Page 23 of The Surprise

“I wasn’t going to—”

“Because my mom is a pain-pill-popper, and my dad’s, like, an evil villain who steals stuff.”

“What?” I sit down next to her, barely containing my smile. Drunk Beth is entertaining.

“Yep.” She tries to set the beer down, but it falls over, beer sloshing all over the ground. “Oh, rats.” She watches, tilting her head sideways, as all of it just pours and pours and pours out onto the dirt.

“Did you want that?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Not really. I’m not my mom.”

I’m struggling to keep up. “You stole your mom’s beer?”

She leans closer, her eyes intent. “Pills,” she says, “didn’t you hear me? That’s what she likes. Piiiiills.”

“Okay,” I say.

“But when she can’t steal those from someone, she’ll drink.” She lunges forward, her hand knocking over another can of beer, this one unopened.

“You still thirsty?” I ask. “Because I feel like maybe you’ve had enough.”

“I didn’t want any to begin with, but my mom can’t have it. It’s bad for her. So I’m helping.”

“Helping?” I stifle a laugh. I’m not sure Beth’s really helping anyone. “Did you walk here?”

She straightens up, forgetting about the can, which she promptly drops in the dirt. “I sure did. I’m an excellent walker.”

I had no idea drunk people were so funny. “I’m sure that you are.”

“I’m also very, very good at making my dad mad.” She shakes her head. “He threw a cup at the wall earlier.” Then she covers her mouth. “Can you pretend I didn’t tell you that?”

He threw a cup? That doesn’t sound very good. I can’t think of a time my mom or dad threw, well, anything. At anyone. Not even at the wall. “Um, sure.”

“Oh, good. I knew you were really a good guy.” She bobs her head then, but not just once. She bobs it, and then she keeps on going, like she’s turned into bobblehead Beth.

I press one finger to her forehead. “That’s probably going to make your head hurt. Maybe try to hold your head still.”

She leans more heavily against my finger, her chin jutting forward. “You’re so hot.”

“Oh.” I can’t help smiling. “Thanks.”

“And your family is so shiny.” She bites her lip, and then she leans even closer. “Like thesun!”

The sun? What’s she saying?

“I have this photo I took of you guys, and sometimes when I’m really depressed, I look at it. No, that’s not right. Istareat it.”

“You have a—what?”

“Here.” She tries to pull her phone out of her pocket, but her fingers are fumbly, and she manages to pull and pull and then wham. Her phone flies outward, hitting me in the nose.

It feels like someone punched me, which I know isn’t very manly, but that phone’s hard and it hurts. “Ow,” I say, my hand covering my nose. I really hope my nose isn’t bleeding. If I were Izzy, I’d be a goner. Her nose bleeds when the weather turns. Or when she sneezes. Or if she blows her nose too hard.

Luckily, mine’s fine.

“Here.” Beth waggles her finger at me, and it’s clear she managed to pick up her weaponized phone from the ground. “I look at this because I’m like a big dark stain, but your family’s like a shiny sunshine that’s on your face and warm. If you look at this, you’ll feel all better. Ready?” She turns her phone around and shows me a photo.

She must have taken it the other day at dinner. It’s just me and Izzy, Mom and Emery, and Gabe. It looks like Izzy made some kind of joke. I’m making kind of a weird face, like I just heard something mildly funny, but I’m too cool to admit it.

---