Anyway, because of Brenda’s sudden decision to ditch this joint, Huey ends up taking her shift, something he handles by drinking beer for the next six hours. He darts off for a final piss just before the ten o’clock rush, so I take the opportunity to sneak behind the counter and steal another pint of Jack Daniels and a pack of Marlboros. Then I march over to the magazine racks and stare at the small selection of condoms. I grab a three-pack in a small orange box and stuff it into my front pocket. Not because I think I’ll need them any time soon, but just because I figure Tank will think it’s cool the next time I see him.

Shortly after eleven I walk home slowly, not wanting to deal with Mom and Dad’s fighting.

I think about going to Sarah’s window and trying to patch things up, but I decide against it because I know Tank’s home tonight. We’ve texted a lot the past few days. Thankfully, he hasn’t said anything about that missing bottle of Decabol I swiped from his stash. I can only hope he never noticed. We’ve resorted to texting because he’s been at wrestling camps all week, and he says he’s too exhausted to go out at night, which is fine with me because I really don’t feel like seeing him right now. Based on our texting it sounds like everything is still cool between us, but if I see him in person I’ll have to tell him about Sarah—something I still can’t bring myself to do.

The night is warm, the summer almost over.

I lower my head and walk on, feeling alone and depressed. I turn down a side street to make the trip longer. Then I light a cigarette and take a sip of Jack Daniels, laughing to myself at the thought of a seventeen-year-old kid roaming the streets at night with a bottle of whiskey, a pack of smokes, and a three-pack of condoms. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe I am heading to Loserville real fast.

Passing the old bungalows, I listen to the Saturday night sounds of my neighborhood: televisions blaring, people yelling, babies crying, all of this drama playing out before me. I gaze at towering maples, dark windows, lighted windows, drawn curtains, open curtains, newer cars, older cars, and wonder how many of these people are truly happy with the hands they’ve been dealt. Who’s faking it and who’s being honest? Is there any way to really tell?

Probably not.

That’s when I decide that life here in Blaine feels like something along the lines of having permanently slit wrists.