Down With the Shine Read Online Free Page A

then he’s quick to add it’s better that way.
    They never miss a chance to remind me to dream small.
    I’d coached Larry in the car, not wanting him to ruin our first impression by saying something stupid like, “I wish I was home playing Donkey Kong .” I told him to say, “I wish I were the king of this party. Bow down, bitches!” He practiced, but every time it came out of his mouth like a question. And he refused to say “Bow down, bitches.” He thought it sounded too mean.
    Now Larry’s eyes meet mine and I can see the panic in them. “Um,” he says. Around us people snicker.
    Larry gulps. “I hope my mom isn’t mad at me tomorrow.”
    I narrow my eyes, promising retribution, but make mymouth smile as I give Larry his wish—with a little embellishment. “To your mom and everyone else’s parents’ staying chill, no matter what!” Then I add the words I’ve heard my uncles utter so many times: “May all your wishes come true, or at least just this one!”
    He clinks his jar against mine. Then in unison, we drink.
    The liquid dribbles out the sides of my mouth and burns going down. Smiling, I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. Next to me, Larry is doubled over, coughing hoarsely. I make a big show of taking the moonshine from him and patting him on the back. “Sometimes the first sip’s like that,” I say.
    Another half-truth. The first sip is always like that.
    My uncles rubbed the stuff on my gums when I was a teething newborn, poured a finger of it into hot tea anytime I had a cold, and every April Fool’s Day they find some way to make me take an unwitting taste of the stuff, whether by soaking my toothbrush in it or mixing it into the milk I pour over my Cocoa Krispies. And yet, despite all that, I have no tolerance for it. The shine leaves a scorched path from the tip of your tongue all the way to your belly. The only reason I’d been able to take a swig without coughing was the bottle of Chloraseptic I’d sprayed onto my throat before leaving the house.
    By now the entire party is trying to squeeze its way into the kitchen. Everyone wants to know whether we’ll be welcomed or thrown out on our asses.
    Here’s the thing about Michaela Gordon’s party: only the coolest kids are invited. The rest of the school comes to ride it like a bucking bronco—you hold on as long as you can until someone throws you out. For the cool kids, finding horrible new ways to let the unworthy know they’re unwelcome is part of the fun. And for everybody else who comes to school the next week with Sharpie-covered faces, or still clutching their stomachs after being force-fed laxatives, there is a strange mixture of shame and bravado in announcing that they were at Michaela’s for thirty-eight-and-a-half minutes and three of them were at the exact time the Barney twins performed their topless table dance.
    If we’re gonna get tossed, this is the moment it’s gonna happen.
    Just when things can’t get any tenser, Michaela Gordon herself comes pushing through the crowd until she is standing right in front of me.
    Own it , I remind myself.
    I brazenly shove one of the jars at her. “Have some moonshine,” I say. Then, holding up my own jar, I officially throw down the gauntlet. “Make a wish.”
    “I wish this party would never end,” she says with a smile that makes her look rather sharklike. “At least for those who last till morning.”
    Of course, she had to get her dig in, knowing I’ll be ushered out long before the sun rises. But I’d rather she talk shit to my face than my back as I’m being tossed out the door, so I only reply, “To a party that rocks all night and forever more! May all your wishes come true, or at least just this one!”
    Michaela doesn’t bother waiting for me to finish before she tips the jar back and takes a long swallow. A moment later she is bent over and gasping, waiting for the fire in her throat to go out.
    I suddenly doubt the wisdom of this whole plan. Michaela