20. Chapter 19
Chapter 19
Maeve Henderson
Why did I agree to this?
I hate going out, I hate spending money, and I hate large crowds of people, yet here we are at one of the largest bars just off campus.
It's loud, crowded, hot, and I'm already grumpy from being hungry.
Sean ate my little bowl of pico, and the waiter couldn't promise me anything else would be safe for me.
I should be home right now.
I should be binging on the birthday cake I spent half of my grocery budget on!
But no, instead, I'm here, starving.
I shouldn't complain; my friends have never demanded I go out with them, but this kinda sucks.
The only reason I haven't snuck off and gone home is because my apartment is seven miles away, but my birthday is in five minutes, so I hope the rumor is true about your first birthday shot being free.
If not, I have $5 in my bank account, and I'm hoping that's enough for their cheapest shot and a small tip.
My whole group is already on the dance floor with drinks in hand, clinging to each other as they sway to whatever this terrible music is blaring in here.
They're already a mess of sweaty bodies in the middle of the dance floor, and the smell of sweat, liquor, and pot is filling this small space to create a putrid smell.
Is this what partying smells like?
Who likes this?
Better yet, why did I agree to this?
I ignore all the commotion and make my way toward the bar, having to push through the crowd until the bustle of the bar takes over the crowd of dancers, and the bartender gives me a short nod of acknowledgment.
That's fine; I can't order for five more minutes anyway.
When he finally focuses on me, I feel awkward and out of place. "Hi, I was wondering if it's true that your first legal drink was free?" I ask kindly.
Maybe it's just the loud music, but I swear I thought I heard this guy huff at me.
"Nope. Order something, or stop crowding my bar." He says gruffly.
“Oh, sorry. How much is the cheapest shot of either rum, tequila, vodka, or whiskey?” I ask.
Now, there's no mistaking it: this man rolls his eyes and gives an unmistakable huff. “Bottom shelf is $9.” He replies.
Crap.
Okay, no big deal, just find someone from my group and let them know that I'm going home, so nobody worries.
It'd be nice if someone offered to leave with me. The buses are already closed for the night, I can't afford a taxi, and I'm seven miles from home.
"Maevey!" Someone shouts from the center of the room.
I plaster on a fake smile, turning to see Jessica beyond hammered and stumbling over to me. "Buy me a shot, Maevey!" She slurs.
I catch her before she can fall into me, but she spills her fruity pink drink on my white dress.
Wonderful, I've never worn this, and it's probably ruined.
"Jess, I think you've had enough." I tell her, but that just makes her pout. She gives me some kind of drunken version of puppy dog eyes and a pouty lip.
Even if I could afford it, it's my birthday! Why wouldn't she buy me a drink?
Luckily, Sean comes and plucks her away before I have to respond to her demand, leaving me to attempt to wash the alcohol off of my dress before it stains.
I rush to the bathroom and grab a paper towel to start blotting the fruity pink drink off my dress's beautiful lace.
This sucks…
I hate it here.
I hate people.
I also feel bitter that this is how my birthday is going.
Maybe if I speed walk home, I can eat a piece of cake before I get too tired?
Think positive!
I will have the energy for cake!
I'm reminding myself of the cake waiting for me as I walk out of the bathroom, actually smiling for the first time tonight.
"Hey!" The bartender yells at me.
Wow, I didn't know a good mood could be ruined so quickly.
Am I not allowed to use the bathroom if I'm not drinking?
Am I even allowed inside if I'm not spending money?
I guess I'm about to find out because he's waving a very black and blue finger at me to come talk to him. "I was just leaving, I'm sorry." I say as soon as I reach him.
This guy waves a hand dismissively at me and slams a very clean shot glass down on the table. He then reaches back and stands up on his toes to grab a bottle of something from the very top shelf and pours the clear liquor into the glass.
"Happy birthday, kid." He says flatly.
I want to cry.
He told me to leave, and I couldn't afford the bottom-shelf drink, yet he just gave me top-shelf tequila and was nice to me.
Did I step out into another dimension?
Does he think I'm someone else?
Or do I simply look so pathetic that he took mercy on me so I wouldn't bring down the atmosphere of the whole bar?
"Your tab is covered tonight. Every shot glass is disinfected twice, and everything is top shelf. Those are their rules." He tells me when I don't pick the shot glass up.
My eyes widen, staring over at this massive man in disbelief. "What?" I ask.
Nobody cares about me enough to cover my tab for anything.
Maybe this is Shelby's way of apologizing for being so crappy to me lately?
Either way, I can't really complain. “Who?” I ask curiously, but the bartender simply pours me another shot of tequila.
“I’m not allowed to say, but everything is covered, tip included. Go crazy, kid.” He tells me.
I want to press him, to beg him to tell me who paid for my drinks, but I doubt that he’d tell me anyway.
So, I take the shot in one go, surprising myself that it doesn't burn.
I've always heard liquor burns. "Top shelf doesn't burn your throat like that cheap shit. What else will you have?" The bartender asks me.
Maybe my birthday won't be so bad.