Free The Sea of Tranquility by Katja Millay Page B

around to see if it’s lying on the floor or something, but it really hurts to move my head.
    He hasn’t stopped talking, but I have no idea what he’s saying, even though his voice seems to be inside my skull. He’s still on the ponytail thing. Something about them being a requirement for drunk girls. He’s doing nothing to lower his voice. In fact, he might actually believe he’s on a stage somewhere projecting to the back of a theater, because that’s how loud his voice is. He’s obviously annoyed and why shouldn’t he be? It’s the ass-crack of dawn on a Saturday morning and he’s up with a strange girl on his couch‌—‌the same strange girl who projectile vomited in his bathroom last night while he tried to hold back her hair. I think I may just have to cut him some slack. Like a whole crapload of slack, especially when he goes into the kitchen and returns with a glass of ice water which I desperately need right now. I look at the glass in his hand as he offers it to me. It’s a pathetic, short glass tumbler. Is he some sort of conservationist? I’m going to need about eighteen of those right now. I take it, gratefully bringing it up to my lips and immediately gulping it down. The liquid is at the back of my throat before it’s coming right back up again. What the hell? Vodka. I spit it out, not even conscious of where it goes, and start retching. My stomach clenches and convulses but nothing else comes up. I glare at Josh Bennett who is staring at me now with a look of what? Disbelief? Repentance? Fear?
    “Shit! I didn’t think you’d actually drink it.” He grabs the glass out of my hand. What did he think I was going to do with it? Bathe? “I thought you’d be able to tell.” He looks at me with apology. “It was a joke. Obviously a shitty one,” he mutters under his breath as he runs back to the kitchen and returns with yet another towel. This boy will be doing laundry all day. I wonder how he’s going to explain this to his parents. It’s a miracle they aren’t out here already, wanting to know what’s going on. I yank the towel out of his hands and get down on the floor to clean up my own mess. Even if this one was his fault, I’d rather not owe him anything else. He stands over me while I mop up what remains of the vodka I sprayed across the floor. I realize what I must look like, down on all fours, my hair, my face, my clothes, a reflection of the cruel joke that has been this night.
    I look up and glower at him, angry just for the fact that he has witnessed my utter humiliation and that, as much as he’s glorying in my downfall, I owe him some debt of gratitude. Drew, on the other hand, is another story. I owe him a fate worse than death. I think I may have preferred to have him dump me on my front porch for my aunt to find rather than putting me at the mercy of Josh Bennett. As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I know that maybe it’s not so true. But it feels like it should be true. I realize I’ve been glaring at him through my entire thought process and I wonder what my face must have betrayed because he’s smiling at me now. Smiling . And it’s almost a real smile, though I can’t be positive, because I’ve never really seen him smile. At school he wears the same unchanging expression, day in and day out, like nothing in the world touches him on any level. And that brings me back to my alien abduction theory, which I’m starting to consider as a real possibility, when he speaks.
    “You really want to tell me to fuck off right now don’t you, Sunshine?” He’s not done playing with me yet. I narrow my eyes when he calls me Sunshine again, which is a tactical error; because now he knows it annoys me and I have a feeling he’s enjoying annoying me. “What? Sunshine fits you. It’s bright and warm and happy. Just. Like. You.” And that’s when I lose it. I can’t help it. As shitty as I feel right now, as stupid as I look, as angry as I am at myself, at Drew,