College Ruled

four

| 04 |
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I'VE NEVER been much of a beer girl.

         Ever since I was ten, when my sister Camilla and I would sneak Mom's fancy wine glasses down to the basement to sip sparkling grape juice out of, I knew I was destined for the level of class that comes from gulping five-dollar gas station Rosé straight from the bottle. Salty, slightly warm beer did not mesh well with tastebuds that have spent too much time being sculpted by sharp, fruity liquor and all things sugar.

         Still, sitting on a log near the dying fire pit while Noah Harris drags me through a verbal derailing of what seems like every single moment of his life, I sip on my drink just so that I have something to do with my anxious mouth.

The yard radiates youthful energy. A beer pong tournament rages on near the fence-line, an occasional disappointed shout or roared victory ringing through my ears. The two broad-shouldered soccer players shuffling in the dirt behind me, who have offered up more interactive commentary to Noah's stories than I have, toss spilled, dirt-coated marshmallows into the low flames.

It smells like smoke, burnt sugar, and bug spray.

        Every red-faced, glossy eyed individual that stumbles past us on their way to the keg line spreading out under the strung fairy lights is a hangover waiting to happen.

         The longer I sit out here—my eyes glued to the back sliding doors and my ears listening for any sign of that distinct laugh, the one that I know will feel like an overly enthusiastic, heartbroken punch to the throat—the tighter my coiled nerves rub together to anger the nauseated butterflies in my gut.

         I'm overheating. My thighs squirm against the rough bark under my ass.

         And Noah, with his bright, whimsical eyes and comically spirited hand gestures, doesn't seem to notice that I'm failing to keep up with what he's saying.    

         Every time he pauses his story I send him a tight-lipped smile, one I'd thought said 'I don't know how to tell you this but I have no idea what the hell you're talking about', and—mistaking it for encouragement—Noah dives further into whatever tangent-filled tale he's wielding.

Because my nonverbal communication is apparently just as bad as all my other forms.

          I feel like Alice, falling through the wonderland that is Noah's mind.

          And I'm lost. Hopelessly.

         "...Now I'm not saying oxygen is poisoning us, but if there are aliens out there who've been around for a lot longer than us who's to say, really, that the air isn't the problem, right? So yeah, I did not get a second date. But whatever, I can't be with someone who thinks all birds are a hundred percent real. That's just absurd."

         How did a story that started with his fifth grade murder fish, the one who'd gobbled up the rest of his aquatic pets, stretch into aliens?

         I ditch the failed smile and diverge my efforts to a nod in an attempt to pass the time it'll take him to ricochet back into another lopsided, fast-paced word vomit. One that I can hopefully follow along with.

         Except this time, he doesn't.

         He's quiet.

         And because I've known him for an impressive hour and half now, I recognize the lack of his voice in my ear as completely uncharacteristic.