the clock was like Chinese water torture. But this was a different kind of forty minutes than a class period.

I didn’t budge the entire time. My body ached and throbbed as if I’d just taken a tumble in a rockslide. I thought I was bleeding from my back and head, but I couldn’t tell because my fingers were red already. The back of my head was too tender to lean against the car, and my neck was stiff from holding it up. It didn’t help that the temperature had gone down with the sun, reminding us of the onset of winter. An icy wind had picked up, and it brushed in and around our bodies, pricking Roger’s skin into a landscape of pale goosebumps. I’d dropped his shirt somewhere—on the lawn, in the house? I had no idea—and all he had on underneath was a white tank top. He was a complete mess, the white shirt stained with beer, dirt, and blood, and he smelled of those things too. But I wrapped my arms around him anyway, and rubbed his skin to warm the goosebumps away. I didn’t care if anyone saw—though no one did—for he was my beloved Roger, and I was going to take care of him, even if he had been an ass all night.

He was so vulnerable now. He was as helpless as the drunken college girl had been. I could do as I liked with him—as could anyone else—and he was completely powerless. He would never know, either. I had total responsibility for him; his life was in my hands. Over and over, for whatever reason, I kept thinking about how I’d snatched Harry out of the road that time, how I’d held him to my chest and had protected him because no one else could.

I would protect my moron.

But for forty minutes, there was nothing I could do but hold him and rub his shivering arms and pray for my father to arrive. I thought long about many things, my pounding head making my thoughts run together like an abstract painting. I thought about my family, this party, my feeling for Roger, homosexuality, my life. And I watched Roger breathe softly, his eyelashes fluttering occasionally and his mouth twitching. I looked at his long arms, so thin and ghostly in this light, and his shoulders, which were strong and proud under clothes, but bony and awkward now. His long fingers were mutilated: the knuckles were split from dry skin, and the cuticles of his fingernails had been torn off. Old dried blood lined the nails where he’d ripped off the skin around them. Also, high up on the underside of his arm were five red marks in succession, each about an inch long, like tally marks carved into his flesh. Almost like he’d been scratched by a cat or some other clawed creature. Puzzled, I made a mental note to ask him about that.

I prayed, but my father was late, and I began to wonder if God listened to faggot’s prayers. But, behold, in a flash of blinding headlights and screeching tires, a white car pulled up onto the grass. I withdrew my arms from Roger and jumped up instantly, heart in my Adam’s apple. Two middle-aged men got out of the car and jogged over to me—my Dad, my beloved father, and Mr. O’Donnell. Both were gritty with exhaustion and unshaven chins. Mr. O’Donnell’s hair was wild, and the stiff planes of his face were set into a furious scowl. I’d never seen him look like that before, ever.

“Dad!” I gasped, running to him and meaning to embrace him, but he pushed me away.

“Jesus,” he spat, his eyes surveying the house and its wild inhabitants.

“Where’s Roger?” Mr. O’Donnell demanded.

I pointed, and Mr. O’Donnell made a strange sound, somewhere between a groan and a growl.

“He passed out a long time ago,” I whispered, incase that wasn’t evident.

Dad grabbed my arms and looked me over. “My God,” he gasped, “what happened to you?” He glanced over at Roger’s lifeless and grimy form. “Both of you, for that matter. You’re covered in blood!”

I opened my mouth and closed it a few times, queasy, before deciding to go with the truth. “We had a fight,” I murmured.

“Where’s his shirt?” Mr. O’Donnell asked from where he knelt by Roger’s side.

I shrugged stupidly, chewing on my knuckles. Mr. O’Donnell let out a string of curses. He slung an arm under Roger and called, “Addison, lend me a hand, will you?”

Dad rushed over, and together, they lifted Roger with their shoulders, while I danced around helplessly. He moaned, the first sound I’d heard from him in an hour. Mr. O’Donnell slapped his cheek, and Roger moaned more, but didn’t wake up.

“Arik, open the car door,” Dad ordered, and I leapt to obey. I opened the door to Roger’s car and scuttled out of the way as Dad and Mr. O’Donnell set him inside in the passenger’s seat. Roger’s head rolled on the headrest, and his eyelashes fluttered. He scowled subconsciously.

Mr. O’Donnell slammed the door shut, and Roger was locked in the tiny, cozy car, hidden underneath the black tarp that buttoned on to form the convertible’s roof. My job was done. I guess.

Now I worried about him more.

Mr. O’Donnell sighed, releasing tension that had gathered deep in his chest, like an air mattress deflating. He ran a large hand through his flyaway fair hair, rocking on his feet.

“Goddamnit, I don’t believe that boy. I don’t know what I’m going to do with him.” He turned and thumped me lightly on the chest. “Be glad your boy has his head on straight, Addison. For Roger’s sake, I’m glad he does.”

“Hmm,” Dad murmured, looking at me with arms folded, and my eyes sank to my muddy sneakers. Shit, now came my reprimand. He’d yell at me and tell me he couldn’t trust me and he was disappointed in me and I’d feel worthless, worthless.

“Thanks for watching out for my son,” Mr. O’Donnell said heavily, tapping my arm. “You’re a real friend. A good kid.”

