Sprout

side: “Colt Kills ’Em Dead!” or “Remington Rifles: The Sniper’s Choice!” Talk about ergonomics though: I was amazed at how it just sort of fit in my hand. Without any effort on my part the nobbly grip lined itself up across my palm and my index finger was caressing the trigger, which poked from the base of the barrel like a snake’s single fang. I pointed the gun towards the passenger window, was trying to think of a better line than “Go ahead, make my day,” when a honk sounded behind me—I’d slowed to about 35 on the highway—and I dropped the gun. That tells you something about me. The fact that I didn’t pull the trigger, I mean. That my first impulse wasn’t to hurt someone, but to surrender (or maybe just hide). I ask you to keep that in mind when you get to the end of this book, cuz then maybe you won’t think so badly of me.
    HONK!
    With a start I looked up and realized I’d drifted into oncoming traffic. I had the briefest glimpse of a big round white face before I swung the car so violently off the road that I could swear two wheels left the ground. Fortunately a dirt path angled west off the highway, heading towards the river, so I didn’t end up in the ditch. I grabbed the gun off the floor and stuffed it in the glove compartment, peeked into the rearview mirror to see if anyone had followed. The coast was clear. But Ty had also disappeared.
    “Um, Ty?”
    There was a long pause—just long enough for me to wonder if I’d somehow thrown him out of the car when I jerked onto the dirt road—and then a long, satisfied burp sounded from the floor of the backseat. Ty’s head popped back into view, and even before he said anything I smelled the sweet fire on his breath.
    “Well I tell you what ,” he said, rolling back into the front seat. He held a three-liter bottle of dark brown liquid, nearly full. “I don’t know what this is, but it sure as hell ain’t Pepsi .”
    I drank. If you want an excuse or an apology, you ain’t getting one. I’d watched my dad and Mrs. Miller enough to know alcohol had its uses.
    “Rum,” I said, handing the bottle back to Ty. “Trust me, we’re gonna regret this tomorrow.”
    “Live for today, that’s what I say.” Which is about as completely the opposite of who Ty is as possible—he has one foot stuck in the past, the other striding blindly towards a make-believe future—but I didn’t bother to correct him. Just listened to the glug-glug-glug as he took a second long drink, then accepted the bottle when he passed it my way.
    I swigged again, perhaps a little delicately—rum is gross, after all, and flat pop doesn’t help the taste at all —and handed the bottle to Ty.
    “What’re you, a little girl? We’re getting’ drunk here, Daniel, and then we’re gonna shoot some stuff up. Drink .”
    “Screw you, Petit.” I tipped my head all the way back, sucked so hard that the plastic sides of the bottle buckled inwards and a syrupy sweet-and-sour river coursed down my throat, inside and out. Rivulets of brown liquid streamed down the sides of my cheeks and into my green-stained collar.
    “Allow me,” Ty said, leaning over and slurping the residue from my face and neck, fumbling at my pants at the same time.
    “Hey!” I heard myself say more harshly than I’d intended. “Don’t be like, Oh, I’m so drunk, I don’t know what I’m doing. You’ll be really drunk soon enough.”
    Ty was silent a moment, then grabbed the bottle, swigged deeply. Then: “I know exactly what I’m doing,” he said, and pressed himself against me again, slower this time, more deliberately, the tip of his tongue flicking at my ear, my jawbone, his teeth nipping at my collar, his fingers dancing over my T-shirt.
    “Car!” I yelled. “Car! Car!”
    Ty rolled off me as some kind of Oldsmobile rattled past, stayed slumped against the passenger door even after the car had disappeared behind us. At first I thought he’d been spooked, but then I looked over and saw that he was laughing so hard no sound was coming out. His face was red as a ripe tomato, and lines of sweat had broken out below his hairline and above his upper lip. Actually, I think the line on his lip was spit. My spit, I mean, not his.
    “Car!” he wheezed finally. “Car, car!” His voice creaked like an old air conditioner the first time you turn it on in June. He pointed at the crows in the sky. “I thought you were imitating them! Car, car!”
    “You’re drunk,” I