Page 37 of The Surprise

“No beer this time?” I can’t help asking.

She covers her face with her free hand. “Don’t bring that up.”

“Why not?” I crane my head around so I can see every part of her face that she’s not covering. “You were really cute drunk.”

She groans.

“I mean it,” I say. “I’ve never drunk myself—my mom’s a lunatic about that stuff—but I’ve had lots of friends who acted way stupider when they did.”

Beth shakes her head, dropping her hand. “Way stupider?” She sighs. “What a great recommendation.”

“It could have been worse,” I say. “You didn’t puke on me.”

She straightens. “That’s the bar?”

I shrug. “Drunk teens usually do, but you can hold your alcohol, apparently, so bravo.”

“I don’t want to hold it,” she practically explodes. “I’m—I shouldn’t have—the whole thing was—”

I drop a hand on her forearm. “Whoa, calm down.” I haven’t even mentioned that I’m doing work for Steve because we got caught. I wonder whether she remembers seeing him.

“It’s just that, my mom is—” She cuts off. “Never mind. Look, I don’t drink, okay? It was just a bad night, and—”

“It’s fine,” I say. “I won’t mention it again.”

Her shoulders droop and her face falls and her eyes drop. “My mom’s a mess,” she says, her voice terribly small. “I don’t want to be like that.”

“Then you won’t be,” I say. “I’m sure of it.”

“I’m afraid I will be,” she whispers. “It’s probably my biggest fear.”

“Meanwhile, everyone wishes I would bemorelike either of my parents.” I can’t help my dry chuckle. “Instead, I’m this reject who doesn’t want to sit in classrooms or type words on a computer.”

“My Aunt Donna’s some kind of super genius, and my dad kind of hated her for it. School isn’t always the answer.”

“Preaching to the choir,” I say. “I know plenty of people who went to great schools and they don’t seem very happy.”

“Is your mom happy?” Beth glances down at the cupcake, like she forgot she had it.

I stuff the rest of the sandwich in my mouth and lean forward to grab the other one. It’s attracted a half dozen ants at this point, but I’m obviously not picky. Plus, I’m bigger than them. I start flicking them off. Unlike the Houston ants, I doubt they’ll rally their friends and come to Gulliver my Travels.

Beth pokes at the frosting, peeling off the pink rose and eating it. “She seems happy.”

“I mean, it’s hard to tell since my dad died,” I say. “She used to be really happy.”

“Does she work more now?” Beth drags a finger through the fluffy white part of the cupcake frosting.

“So much more,” I say. “She used to work a day or two a week, and then she did all the other stuff, like school meetings, house stuff, grocery shopping, cooking, meeting friends. But then Dad got sick and that stuff fell apart, and then when he died. . .” I shrug.

“I bet that’s hard.”

“She’s kind of like superwoman,” I say. “I’m sure she doesn’t sleep enough, and I bet she’s not very happy most of the time, but she never really complains, and she just keeps going, no matter what happens, no matter what goes wrong.”

“I meant hard,” Beth says, her voice somehow even smaller, “foryou.”

“Oh.” For me? No one really asks about me. “I mean, I’m fine.”

“Saying you’re fine doesn’t actually make it true,” she says.

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