“Carissa is sleeping off the whiskey, in case you were wondering,” the frizzy-haired woman proclaims as I grab Molly’s arm to hold her upright.

“I’m very sorry about this. I don’t know how they could have gotten the alcohol. I mean, it couldn’t have been here, in this house, could it?” I reply with as much phony concern as I can stomach.

Frizzball narrows her eyes at me. “She’s not allowed back here, ever again.”

“Well, she’ll be devastated to hear you’re closing the open bar. But I’m sure she’ll get her fix somewhere else.” Molly doubles over as she cackles at my response and I wrap my arm around her waist to keep her from toppling over. “Come on, girl. Your brother is waiting for you.”

Molly’s left hand latches onto my coat and we hobble down the long walkway toward Tristan’s car. We’re a few feet away when she begins to retch. I scoot back to get out of her way and maybe grab her hair to hold it back, but I don’t step out of the way fast enough and her watery vomit splashes over my shoe and the pavement.

“Sorry,” she mutters before another stream of vomit spews forth.

This time I’m able to pull her hair back and take safety behind her as she finishes. It must be fifty degrees out here, but her face is red and sweaty and I’m not looking forward to riding home in Tristan’s fancy car with the stench of vomit wafting up from my foot. I help Molly into the car and her head flops to the side as I buckle her seatbelt. I take off my shoes and spend about five minutes looking for the button to pop the trunk. I throw my heels in the trunk then I slide into the driver’s seat and head back.

We’re nearly there when Molly mumbles something I almost wish I didn’t understand. “I hate my life.”

I wait until we’re stopped at Hillsborough and Dixie Trail before I say anything. “Do you want to go straight home or do you want to go somewhere and sober up first?”

“I don’t want to go home like this.”

“That’s what I thought. We’ll go hang out for a little while.”

I drive her to a local burger joint and order her some French fries so she can get something in her stomach. I text Tristan to tell him we’re grabbing a bite to eat, then we sit in the parking lot as she nibbles the fries and I wait for her to say something.

“Are you Claire’s friend?” she finally asks.

“Her very best friend.”

“I miss Claire,” she whispers. “Don’t tell Tristan I said that. I said it in front of him a few weeks ago and he got pissed.”

He probably got pissed because, according to bro-code, you’re automatically supposed to hate the girl who broke your friend’s heart. Of course, Tristan probably doesn’t know the whole story behind Chris and Claire’s breakup. I probably don’t even know the full story. And this animosity Tristan holds for Claire only reminds me that there is one more obstacle standing in the way of Tristan and me – the truth. I don’t know Tristan very well. He doesn’t know me or my best friend. And there’s no denying it, Claire is my fucking soul sister. I can’t be with a guy who doesn’t love and respect her.

“I won’t say a word. Do you want to talk about anything else?”

She shakes her head and sets the bag of French fries on the floor of the car next to her feet. “I want to go home.”

When I pull into the driveway of Tristan’s grandma’s house, he’s sitting on the front steps waiting for us. He gets to his feet quickly and immediately heads for the passenger door to help Molly.

“Are you sick?” he asks and she shakes her head, though I can see she’s still swaying a bit as she walks around the front of the car and toward the front door.

Tristan attempts to grab her arm to help her, but she pushes him away. “Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you.”

He looks at me for some kind of explanation, but all I can do is shrug. “I should get going,” I proclaim as I retrieve my heels from the trunk.

“Did she say anything to you?”

“Not really. She’s just upset. You should try to talk to her … She needs you.”

He looks at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time tonight, then he reaches forward and I try not to flinch as he touches the backs of his fingers to my abdomen. “We still need to talk about this, don’t we?”

I take a step back so I’m out of his reach. “I’ll call you when I’m done studying this weekend.”

I turn to leave, but he grabs my hand. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

Nine Years Ago

The windows of the rundown duplex on Clover Lane all glow with various shades of yellow light at 2:30 a.m. Not that I didn’t expect Elaine’s house to be jumping at this hour, but it still makes me nervous about what I’ll find in there.

I rode my bike to Elaine’s place in Southeast Raleigh all the way from West Raleigh. Grandma doesn’t know I’m gone. She thinks I’m sleeping at my friend Noah’s house right now, but I had to leave.

I’m twelve years old. I’ve spent the last two years helping Grandma train Molly to piss in a toilet. Before that I was changing diapers; waking up in the middle of the night to quiet Molly down whenever Grandma wasn’t feeling well from her migraines; waking up early on Saturdays so Grandma could go to the farmer’s market where she insists everything is cheaper. I’m tired of that shit. And now she doesn’t want to let me quit school to get a job. I don’t get it. She’s the one always complaining about not having any money and she won’t even let me help. She only needs me for the dirty jobs.

But that’s not the reason I’m leaving.

I didn’t want to come here to Elaine’s, but she’s the only one I know who won’t turn me away. Why would she? They take anyone and everyone in here: crackheads, prostitutes, murderers. I lived with Elaine until I was nine and Molly was one, when we moved here to Raleigh from Maine. After that girl did those things to me in the ice-cream shop, I lied to Grandma and told her I found a needle in Molly’s playpen. I didn’t think she would report Elaine. I never told Grandma what happened at the ice-cream shop. I never had to. I never saw that blonde girl again.

I roll my bike behind a box hedge to hide it, then I knock on the door. My heart pounds against my chest like a crackhead on a dealer’s front door, which is probably what they think I am. The door opens and I freeze when I see the shotgun pointed at my face.

“Who the fuck are you?” an old guy covered in tattoos demands.

“I’m – I’m here for Elaine.”

He narrows his eyes and his leathery skin crinkles at the edges. “What the fuck do you want with her?”

“Who is it?” Elaine’s voice makes me cringe inside, but there must be relief on my face because the guy lowers the shotgun a little.

“She’s my …” – gulp – “… my mom.”

The guy smiles, but only with the left side of his face, as he lowers the gun to his side and opens the screen door separating us. “Well, come on in, son.” I tuck my hands into the front pockets of my hoodie as I step inside so he can’t see that I’m still shaking. “Don’t worry. I ain’t your daddy,” he says with a laugh as he closes the door.

I shouldn’t have come here, but what other choice do I have? When I went to Noah’s house this afternoon, all the watches we stole from the kiosk in the mall were laid out on his kitchen table. His mom had left a note saying that she had gone to pick up Noah’s little sister and we were to wait for her until she got back. There was almost $2,000 in watches staring me in the face and I knew that I couldn’t stick around to see what kind of punishment Noah’s mom had planned for us. Even if she didn’t call the police, I knew she’d at least make us return the watches; and what if the owner of the kiosk called the police? It would break Grandma’s heart to know that I fucked up so badly.

Fuck Noah and his bitch mom.