Laura counts the money we’ve collected. “Enough for a bottle,” she announces. “But we still need money for orange juice. Can’t drink vodka neat.”
I crane my neck and look around for someone who can chip in. I spot Fung Chin. “Hey Fung!” I beckon him over.
“Burn, fucking what you want?”
“We need ten dollars. Can you chip in?”
“No way,” he says. “I not a bank, fucking.”
“We’ll split the drinks with you, Fung. But you have to go buy it and then …”
“You give me alcohol and drugs? Fucking?”
“Not drugs, Fung. Just alcohol.”
“Okay, but why I must buy it? Fucking. Why you not buy it? Fucking.”
“’Cause we’re underage and you’re twenty-one. And cut out the ‘fucking’ shit, okay? It’s not cool.”
“Okay. Fuc … okay.”
I grab a pen and write on his hand. “Vodka, okay? See this? Vodka. Get it?”
“I can read,” he snaps, then runs off. He returns with a bottle of gin.
“Gin?! Fung, what the fuck? Gin?”
“I discuss like this: I show my hand to man. Man read and give me this. I say, is no vodka. Man say, ‘Get the fuck out of here, asswipe!”
“He said that? The fucking asshole!” Furious, I decide to confront the man. “Come with me, Fung.” I grab his hand and march over the Liquor Martee, my girls in tow.
The patrons in the bottle shop are in such a good mood – smiling and giving each other way – never seen this kind of courtesy before in my life.
“After you!”
“No, no, after you!”
“Ah, thank you so much.”
“You are most welcome.”
Friendlier than church. Confusing much.
The teller who served Fung is a fat, balding fucker with green teeth. Well, green and yellow teeth and he’s got a perpetual mean expression.
I put on my adult voice. “You gave us, eh, him the wrong … him. You gave him the wrong drink, sir,” I say. “We wanted … he wanted vodka, not gin.”
“What?!” Green teeth eyes me like I’m roadkill or something. “Get the fuck out of here, you dumb bitch.” He points to a sign. “See that? Says no returns. Now get the fuck out of here. Go on, scram!”
Even though I’m intimidated by him, I stay focused on the vodka at hand. “We want our vodka,” I say. “We paid for it and …”
“You want me to call the cops? Huh? You got ID?”
“Burn, let’s go,” Sultana whispers.
“Yeah,” Laura says. “Leave it.”
I ignore them and look at green teeth. “Well, sir, I didn’t buy it and I’m not buying it. So, I’m calling the cops.” I pretend to dial.
Slowly, he rubs his bald head. My outstanding warrants. Fuck! “Wait!”
I pause with my dialing. “Give us two bottles of vodka and I stop dialing.”
“Whaaaat?!”
“And a gallon of orange juice.”
He glares at me.
“And some M&Ms. Peanut M&Ms.”
“You fucking bitch!”
I start dialing again. “Better not have outstanding warraaaants,” I sing.
“Okay! Okay!”
I pause with my dialing.
Cursing under his breath, he gets two bottles of vodka and slams it on the counter.
I nod, excited at my luck. A quick glance at the faces of my friends and I know, I’m a star in their eyes. “Now the gallon of orange juice. Sir.”
With a snarl, he gets the orange juice and Peanut M&Ms and places it on the counter. “Now get the fuck out of here!”
Unable to believe my luck, I grab the orange juice while Fung grabs the vodka and we hightail it out of there.
“Burn, you good ho! Fucking.”
“No, Fung, I’m a smart ho. Fucking!”
Fung is the only one with his own place so we take advantage of him. It’s a studio apartment filled with two-minute-noodles and octopus. Frozen octopus, not real live ones.
We drink, get him drunk and eat up all his noodles. Then we teach him to rap for us. Eminem, Kanye, 50 Cent – he goes for it. Then we teach him how to dougie. He’s a great sport and we laugh our asses off.
“You want to have relations with me?” he asks.
“Eh, no thanks.”
“Oh, okay.”
He takes turns propositioning all my friends and we all respectfully decline.
“Hey guys, I have a confession.”
They look at me, eager to hear what I have to say.
“Like, I have this ‘gift’ and …”
“Did we miss your birthday?” Tina asks, peering at me.
