Page 23 of Even After Sunset

That’s it. Those details are all I’ve got.

Wait—also, stumbling as one messy, drunken herd along a tree-lined road while the rest of the world became dark and still.

There isn’t a soul in sight now though and the thought occurs to me that even just lying here, I’m likely trespassing on private property. Also, Jackie is clearly worried as hell and the last thing I need is for her to call Richard on Day Two of our shit-tastic baby-sitting arrangement. I take my phone out again to text her; to let her know I’m on my way back to the festival grounds (somehow). But of course. Ofcoursemy battery is dead.

I stumble to my feet and brush the sand from my clothes, then lean over to shake more from my hair, scrubbing my fingers along my scalp to get out as much as possible. The small movement makes my head throb though, and when I straighten, my stomach tightens. I thought I was used to being hungry, but apparently not, because the cramps are a new thing. Those hot dogs were the only food I’ve eaten in the past couple of days and I probably shouldn’t have scarfed them down so fast.

I brace my weight with my hands on bent knees until the cramps subside and then slowly straighten again. I kick some sand into the pit and, not wanting to break from character, check all the bottles on the ground for any remaining liquor. Because if today’s going to be anything like the past two months since Igot out of Trenton, a few swigs of Jack Daniels will go a long way to making the day more tolerable.

Contrary to what my aunt says about me, I don’t drink because I’m an alcoholic; I drink because I need it just todeal.I need it to get through the day. And Idefinitelyneed it to fall asleep at night.

I find a bottle of Captain Morgan that’s still about a quarter full, so I chug that down, hoping it will also help fill the gnawing emptiness in my stomach. But other than that, the rest of the bottles are all empty. Apparently, my brief surge of good luck ran out last night with the two free hot dogs.

Oh, and six… no, wait—seven neon plastic bracelets hanging around my left forearm.

I toss the empty bottle and just stand there for a few minutes, breathing in the sea air until the cramps let up a bit again, and the thought suddenly hits me: I’ve become a freakin’ homeless drunkard at the tender age of seventeen.

Hashtag Life Goals for the under-achiever.

I cross my arms above my head and lean in to a stretch, and the jolt of fire that heats along my left side makes me glance down and inspect the bruises gifted to me by my doting uncle. They’re turning yellowish-green now, ringed in purple, which, yeah, is about as sexy as it sounds. It’s nothing I’m not used to, though; Jackie was right on that one. I’m pretty sure she’s the sort of girl who is right about most things.

Thing is, I don’t totally hate Uncle Karl for what he did. If I was entrusted with the task of dealing with a punk like me, I’d probably kick my ass, too. I wouldn’t be such a wuss about it, though. I mean, come on: who waits until someone is passed out before landing the first kick?

I straighten and take in one last sweep of the view, because it’s stunning: glittering waves as far as the eye can see. I hope whoever owns this beach realizes how lucky they are to have their own little slice of heaven to escape to every day.

I make my way to the stone steps and the footpath through the trees, still combing my hands through my hair to shake out the loose sand.

The good news is that when I come out on the other end of the path, I’m on a dead-end street, which means there’s only one direction I can head. The badnews is that I’m in a ritzy residential neighborhood, so I’m likely far from the festival grounds—which, I’m pretty sure were closer to the touristy town, right near the tip of the peninsula.

Looks like Day Two on the road is already shaping up to be just as memorable as Day One.

I walk for over an hour, but I don’t seem to be anywhere closer to any sort of actual town center. Instead, I end up on a rural route where houses are all at least a mile apart. I know it must still be fancy vacationland though, since I pass about six antique dealers, all with ornate furniture displayed on wide flat lawns, or piled on wooden porches.

I start walking backwards in order to see any cars approaching and stick my thumb out any time a vehicle comes into sight, praying that someone will give me a lift. I need to get back to those festival groundssoon. As in yesterday soon. Jackie will be losing her shit at this point, if her earlier texts are anything to go by. In fact it’s possible she’s already ratted me out to Richard for being M.I.A.

No one even slows down, though. And that’s another thing I’ve learned about rich people: they’re not big on picking up hitchhikers. It’s possible the concept is so foreign to them they don’t actually know that someone on the roadside with their thumb out is looking to bum a ride. Like, if you need a ride somewhere, why wouldn’t you just hop in your Mercedes sedan and drive there yourself?

It must be close to noon because the sun is beating down like an inferno. My T-shirt sticks to my back and the friction from the sand feels like sandpaper against my skin. I eventually stop for shade under a large weeping willow: my mother’s favorite tree.

“Sorry, ma,” I can’t help whispering. Because if Aunt Deborah was right about anything, it’s that my mother would be disappointed if she could see me now.

A couple more cars pass but ignore my outstretched arm. Then just as I start walking again, I hear another one approaching and I swivel, arm already extended, as it comes into sight. Only it’s not a car.

It’s a camper.

Banana-peel yellow.

I drop my arm and let my head fall back, cursing silently. The camper slows, pulling alongside me, and Jackie lowers the window.

“What theheck, Silas?” she yells from the driver’s seat.

I shove my hands in my pockets, but don’t say anything. I may have flunked English twice, but I’m pretty sure ‘what the heck’ is a rhetorical question.

She pulls right onto the dirt curb and jerks the camper into park, jumping out onto the ground. She looks ridiculously tiny next to that thing and it would actually be comical if she wasn’t giving me such a death glare as she fast-walks toward me.

“I’ve called you about fifty times!” she screams. “I was texting you! I was worried sick, Silas!”

My jaw tightens. I don’t get how she seems to be constantly surprised by my actions. She sounds legitimately horrified, like she truly didn’t expect me to act in the exact same way I have from the second she found me,passed out drunk, on her bed. As if the news that I’ve got an actual criminal record and spent two years in juvie wasn’t enough to squash any delusions she might have still been clinging to about me being some sweet, upstanding guy.

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