Read Online The Rise of the Fourteen by Catherine Carter - Free Book Online

door
quietly, his keys jangling as he swings the door open. As a fleeting
afterthought, he decides to tiptoe up the stairs. See? I’m being careful , Ámpelos muses to himself.
    That doesn’t last long, however. All thoughts of caution
flee from his mind as bile begins to rise in his throat. He races to the
bathroom, where he begins to vomit profusely. His retching noises can be heard
throughout the house. The stench of vomit fills the air and only serves to add
to his already growing nausea. He remains beside the toilet for quite some
time. As a result, he does not hear the lights click on in the bedroom a few
doors down.
    “Stefan, he’s getting out of hand. He’s going too far! You
know that!”
    “Now, dear ....”
    “Think about what will happen when he turns eighteen!”
    “Castalia, now is not the time to get hysterical! We will
speak with him when he has had a chance to reflect.” The light clicks off, and
the room is plunged into darkness once more.
    When the vomit finally stops flowing, Ámpelos half crawls to
his room, trailing the stench of regret and tequila. He groans softly as he
pulls himself up onto his bed. He doesn’t even bother to close the curtains as
he reaches for his covers. Everything has been drained out. Only weariness
remains. It does not take long for the dark shades of sleep to cover his eyes.
    A groggy Ámpelos awakens several hours later. As he tries to
stand up, he feels faint. Dark specks dance around his eyes, threatening to cut
off his vision. He holds onto a chair for support, but the dizziness is
overwhelming. He slumps into the chair and tries to breathe.
    Slowly, like icing dripping out of a pastry tube, the
swirling lights leave his vision, and he can stand again. But a burning thirst
lingers, drying up his mouth and throat until there is a salted slug in place
of his tongue. He makes his way down the stairs in the search of some water.
    The water pitcher is to the left of the sink as it always
is. Ámpelos reaches for a glass in the cupboard when he sees something at the
corner of his eye—his father, sitting at the kitchen table and perusing the
newspaper over a fruity Jamaican blend. Act casual. You have nothing to be
guilty about .
    He clutches the glass tightly, his knuckles whitening . Then there is the gentle patter of delicate slippers as his mother enters the
room. Not good, not good. He pours some water, trying his best not to
spill everywhere. He attempts to whistle in a nonchalant manner, but his dry
mouth will not permit it. He chugs the water as fast as he can and then pours
another glass. Hangovers are when one appreciates the life-giving properties
of water. He sighs gratefully after setting down his fourth glass.
    “So, why were you out so late last night?” his father
inquires.
    Ámpelos nearly drops the glass as he puts it in the
dishwasher. Cool, natural. A simple lie. Nothing major. “Didn’t I tell
you? It was movie night down at the community center. Didn’t you get the
flier?” They hadn’t been to a movie night since Ámpelos was eight. How could
I have been so stupid? He looks up at his parents’ faces. They clearly
aren’t buying it. Mission abort, mission abort!
    “At this point, I'm not sure if you're still hung over, or
you're just a terrible liar,” his mother says icily. There is a brief worry in
her eyes, but it is quickly replaced by anger.
    He's not going to be able to get out of this one. Ámpelos
cautiously approaches them. Any sudden movements, any perceived slight, and
he'd be in a world of trouble. “Who said that I was hung over?” he asks,
suddenly taking a keen interest in studying the fruit bowl at the center of the
table.
    “If you would just come clean, this would be so much easier
for everyone!” his father snaps. “I should think that half the neighborhood
could hear your spewing with the noise you made. And the smell! I should truly
recommend that anyone who goes anywhere near that bathroom should wear a