Carter #2
“Nice,” I say, and even though I wanted to look at Lindsey a moment longer, I let it go. Bodhi takes me through more photos, giving me glimpses of everything I’ve missed. Or didn’t miss but can’t remember. It’s jarring every time I see myself in a photo, like I’m staring at someone else.
As we move further back through the years, I start to see some faces I remember. It’s a relief. But then it gets kind of depressing.
All of these people have moved on. Maybe their younger siblings are here, but not them. It’s just me. Stuck here.
Forever.
“Yo,” Bodhi says, obviously picking up on my vibes. “Let’s forget about these.” He closes the laptop. “I have an idea.”
“You really think this is going to work?”
“I know it will,” Bodhi says.
We skipped out of yearbook early, Bodhi explaining to Ms. Himberton that flipping through the past had been very triggering
for me so he was going to take me outside to decompress. Which, honestly, was the truth.
But he left out the part about us driving to the liquor store.
We’re in Toro, Dad’s old Honda Accord—I drive to and from school now; it only feels a little bizarre—with Bodhi sitting shotgun.
“Look, dude,” he says, “you’re legally twenty-two. You’ve been on this earth for that many years, and your license confirms
this fact, and that’s just reality. So you’ll be able to get us some liquid treats.”
“That does make sense,” I say, surprised it hadn’t occurred to me yet.
“Also I know it’s gonna work because we’ve done it before.” Bodhi extends his hands like a magician after he’s made something vanish. “Last year. When you were technically twenty-one. Heh heh.”
“Oh. So, yeah. That’s encouraging.” I only have one memory of drinking: Manny and I snuck a couple of his dad’s IPAs out of
the fridge and each drank one really fast in the basement. It tasted okay, not amazing, and it made me feel silly and loose.
And then vomity. “Have we, like, gotten drunk together?”
“We have,” Bodhi says, grinning. “Once.”
“Did I like it?”
“I think so. You were laughing your ass off.”
“Hm.” I can’t say I’m in the mood to get drunk right now, but it’s nice to have a friend to hang out with. Especially a funny friend like Bodhi. He kind of reminds me of Manny, actually.
Young Manny, not the guy in the polo shirt selling chargers. And, though it’s possible Bodhi is just using me to get alcohol,
this is still better than most other options of what I could be doing at this moment.
We pull into the parking lot of Buy Rite. My hands are shaking as I put the car into Park and push the Off button. You’ve done this before, I remind myself. And it worked out fine.
The bell on the door jingles as we walk in, instantly drawing a stare from the short-haired, broad-shouldered woman behind
the counter, who of course instantly realizes we are not of legal drinking age.
“Nice try, kids.” She makes a shooing gesture with her hands. “Go buy yourselves some orange sodas at Burger King.”
“Excuse me?” I pretend like I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Oh, I see, you think we’re . . . ? Ah, yes, people do
make that mistake sometimes. I’m actually twenty-two. I just look very young for my age.”
“Come on, buddy,” the woman says. “Do I look like a complete idiot?”
“Not at all,” I say, reaching into my pocket for my wallet with a still-trembling hand. “It’s an honest mistake!”
“You look very smart and competent,” Bodhi agrees. “A complete smart person.”
“Here.” I hand the woman my driver’s license, which she begrudgingly takes, going through the motions of staring at it so
she can get us to leave. “You’ll note that my twenty-second birthday was last month.”
“Happy belated birthday,” she says, handing the ID back. “This is an impressive fake. Now get out.”
“It’s real, though!” I say. “It’s totally real.”
“And I presume you have a fake too?” she asks, pointing to Bodhi.
“Oh, no,” he says. “I’m only sixteen.”
“Ha!” the woman barks. “So only one of you has a fake. Brilliant plan.”
“No,” I say, “only one of us is twenty-two.”
“So you’re a twenty-two-year-old hanging out with a sixteen-year-old.”
“We’re brothers,” Bodhi says, sounding genuinely offended.
The woman is about to bark again because obviously one of us is white and one of us is Asian, but Bodhi and I remain straight-faced,
and she’s forced to swallow the laugh back. It’s not so impossible that we’d be related—either of us could be adopted.
“If you want to tell me what exactly about my ID seems fake,” I say, still somehow maintaining my composure, “then fine. But
I don’t think you’ll be able to. Because it’s not fake. It’s real.”
“All right, let’s see.” The woman is completely fed up at this point. “What seems fake is that you’re standing in front of me and you’re obviously too young to drink, so leave now or I’ll escort you out myself.”
The threat holds weight, as this woman does look stronger than both me and Bodhi combined.
“This is looks-based discrimination,” Bodhi says. “You realize that, right? We could sue you.”
“Yeah, great,” the woman says, cracking her knuckles. “I’m sure you could. Best of luck with that.”
Bodhi and I look at each other and shrug. It’s not happening.
So we drive five minutes farther down the road to Vespucci Liquors, where the tattooed dude behind the counter looks at my
ID for approximately eight-tenths of a second before selling us two cases of hard cider and a bottle of Absolut vodka.
And there it is: the first official perk of being a repeat sixteen-year-old.
Score.