Micro fiction by Emily Rinkema

The night Cory dies

Lisa has a bong and we pack it on the porch, too cold to be outside, but Stacy says her parents will know she had a party if they smell pot when they get home tomorrow, so we bounce on our toes and hug ourselves and pass it around, me, Jeff, Amy, Lisa, my twin brother Cory, Ted, the air like broken glass on our cheeks.

When the snow starts, we move inside and drink strawberry wine coolers in Stacy’s kitchen and listen to the Smiths. Frankly, Mr. Shankly comes on and Jeff marches around the house. We all follow, singing loud and off-key, and Lisa knocks over a beer and Cory bumps into a lamp and Amy laughs so hard she pees a little. 

Ted kisses me in the garage, pushes me up against the cold, hard metal of Stacy’s dad’s truck and slides his hands under my sweatshirt, and I think about describing it to Amy later, how I will remember to say that his hands were warm, that he tasted like weed, that he tried to unbutton my jeans, but he was too drunk and I had to pee. 

Back inside, I watch Lisa lead Jeff upstairs, and I look for Cory, hoping he didn’t see, but Amy says he’s gone, that he took the car, that she’ll give me a ride later. 

The snow is coming down thick when I go into Stacy’s bedroom to call home to ask if I can spend the night so Amy doesn’t have to drive in the storm, and I focus on my words as they come out of my mouth, one by one, so Mom won’t know I’m drunk: yes, it is okay with Stacy’s parents. No, Cory left already. Yes, Mom, I’m sure he will be home soon.