Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [76]
At the keg, he filled my cup like an expert. “Did you see that? A perfect pour. Not any head at all.”
I had no idea what he meant, and didn’t want to ask. “Um, beautiful.”
“That’s why they call me Pourmaster. Naw, but seriously, I’d make a great bartender, don’t you think?”
“If that’s what you want to be,” I said, thinking of Solomon Ramey.
“Why not? It’s, like, the perfect job. I could sleep during the daytime. At night I’d get to serve myself for free, plus any sexy ladies that come wandering in.” He winked and knocked me with his hip. I brought one hand to my face, trying to cover my flushed cheeks. I’d never thought flirting would be so … embarrassing.
“Well, I won’t be twenty-one for ages.”
“You think that’d stop me from serving you? Didn’t I just?”
I spotted Mandarin through the gap between the fires. Joshua stood beside her, his lips still moving, but her eyes were on me. I raised my beer in salute.
“Earth to Grace,” Tyler said. “What’re you staring at?”
I looked at him, surprised. “I didn’t think I told you my name.”
He took a swallow of beer before speaking. “We go to the same school, don’t we?”
“Oh,” I said. “Right.”
I raised my cup again, tapping it against his. This time, I didn’t mind the taste so much. A new song came on and people cheered, including Tyler.
“Hell yeah! This is a great song. Dance with me?”
Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the kegs and fires, into the surging forest of silhouettes. Before I knew it, we were dancing—or, more accurately, swaying together, as the crowd made it difficult to do much more than that.
All of a sudden, Earl Barnaby staggered into us, arms flailing. I squealed, then clapped a hand to my mouth, shocked that such a sound had come from my own vocal cords.
“What the hell’s your deal?” Tyler demanded.
“It’s okay,” Earl slurred, his words thick and wet. “It’s okay, buddy. I’m all right. Look here, I got somethin’ for you an’ your girl.” He held out a thin metal flask.
Without questioning the contents, Tyler unscrewed the tiny cap and drank. “You want?” he said to me, wiping his mouth.
I stared at the flask. I’d never seen one up close. It was one of those foreign objects of adulthood, like condoms or marijuana pipes. The reflections of the dancers around us crawled on the metal surface. “It’s just that … I’ve never …”
“Just swallow fast. It’s apple juice, all right?”
Still, I hesitated. Beer was one thing. Mystery liquid from Earl Barnaby’s flask was another landscape entirely. And what was old Earl doing at a quarry party, anyway? I glanced over my shoulder, but I couldn’t find Mandarin. I was on my own.
What would Mandarin do?
Well, of course. And suddenly, I knew why she’d brought me to this party in the first place: she was testing me, yet again. I was sure of it. She was probably watching right that second, camouflaged among the drunken faces, anticipating my reaction.
I accepted the flask. It felt heavy in my hand, and the mystery liquid sloshed when I shook it. I took a deep breath, tipped my head, and poured. Forget apple juice. It was like drinking molten bonfire, the taste and the burn.
“How about we get out of here?” Tyler suggested.
Instead of answering, I took another swallow.
The clamor of the party sounded muffled and tinny, as if piped in from a distant radio. Louder were the sounds of crickets, the rush of the river, and the night wind disturbing pebbles and sending them tickling off the surface of the Tombs. Against the largest boulder, Tyler had me caged, his mouth shoved wetly into mine.
Once we had finished Earl Barnaby’s flask, Tyler had led me to his pickup truck. “My first!” he’d declared.
It struck me as hilarious that he was so certain he’d own a succession of pickups throughout the rest of his life. Classic Washokey.
A prehistoric country song wailed from