Page 55 of What Rough Beast

Although, I already am. I’m committing a felony (again), while drinking underage, and passively participating in a DUI waiting to happen. But none of those things are real, not in the legal sense. Because I’m Micah Harding, and if that isn’t enough, Ethan Brimley isn’t getting a DUI anywhere in the tri-county area. Plus, if we get pulled over, any cop is more likely to ask for a selfie with Murphy and Blake than haul our asses to jail. We’re untouchable. And not like the highest-point-value girls listed on Jerkoff Dropbox, the ones Murph didn’t think anyone could ever get.

Becca had been pretty high up there. But he got her, didn’t he? Got her good.

Blake is with me in the back, and he’s got his phone out, filming.

“Get that shit out of my face,” I say, when he points the phone at me.

“That Christmas tree still bothering you?” Ethan asks, from the driver’s seat.

“Just don’t get Hailey’s STDs all over my steering wheel,” I fire back.

“Ooooooooo,” Blake and Murphy both say in unison.

“That’s the only way you’ll catch ’em,” Ethan says, to which I can’t really say anything without verging into getting punched-in-the-mouth territory.

Murphy perks up after the first hit, and I have to admit that there is something satisfying about the paper fluttering to the ground in our wake, tossed back into the air by our exhaust. Then I spot a kid’s plastic swing set in the side yard as we speed past. The pit in my stomach opens again, and I crack open another beer to fill it.

Sometimes I understand Mom. Nights like this, when nothing is good, neutral doesn’t exist, and it’s all sliding toward bad, I don’t want to feel anything. My friends are dicks. I’m a dick. A dick that can’t figure out how to come clean to burnedoutgirl, but I need to. That’s a situation that needs to get fixed if I’m going to be a functioning human, like right fucking now.

Murphy slides back down into the passenger seat, rolls up his window. He must be thinking the same thing, because he sneaks a glance at Ethan, then tries to call Becca. He knows he’s blocked; he knows it’s pointless. I do, too, but that doesn’t mean I’m not refreshing my DMs on Rock Bottom every two minutes or so. We’re just performatively being alpha males while low-key trying to connect with girls we wronged, hoping they’ll tell us that it’s okay, that we’re not the worst thing that ever happened to them, that they forgive us, and—

Wait, does Dad feel this way?

Shit, there’s a thought. Am I just the worst parts of my parents, combined into a younger version? An alcoholic and a womanizer?

Mom told me once when I was young to stop apologizing when I did the wrong thing. She said saying I’m sorry is just making words with your mouth, but if you truly mean it, if you actually feel regret, you show it by no longer doing the thing you’re apologizing for in the first place. That’s actually being sorry, not just saying it.

“Coming up on the right,” Ethan says, and Murph dutifully rolls down his window, wind whipping my face as the car slows. He slides halfway out, ass resting in the open window. Ethan fucks with him, taps the brakes suddenly, and the car lurches.

“Shit!” Murphy yells, dropping the bat back inside the car and grabbing on to the window frame. “Fuck you, Brimley!”

Ethan just laughs, accelerates as Murph takes the bat in both hands. Another mailbox explodes, and Murph slides back inside.

“Two for two,” Ethan says. “Ready to hit Danziger?”

“Dude . . .” I say, trying not to flinch when he glances into the rearview mirror.

“What?” Ethan snaps at me. “He’s a fucking douche.”

“He’s a Vietnam vet,” I say. “He’s an old man that reported you for mooning him in the park, and you never let it go.”

I bite my tongue, not adding that if Ethan hadn’t been so young—fourth grade—he could’ve been charged with public indecency and been labeled a sex offender. On the other hand, we are all technically sex offenders, and jack shit has happened as a result so . . .

“Whatever, man,” Ethan says, taking a right turn. “Danziger’s our go-to. Why break with tradition?”

Because we’re bullying an old man is the answer. We’ve hit his mailbox at least four times; he showed up at the Brimleys’ last year and told Ethan’s dad that next time, he’ll shoot our asses. Ethan’s dad sent him away with a pat on the back, an apology, and a free case of beer, then sat us down and gave us a long talk about community, respect, and the sacrifices of others. Ethan said he was sorry, of course.

But he didn’t mean it.

Just like I must not be actually sorry about the nudes, because I sure as hell didn’t stop using them. It felt good during, even if it felt bad after, but when the next time rolled around, one would outweigh the other. I crack my last beer, think about the dispatcher. Yeah, that’s probably exactly how it works for Dad, too.

“Danziger in our sights!” Ethan yells. Murphy rolls down his window, climbs halfway out, balancing. The old man’s mailbox is lit up in the headlights, black and yellow, declaring his Vietnam veteran status.

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. Stick a beer bottle in it.

Ethan slows down, Murphy lines up.

When you hit a mailbox you get a crunch if it’s plastic, ping if it’s aluminum, sometimes followed by the sound of the red flag bouncing off the road, or the flutter of paper falling back to the ground.