“Nah, it’s not that kind of gift.”
All eyes are on me. “But you can’t tell anyone about my gift, okay?”
They nod, their eager faces ready to receive my gift.
“I …I can hear people’s thoughts … whispers,” I say and brace myself for the ‘Wow!’ and the ‘You lucky thing, you’ and ‘Give us a demo’.
“Burn!” Hawk yells. “You can’t do this.
“Yeah, and I have this gift-keeper kinda dude – a real pain in the ass sometimes.”
“Burn!” Hawks snaps.
I ignore him and look at my dear friends. They stare at me for so long, I shift in my too-tight skinny jeans.
Then they burst out laughing.
“What?” I cry. “What? Why you laughing?”
They slap each other’s shoulders and fall around with laughter.
Mfff!
“I see dead people too,” Tina splutters. Another burst of laughter from the assholes I call my friends.
“Hey, my tongue can touch my nose,” Sultana says. “Watch this!” With her eyes crossed on her nose, she attempts to touch her nose with her long tongue. Everyone marvels at her “gift” then tries to outdo her.
Well, serves me right for thinking I could share something so amazing with these stoners. That’s the last time I will tell anyone about my gift. I will wait till I’m twenty-one before I do it again and then too, I will only tell anyone on or over the age of twenty-one. Mature people, for that matter. Very mature.
“You want octopus?” Fung asks.
“No, thank you!” Sultana says. “I will not eat anything that killed Steve …Steve …” She closes her drunken eyelids as she tries to remember the name.
“Steve?” Tina asks.
“Yeah, the crocodile guy,” Sultana says, clicking her fingers in the air. “The Australian dude.”
“Stingray!” Laura says. “It wasn’t …”
“Nah, his name wasn’t Steve Stingray,” Sultana says. A combination of drunk and thick can be both hilarious and infuriating.
“Irwin,” I say.
“Yeah,” Laura says. “Steve Irwin. And, Sultana, it wasn’t an octopus that killed him – it was a goddamn stingray.”
“Yeah, Sultana, you’re giving octopus a bad rep here,” Tina says.
“You guys are wrong; it was an octopus that killed him,” Sultana insists.
“HOW?” Tina challenges. “How the hell did an octopus kill him?”
Sultana turns out her palms and shrugs. “Stabbed him with one of its thingies, I think.”
I hear a collective groan from my other slightly smarter, but equally drunk friends.
While they argue among themselves, I look at the time, gasp at how late it is and jump to my feet. “Gotta go, guys. Angel’s probably waiting.”
My friends decide to leave as well.
Swaying like he’s on a ship, Fung stands at his door with his Justin Beiber headband across one eye and says, “Come back to my crib, okay?”
“Okay, Fung,” we chorus.
“Next time you teach me how to pop, drop and lock, okay?”
“Sure thing, Fung,” I say. “But that’s Pop, Lock and Drop, by the way.”
Ya, ya, whateva. You American have such stupid names for everything.
Ingrate! I shake my head.
As I walk home, my mind drifts to Brody and his great smile.
Wonder what he’s doing now? Wonder if he’s thinking of me?
I put my phone on private, then dial his number.
He answers on the first ring. “Hello? Hello?”
Hearing his voice makes me want to cry. I quickly end the call and put my phone away.
“Burrrrrn!” Hawk’s voice bellows the moment I am in bed. “You are only supposed to talk about your gift when you are twenty-one. Those are the rules, Burn. Not only did you drink, but you also told all your friends about it!”
The alcohol is wearing off and all I want to do is hangover in peace, so I do what is necessary. “Sorry. It won’t happen again,” I say, in a humble voice. “You’re right. That was irresponsible of me. Sir.”
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Burn. You’re saying all the right things so I will leave you alone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can read your mind, you know.”
“Yes sir.”
“I have to tell you – you’re the most frustrating of all Gifters. You break every single rule and you never listen. I’m sick of this.”
“Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“Aaaarrrggghhh!” he cries as he vanishes.
Thank you, Genie, for leaving.
He reappears. “I heard that! You’re making fun of me, calling me Genie.”
“Sorrry, sorry, sorry, sorry!”
He vanishes again. I pull down my eye-mask and snore like Mrs. Tyson’s Doberman.