Page 20 of The Surprise
I’m just moving.
And that’s when I realize I’m walking toward the Brooks’ ranch.
Which is exactly where I can’t go, especially holding a six pack of beer. I mean, what am I thinking? I pull an about face and turn around, heading the other direction. At first, I’m fueled by my rage, my feelings of disgust, and my general unhappiness.
But the six pack is stinking heavy.
And it keeps hitting the side of my leg as I walk.
Also, my fingers kind of hurt from carrying it.
I haven’t gone very far—I’m on the edge of Dr. Archer’s property when I sit down. I’m not ready to go home, but I can’t keep carrying this stupid wad of cans. The ground is hard, and this late at night, it’s actually a little chilly. A few feet away, I notice a fallen log, but not, like, from a tree that just fell down.
Dr. Archer’s property’s too nice for that.
It’s a log that, after clearing away the tree, they left, cut at an angle to make a rough-hewn bench.
What kind of person has a rough log bench on the edge of their property, just sitting in the middle of a grove of trees? And that’s when I notice the little stream.
It runs behind our house, so I should have thought about it. It’s Birch Creek, and this little bench is here, presumably, so you can sit next to it and hear the burble of the water or something equally cute.
Steve’s parents didn’t steal from people or get high all the time, I bet. Maybe they were like Abigail and her husband before Ethan’s dad died.
Steve’s mom died, too.
I wonder if we’re only allowed a certain amount of happiness in this life, and once we’ve reached it,bam. I suppose the good thing about that is, I’ll have a lot of happy time banked up for the future. My husband should thank me. He won’t get offed at forty. Surely my crappy childhood and lousy parents will have earned him a long, happy life.
I drag the stupid, secret cans along the ground, coating them with dirt and detritus until I’m in front of the bench, and then I plop down a little too hard. It hurts my tailbone, honestly.
What’s wrong with me? Did I expect a wooden bench to be soft?
I’m an idiot.
Why did I carry these cans all the way here, anyway? I should’ve just emptied them right off. I pop the top on the first one and start to pour it out, watching as the yeasty, smelly golden contents, barely visible in the moonlight, trickle down, past the side of the bench, and disappear into the earth just a few inches before joining the creek.
It makes me sad, for some reason.
What did that beer do wrong, to just be absorbed into the ground? I mean, I know it’s not alive. I know it does bad things to people, but does it deserve to just disappear like that? For some reason, it makes me think of myself. I didn’t hurt anyone, and I don’t want people to hate me. I can’t control who my parents are or what they do, but I can’t date Ethan because of it.
I keep pouring for a moment, and then I yank my hand back up. The can’s probably half-full, still. I lean toward it and take a whiff. It’s as foul as I remember it. It smells like something that’s just goneoff.
Why do people drink it at all?
What exactly is the point? I mean, it reeks. It’s expensive. It’s bad for you. And it makes good people do horrible things. So why do people make it, buy it, and drink it so much that whole stores are dedicated to it? Why am I stuck, digging through my own home and stealing my mom’s stash?
Suddenly, I can’t be one of those idiots who doesn’t understand for one more moment. I take the nasty can, and I bring it to my mouth.
And I take a swallow.
For some reason, it felt like it should be momentous or something. Instead, it’s just gross. It’s warm, it’s as yeasty as it smelled, and it tastessour.I hate it.
But for some reason, I keep on drinking.
Maybe because I want to know what it does. I want to understand, finally, why my mom and other peoplehideit so that they can have some. And maybe, just a little bit, I want it not to hurt so badly that my family sucks so much, by comparison to, well, to everyone else’s that I know.
I mean, I have a home.
I have my own car.
