Page 25 of The Surprise
MILK
“Wow,” I say. “It’s too bad milk isn’t spelled with a P, or that shopping list would be way cooler.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” I say. “But look.” I type her a message that hopefully she’ll get tomorrow.
DEAR BETH. I’M JUST REMINDING YOU THAT WHEN YOU WAKE UP TOMORROW, YOU SHOULD TEXT ETHAN. YOU MAY NOT REMEMBER THIS, BUT YOU GOT DRUNK LAST NIGHT. THEN YOU STUMBLED IN FRONT OF HIS CAR. HE NOT ONLY DIDN’T HIT YOU, HE SAVED YOU. AND THEN HE WALKED YOU HOME SO YOUR DAD WOULDN’T KNOW. YOU OWE HIM. SO LET HIM TAKE YOU OUT FOR ICE CREAM. HE’S A GOOD GUY, AND YOU ALREADY TOLD HIM HE’S HOT AND THAT HIS FAMILY IS SHINY. CHECK YOUR PHOTOS AND MAYBE YOU’LL REMEMBER.
“Oh, you shouldn’t send that,” Beth says. “I already know all that. I’m right here.”
“I haven’t been drunk before,” I say, “but from what I hear, people may not remember everything super clearly when they wake up the next day.”
“I guess,” Beth says.
“Better safe than sorry, don’t you think?”
She shrugs.
I hand her the phone and then I swoop my arms under her armpits and lift her to her feet. We’ve gone about four steps when she flails like she’s about to walk off the edge of a cliff.
“Wait!” Her eyes are wide, her mouth open, her breathing sharp. “Wait, Ethan.”
“I’m waiting,” I say. “I haven’t moved.”
“Okay.” She nods. “Good.” She nods again. “Very good, even.”
“Okay,” I say. “What did you want?”
“There’s still one can of beer left,” she says.
“I’m good,” I say, “and I really don’t think you should have any more.”
“But we can’t just leave it there,” she says. “My mom will find it.”
“On the edge of Dr. Archer’s property? I doubt it.”
“She will,” Beth says. “She’s like a blood dog.”
“A bloodhound?”
“Yes.” She stumbles back toward the bench, falling to her knees in front of the last can of beer. “And this one.” She upends the mostly empty can, spilling the last few swallows on the ground, and then she opens the last one very carefully, staring intently at the lid.
“This stuff is very bad. It should be illegal.”
“Since you’re seventeen, itisillegal.”
“Wait, are you twenty-one?” She turns toward me, wide-eyed.
“I just turned eighteen,” I say. “It’s illegal for me, too.”
“Phew,” she says. “No one can drink it, then.” She dumps it over, watching as the liquid splashes out, some of it hitting her pants. I try not to cringe. For some reason this is therapeutic for her.
Hopefully her parents won’t kill her when they realize she’s taken it.
I help her get back to her feet, and I’m about to walk her home when I hear a voice.
“Ethan Brooks.”
