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Well, there it is. The six-pack of Sam Adams, next to the jug of milk my dad used in his coffee this morning. It’s been a long day. Hell, it’s been a long week. My eyes are looking more red than pink, today’s math test definitely could have gone better, and just two hours ago marked the fourth fight I’ve had with my mom over the past five days.
Yeah, it’s been a long week.
The parents are out to dinner, won’t be back for a little while. My little brother has been in hibernation since midafternoon. No one ever knows where my sister is. And I’m thinking l really need something to help me forget about my problems. I eye the Sam Adams, reach out to pick up a bottle; the frost numbs my fingers deliciously. Already, l feel better.
I wrack my brain for the long lost lessons we were supposed to have absorbed during all those years of health class. All l can come up with is … beer is not that bad. Years of watching my dad come home after a brutal day, watching him open the beer bottle before taking off his shoes, are coming back to me. What’s the difference? I’m not driving tonight. I’m not planning on going out. It’s just Netflix, Sam Adams, and me. It sounds really good.
I’m thinking this is how I will spend my night.
I hear a door Slam; voices.
And then, “Hey, Honey. What’re you doing?” My dad.
“Just thirsty,” I manage.
My fingers close around the milk jug.