Drunk with Love

Friday nights for most teenagers represents the beginning of an event called The Weekend.

I’m not most teenagers. I choose my companions carefully.

Depending on my mood, I either watch a sitcom or read Anne Tyler novels.

“Oh, Grace, you’re so boring!” my best friend Farrah says, stretching the “boring” part.

“Then why do you hang out with me?” I ask.

“Because. You’re funny,” she says.

“Oh, so I’m boring but funny at the same time?”

“Uh huh.”

“You’re not making any sense,” I say.

Farrah tries to stifle a giggle. Her hazel eyes sparkle and crinkle at the corners. Her cheeks look like rosy dough.

Gosh, I love her.

Farrah continually urges me to forsake my weekend routine and actually do something involving body movement.

“Get out of the house for once,” she says. “Let’s go buy some beer this Friday. Let’s get drunk.”

“A-ha!” I say. “You’re such a user. You only want me around because you’re not old enough to buy your own booze.”

“Neither are you,” she reminds me.

“Yeah, but I don’t look it and that’s what counts.”

“Bitch.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Yes.”

I stick out my tongue and laugh.

Friday night.

Farrah convinces me to surrender my TV, books, and sobriety for just one night.

At the beer store I order a six pack of Molson Dry. The clerk never falters when he looks at me.

I’m both relieved and disappointed when he doesn’t ask for ID.

Do I really look that old?

Farrah and I go to a park near her house and sit on a bench on a hill where we can watch the evening traffic pass by.

Three beers later my body droops and my head follows. Alcohol always sucks away my spirits.

Farrah, though, sits on the edge of the bench and giggles inexplicably at various intervals.

She drops her head on my shoulder. “I love you, Grace,” she says in a sleepy voice.

I gasp inaudibly. Am I breathing? No one has ever directed those words to me. I feel like I’ve received an unexpected gift. I never believed anyone could find something in me to love.

I love you, too, Farrah. I love you too.

But the words catch in my throat. If only she could read my mind.

Only when I try to utter the truths of my heart does eloquence fail me.

So, I cry.

“Grace, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

I continue to weep.

Suddenly, Farrah releases a surprised squeal as she loses her balance and lands on the grass. Instead of climbing back onto the bench she lies on her back and laughs at the stars.

Our contrasting sounds drain into the night.

I hold Farrah cushioned within the layers of my heart, at the core where nothing could wrench her from me.

Will I ever find the courage to give Farrah the same gift she’s given me?