Read Online Falling Under by Danielle Younge-Ullman - Free Book Online Page B

couldn’t find it,” he says. “Find what?”
    “The can, I couldn’t—” Ew, ew, ew!
    “Shh, that’s okay, Dad.”
    “Please don’t tell your mother,” he says, and looks at you with those big eyes.
    “Of course not.”
    He shakes his head back and forth and whines. He’s still drunk, obviously, and a pathetic sight.
    “So, Dad, I don’t have enough money for bail and I don’t know how else to get you out.”
    “It’s okay, I called a friend and she’s coming in the morn- ing,” he says. “They’ll probably drop the charges anyway, but I have to wait till tomorrow.”
    “But... will you be okay here?”
    “Sure, sure. You go to Bernadette’s house for the rest of the weekend, all right?”
    “Okay.”
    His face crumples and he grips your hand in his. “I’m sorry, I’m a bad father. I’m a terrible father.” “No you’re not, you’re fine.”
    Lots of fathers get hauled into jail for being drunk in the middle of the afternoon! Don’t worry about it!
    A guard comes to tell you your time is up. “I love you,” he says.
    “I love you too, Dad.”
    “Don’t ever stop. Please don’t ever stop.” As if you could.
    It might be easier if you could. In fact, it might be better not to have parents at all. The thought feels like a stab in the belly. Shame on you.
    You walk back to the waiting room and Bernadette. There is a grapefruit-size lump in your throat and you try to swal- low it as she gets up to ask how he is.
    “Tanked. Pathetic,” you say. “As expected.” “And you?”
    “Well, it’s nine o’clock on a Friday night and other teenagers are watching a movie, going to a party, or grounded and doing their homework. And I’m here.”
    “Yeah,” she says, and puts an arm around your shoulders and squeezes.
    You are stretched, singed, raw. “I feel old,” you say.
    “I know,” she says.
    Bernadette’s family is great, but you don’t relish explain- ing why you’re showing up there late Friday night when you’re supposed to be at Dad’s. Back in his living room, about to repack and leave for her house, Bernadette seems to read your mind.
    “Why don’t we just stay here?”
    You nod. “There’s vodka in the freezer.” She grins. “Right on!”
    It’s a good night to drink.
    Bernadette is wise and sweet and knows not to pry, knows you’re not a fan of “letting it all out.” Letting it all out is bullshit.You can cry and scream and let it out, but it will still not BE out.
    Vodka and orange juice. Cigarettes.
    You stick your legs through the balcony railings and swing your bare feet. Bernadette blows smoke rings and you look up at the sky.
    “No stars,” you say.
    “City’s too bright,” she says. “Something about...I dunno, they told us in science class, didn’t they?”
    “Dunno. Doesn’t fucking matter.” “Nope, doesn’t.”
    Your blood is sluggish as it moves through your body.You feel a slow, achy thrum in your legs as they swing. You down the last of your glass.
    Bernadette eases down onto her back and you join her. Things are starting to spin.
    “Whoa,” she says.
    “Yeah.”
    “Well, at least we got a good grade on the curtains,” she says.
    “Waste of fabric,” you say. “Nah.”
    “We should’ve done prison stripes instead,” you say, and laugh even though it’s all starting to hurt again. “And instead of a beach mural, I should’ve done graffiti.”
    Bernadette snorts.
    You need more alcohol, because it’s not working any- more. It’s worn off.
    “Come on,” you say, and get up.
    Inside, your eyes land on a paint can. “BEE!”
    “Shh, not so loud,” she says, and leans on the wall. “What?”
    “I think there’s still some... what’s that color?” You point.
    “Purple.”
    “Yeah, still some purple.”
    It’s funny, it’ll be so funny, fucking hilarious.
    You pry the lid open and find a brush. Bernadette wobbles along beside you. You dip the brush in.
    “Wait,” she says, “you’re not actually...