“Um, sure,” I say.

“Great, and bring the chick,” he says.

“Maybe don’t call her a chick if you want to live.”

“Ooh.” His eyebrows arch. “I like feisty women.”

“Yeah, maybe don’t say that either.”

He grins. “Aye aye, captain.”

AISHA STILL SEEMS annoyed with me when I find her in her room, but she reluctantly agrees to come along. We get in the car with Gareth, who plays Phish too loud on the stereo and opens all the windows without asking whether it’s comfortable for us, which it isn’t. Once in a while, he yells out a question, but it gets carried away by the wind and we don’t answer. He’s totally cool with that, and I start to relax into the day.

We go to the Walter Frederick Morrison Frisbee Golf Course at Creekside Park. We wait for his friends, Mitch and Hodge, to arrive. Both show up wearing green argyle berets, which is … interesting. They fist-bump me and Aisha by way of hello, and then they open up beers, even though it says alcohol is prohibited on the course.

“Can I have one?” I ask, and Aisha gives me a dirty look.

“Never mind,” I say, which is fine because Gareth doesn’t give a shit.

Gareth throws first. He takes a running start on this concrete block that’s the tee, I guess, and he lofts a small red disc a long way, way farther than I could hurl it. It lands about twenty feet to the right of the metal basket that acts as the hole.

“Hella nice, beyotch!” the guy named Mitch says. Mitch’s most obvious characteristic, besides using decades-old catchphrases, is that his entire right arm is covered in tattoos. He throws next, and his throw is straighter to the basket, but shorter. Then Hodge, who has a soul patch and a gut visible under his tightly stretched polo shirt, flings the disc. It lands within fifteen feet of the basket.

I go next. Trying to copy how they threw, I run up to the edge of the concrete and let it sail. It surprises me how easy it is to throw a Frisbee, because I am quite sure I have never thrown one before. It streaks toward the basket and finally dies in a patch of tall grass, more than halfway to its intended target.

“Nice toss, dude,” Gareth says.

That leaves Aisha, who is clearly the most athletic of us. She also seems the least interested. She stands still and flings the disc, and it flies a decent way, falling a bit short of my throw.

I get another text from my mother.

I feel concerned that I havent heard from you.

Something came up. Can’t get back

today. Sorry. Don’t want to upset you.

Don’t worry about us. We’re fine.

We all walk out to retrieve our discs and make our second shots. “Put your back into it more,” Hodge says to Aisha. “You’re pretty good for a girl.”

Aisha’s lips stay tight and she says nothing, and I almost go over and say something encouraging, but I can just about feel the anger emanating from her, so I steer clear. Gareth’s next throw hits the chains above the basket, and everyone goes, “Right on!” so I say it too.

My phone rings. I decline the call.

Mitch and Hodge take three flips each to reach the chains, and I do it in five. Aisha throws two more times and then says, “I’m gonna sit this out.”

She doesn’t wait for us to say anything in return. She just walks back toward the car, and I feel torn. Do I go to her? Or can I, for once, have some athletic fun with some guy friends, something that has happened just about never in my life, because I never allow it to happen?

My phone rings again. I decline again, and then I turn my phone off.

I wait until Aisha is out of sight, and I say, “You have an extra beer?”

Gareth looks at Hodge, who is wearing these huge cargo shorts that look like they could fit a baby kangaroo inside. “Beer him,” Gareth says, and Hodge reaches into a pocket and pulls out a can.

“Thanks,” I say. I have never had a beer before. I pop the top and when foam comes out, I sip it up. It crackles on my tongue, and the warmth pours down my gullet.

We keep playing, and I keep sipping, and soon my beer is gone, and Hodge beers me another without me even asking, and it feels fucking great, especially as my head begins to cloud. It’s like the bad thoughts puff out of my brain through my ears, and my brain becomes calm with those bad thoughts gone. I’ve been waiting a million years to feel like this. If this is how my dad feels when he drinks, well, I still don’t get the whole I’m giving up my life and my family for this thing, but I can definitely understand why he likes it. And I don’t ever have to get that bad, because that’s just stupid and reckless.

As we move through the holes and I drink a third beer from Hodge’s bottomless pockets, the conversation moves on to girls. I don’t want them to know how completely inexperienced I am, so I stay quiet. They start talking about girls they will set me up with, next week, the week after. Which is weird because I won’t be here, but my brain is on hiatus and I keep saying, “Yeah, yeah.” They even make up a personality for me. I’m only about four throws behind as we walk to the sixth hole, and Hodge puts his arm around me and says, “Dude. You’re the king.”

And it feels … good. It all does. The guys, the conversation, the beer warming my gut and radiating out to my head and my limbs. Aisha-hugging-the-seat good, in a way. I am not alone, and even without me saying anything, they know how I feel. Hodge starts bitching about living in his parents’ basement and how he has to go out and look for work. Part of me is thinking, You live in your parents’ basement? But then I remember that back in Billings, I do too. That makes me laugh, and they all look at me, but I can’t even come close to explaining right now. I salute them with the beer and they salute me back, and I do feel a little bit like the king. I find myself thinking, Yeah. I could live here. I could just call my mom back and be like, Sorry, I live in Salt Lake City now. I’m a Jack Mormon.

I finish my third beer as we approach the ninth hole, which takes us very close to the parking lot. Aisha is sitting on a bench alone, playing with her phone. I toss the can to the ground, knowing these guys won’t mind me littering, because I don’t want her to see it. Then I wave a few times at Aisha, and part of me knows that Aisha isn’t going to like beered-up Carson. But either she doesn’t see my wave, or she’s ignoring me.

Gareth yells, “Tumble break,” and he climbs a tall, grassy hill. We all run after him. It’s hard to balance, but I don’t fall. Aisha looks up and sees us, and I wave to her to come join us. She shakes her head, and I’m a little pissed. She needs to lighten up.

“One! Two! Three!” the three guys scream at the top of their lungs, and then they fall to their sides and roll, toppling down the hill until they land in a clump at the bottom, laughing hysterically. I’m left there at the top, my knees locked. Should I do it too? Will it look stupid? What will Aisha think? And then I decide to stop thinking, and I fall to my side and start rolling.

The world tumbles. I pick up speed, rolling and rolling. I knock into Hodge’s side at the bottom, and we writhe in a pile, and I just let go and laugh and laugh.

Hodge yells out, “Shit! The beers!”

I feel the wetness just as he says it. One of the beers in his pocket burst open when he rolled down the hill. Now my shorts are wet too, and I smell like beer, but we just keep laughing.