I forced a smile for him. Mr. O’Donnell sighed again, as if his lungs were leaden. “I’d better get the drunk ass home. Good night, Addison, Arik.”

We nodded goodnight, and Mr. O’Donnell ducked underneath the tiny roof and disappeared. Dad put a hand on my back and directed me—shoved me—towards his car.

“Get in,” he grunted. I complied quickly and collapsed into the dark, stomach icy with dread. Oh hell, he was mad at me, and none of this had even been my fault.

He climbed into the driver’s side, grumbling as he buckled the belt over his middle-aged stomach.

I licked my dry lips with my dry tongue and whispered, “Dad, I can—“

“Arik,” he interrupted, halting what he was doing. “Arik, look at me for a second.”

“What?” I asked, confused but obeying.

He reached forward and clenched the collar of my shirt, pulling me toward him until his mustache and spectacles were in my face. I gasped, thinking he was going to hit me, and tried to pull back, but his grip on my shirt was tight.

“Arik, talk to me,” he commanded.

“Wh-what?” I stammered. “D-dad, what are you—“

He released my shirt and I sank back into the chair, eyes wide and heart thumping. “D-dad, what—?”

He’d settled back into his seat, but was watching me. “Did you drink anything? Alcohol, I mean.”

I shook my head furiously. “No, no, I didn’t have anything! All I had was Sprite!”

“How come?” he asked.

I gaped, not expecting that question. “I don’t like the taste,” I replied, the first explanation I could summon, although, I realized an instant later, not the best one.

To my surprise, Dad laughed dryly. “I’m glad you’re honest!”

Chuckling quietly to himself, he started up the car. I sank into the back of the seat, arms crossed, wondering if he would have still had to check my breath if he’d asked me beforehand, wondering if he would have trusted me on my word alone. I wondered what reason I’d ever given him not to trust me.

The darkness and the silence hung between us like a curtain. I leaned my head against the window, suddenly feeling so tired. Uncomfortable, too, not sure if my father was angry with me or not. Damn, this had been a hideous night, damn.

“Fun party?” Dad asked, breaking the silence, and I think he was being sarcastic, taunting me because he wasn’t enjoying taking a road trip in the middle of the night.

“I hate parties,” I mumbled back.

“Why do you go, then? –Especially to ones thrown by college students, a detail I don’t think you remembered to tell your mother and I.”

I was in trouble after all, then? “I only go to keep Roger company and to watch out for him. A-and, I’m sorry, I should have told you, but I didn’t think it was a big deal.” You’re a much better liar than that, Arik, turn your brain on. “And I didn’t know until last minute. A bunch of other highschoolers were there too, though. A lot.”

“Mmhmm,” Dad murmured, but whether he believed me or not I couldn’t tell.

Awkward, heavy silence descended on us again like a blanket, and I choked on it, desperate for him to say something else.

“Do you think Roger is okay?” I gasped, batting at the shroud of silence.

“Sure,” Dad replied blandly, eyes on the road. “He’ll wake up and puke all over everything and have a hell of a hangover, but he’ll be okay. Personally, I’m more worried about him surviving his father’s wrath.”

I cringed at the thought.

“And by the way,” Dad added, and he whipped around and aimed his pointer finger between my eyes. “Don’t you EVER get drunk like that, at a party, at home, anywhere. Do you understand me?”

I nodded, staring, eyes wide like a child.

We were silent for the rest of the ride home. The black curtain smothered me, and I struggled to breathe through my nose, darkness pressing my eyelids southwards, and feeling like there was a fire-poker bisecting my brain. My mouth tasted rank and irony. My vision swam, and I drifted away, sinking into a fog of sleep.

And suddenly we were home, and I was wrenched from the first stage of sleep as my dad grabbed my shoulder and shook me. I stared blearily, and he gestured in the dark for me to get out. We were in the driveway, and the lights were on in the kitchen; Mum was obviously waiting up for us, no doubt worried to death. My limbs feeling like paper—sore paper—I tore myself from the cocoon of the seat and crawled into the house. My mother attacked me, swooping onto me and crooning like a plump vulture in a nightgown, hastily whispered questions spinning and deft fingers tracing every bloodstain on my shirt and arms. I murmured, incoherent at best, and didn’t hear Dad’s brief but consoling explanation of the night’s events. My mother held her chin in her palm and shook her head, and then she kissed me on the cheek and returned to her bedroom.

“Go take a shower and get to bed,” Dad commanded, filling himself a glass of water and sitting down slowly at the table.

I nodded dumbly, mutely, and turned to go upstairs.

“Arik,” my father called before I crossed out of the kitchen. I turned slowly to face him.

“I want you to know that I’m not happy about what happened tonight. However, I’m glad you called me and took care of your friend—and that you didn’t drink.” He smiled, a small grin but a warm one. “You showed real maturity and responsibility tonight,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”

I felt my jaw dislodge, but nothing had the strength to work itself out of my larynx. I looked at his face, nodded, and turned to go upstairs.

I smelled, and I meant to shower, but I collapsed facedown on my bed and was unconscious before I got the chance to take my socks off.

Chapter Eighteen...