clementine

chapter 24: Clementine is 17 years old

The truth of the night I told my parents about was one little thing: there was pizza at Richard's house. Everything else was... well...

"Sam, drink up!" Shannon shouts as she thrusts a shot of brown liquid toward me. Some of it splashes over the edges onto the wooden counter. I already have a drink it my hand.

"What is it?" I pick up the glass, a little hesitant. I don't want to get drunk off something totally disgusting.

Shannon tries to find the flask that was in her hand a second ago, rummaging through the mountain of half empty bottles. "Rum?" She says, a confused grimace on her face. "Maybe bourbon. Whiskey?"

I let out a dry laugh, holding the glass to my lips. "Let's just hope it doesn't taste like hell." I throw my head back and ignore the poisonous flavour as it slips down my throat. It does, in fact, taste like hell.

The music isn't loud, but it's still obnoxious, consisting of anything and everything on the radio. The little exposure we have to the outside world, living in Crimson Valley, is that of which is broadcasted through the media. Even then, our parents remind us that it's poison.

I think they want us to be afraid of things outside of our town.

We've got Facebook and Instagram and Twitter and Google and television and everything any normal teenager of this day and age needs to occupy themselves. But we still feel guilty about it. For some godforsaken reason, it feels like there is a reason that everything in Crimson Valley stays in Crimson Valley. It's a strange feeling. We have freedom in isolation. But we are silently reminded by the looks of old quarterbacks that have become newsagents that dreams don't have a place in this town.

"Nice dress, by the way." Shannon winks before flicking her blonde locks over her shoulder and disappearing into the crowd.

The liquor immediately churns in my stomach, but I continue to smile as a familiar warmth wraps around my shoulder. "Hey, babe." Trevor drawls, "What are you doing over here? Dance floor's over there."

I hate dancing. "Lead the way." The alcohol speaks for me, and Trevor obeys it as if he would rather listen to it than me. Chit chat is spread thick over the air, and it is warm and it is annoying and it is handing out more shot glasses that spill different coloured types of melted forgetfulness. I don't know what they're helping me forget, but I know that I don't want them to stop. I take one.

And another.

And another.

As we jump to the music that is getting louder as I am getting drunker, I let Trevor press his chest against me in front of all these people who keep congratulating me for some reason. Grey eyes swim in front of flashing lights. I wonder if Trevor has to go to church this weekend.

"You know I love you, right?" He mutters into my hair, breath fogging up my eyes.

For some reason, my throat closes off. My entire body twitches in what may be an attempt to protect myself random spasm. The last time he told me he loved me... something bad was happening. I think I make a strangled noise.

Something

Doesn't

Feel

Right

He laughs. "How drunk are you right now?"

For some reason, this question offends me. "How drunk are you?"

He laughs again, and it doesn't sound right in my ears. There's something about it that I can't put my finger on. "I'm the sober driver." He assures me, and for the first time all night I think I understand what is making me feel so uncomfortable: my boyfriend isn't drunk.