One weekend in the fall of my senior year, Tricia came up north to see me. It was against the rules, of course, but we stayed in a Marriott on Route 1 paid for by our parents, who called and told the school that they were staying with us. Tricia was sixteen and had gotten a bottle of vodka somewhere. We sat in the hotel room drinking screwdrivers and watching HBO for two days straight, eating delivery pizza and Chinese food because we were afraid of being seen by someone from school if we left the room. We came up with movie ideas and argued about the merits of Bright Eyes and drank until we threw up and then drank more. Tricia seemed to understand what my problem was even though I couldn’t explain it. She made me feel better. When we said goodbye at the train station on Sunday afternoon, the thought of going back to school alone made me cry.

“You’ll be home soon,” Tricia said, and rubbed my back.

“I don’t want to go home,” I said. “I don’t want anything.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she said.

Back at the dorm that night I finished the handle of vodka by myself and passed out on the communal bathroom floor. By some miracle my friend Landon, and not an adult or a snitch, was the one who found me, and he managed to get me back to my room. I woke up with puke in my bed and scared myself into not drinking until I went home for Thanksgiving.

And then at Thanksgiving … actually, that’s enough.

Now, Tricia’s car reeked of old cigarettes and french fries. We lit new cigarettes to cover it up. The radio was playing “Do They Know It’s Christmas?”

“I wish they’d play the Italian Christmas donkey,” Patricia said. “You remember the Italian Christmas donkey song?”

“It might be too racist now,” I said.

“America can suck my dick,” said Patricia. “This is the Wacky Races, Dick Dastardly, and Muttley. No room for moral hypocrisy here.”

There was joy in me for the first time since I got dumped. We, the Christopher kids, were single and high and going to see the sad people in the bar on Christmas. We would tell them, like that angel What’s-His-Name, to rejoice and be glad.

“Yo, we should pick up some candy canes,” I said. “To distribute unto the drunks.”

“Eh, I’ve got a bag of Hershey’s Kisses from Halloween in the trunk,” Tricia said. “No trick-or-treaters this year. As usual.”

“Did you know candy canes are supposed to be shaped like shepherd’s sticks?” I said. “Crooks, rather? And the red stripes are the blood of Jesus? I guess everyone knows that.”

Patricia rubbed at her cheek. “My face is itchy,” she said. “Does my face look weird?”