Inexcusable by Chris Lynch Page B

wrong.
    â€œBozo,” he said. “Killer, Bozo. Don’t you dare apologize. You don’t bring drink here.” He started slapping himself on the chest. “I provide, for my friends. You’re my friend. Everything is on the house here. Here . . .” He reached into his pants pockets and came up with something cupped in his hand. He took me by the wrist and with a little flicking gesture ejected all the contents of his hand into my open palm, like an old-timer giving pocket change to a little kid.
    They were pills, a few like the blue triangle one I scarfed earlier, a few gel capsules, a few that looked like aspirin.
    â€œI don’t want these,” I said. “Ken, this is too much. This is your stuff. You keep it, don’t go wasting it—”
    â€œI’m not wasting anything,” he said. “I got millions. Anything you want. What do you want?”
    â€œReally, nothing,” I said, and then took a harder look at the contents of my palm. Hmm. The pill from earlier . . . I was, in fact, feeling awfully better. Awfully warm. Awfully . . . nice. Awfully fearless and in control.
    â€œMaybe just this one,” I said. “Maybe—”
    â€œMaybe nothing,” he said, grabbing my fist and curling it up into a ball so I couldn’t refuse any of it. “If you don’t just shut up, and take my gift, and be a good party guest . . .” Here he either lost his train of thought or was actually thinking about what he would have to do ifI didn’t be a good party guest.” . . . then we’re all going to kick your ass. And then drop you out that window.” He looked quite pleased with his solution. “Aren’t we, guys?” he called out, to general murmuring and gurgled support from the team.
    I looked at the pills. I looked at Quarterback Ken. I looked at the open window. I shoved the pills into my pocket.
    â€œHappy graduation,” Ken said.
    â€œThanks,” I said.
    He hugged me. “I love you, man.”
    â€œWell no, really you don’t,” I said, hugging along.
    â€œAh, you’re probably right,” he said, spun, and went back to the silver tray, where scholar athletes were now gathering like big cats around a carcass.
    â€œI’ll just go get a drink then,” I said.
    Nobody objected. I left.
    When I stepped back out into the hallway on the second floor of the Quarterback Ken residence, my senses were swarmed, inside, outside. Everything seemed brighter, like a floodlit movie set. The music was enormous, filling my body and rattling it, from the bottom up. My stomach was filled with I didn’t know what, but whatever it was I had swallowed it whole and it was dancing. And here is a thing: I flashed on my sisters. Not like that, not like a freak. But I couldn’t believe they were not here. I couldn’t believe this day was here and they were not.
    I had never had a day, I mean, you know, a day in my life without them. I missed the hell out of them. I was so goddamn mad at them. They knew how important they were. They knew, Mary and Fran.
    Your family should be there. Your family should always be there. What does it say about you if they aren’t? It’s inexcusable.
    Then my eyes came to rest on Gigi Boudakian, still at the telephone table.
    Only, “rest” would not be the correct word. They were not resting, my eyes, when they were on Gigi Boudakian. She glowed, in my eyes, above and apart from everything around her. She was powered from within, wattage firing up from her while the rest of the hallway, the rest of the world, went completely flat.
    I was so stunned, I was so jumpy inside, I was so much running on pure feelings now rather than my own thinking power, that I nearly failed to notice that Gigi Boudakian was not in a party spirit as I stood there shamelessly staring at her. I nearly failed to notice that Gigi Boudakian was in