The First Time: Ryan's First Drink

The first time Ryan got drunk, he made his father laugh and his mother cry.

He made himself proud, giddy and scared. And, finally, sick in every way possible.

For eight days, the temperature in Fresno spiked near one hundred degrees. Inside the Atwood house, heat swelled, like something alive but already decaying. It swallowed the air, suffocating everyone slowly, relentlessly.

Ryan lay flat on the living room floor, his short limbs splayed, his damp flesh glued to the once-cool linoleum. Idly, he rubbed the blade of a broken fan with one thumb while he studied a water stain above his head. The spot reshaped itself whenever he blinked. Maybe it was a beanstalk, like Jack's, or a swarm of deadly dinosaur-birds. Or it could be a school of fish, slip-swimming through their undersea world. Ryan couldn't be sure. He wanted to ask Trey what the blotch looked like, but all afternoon his brother had distanced himself, coiled in a quiet that warned 'keep away.' Straddling a wooden chair, he faced the window. His ragged nails chipped bits of loose paint off the ledge, and one toe restively pounded the floorboard.

In that mood, Trey wouldn't see anything but an ugly stain. If he even looked.

Beside Ryan, Dawn sprawled the length of the faded couch. One bare leg dangled from the front while the other stretched long, its heel propped on the armrest. Only her eyes appeared alive. Hungry and hazy-blue, they devoured the TV screen where a woman was rushing into a man's open arms. As the couple embraced, bodies crushed breathlessly together, Dawn's lips parted, mirroring theirs. All alone, she whispered an unanswered kiss into the air.

Ryan caught his breath. Rolling onto his side, he edged closer, straining to see her entire face. It stung, like ripping off a Band-aid, when his skin peeled away from the floor, hurt more when he recognized his mother's expression: rapt, and lonely, and so far away.

Lost, almost, but not even trying to find her way home.

The figures on the show stumbled toward a bed and as Ryan watched, Dawn's mouth opened wider. Her pink tongue slithered over her teeth when the couple collapsed, melting in slow motion onto the cream-white comforter. Dozens of pillows, all the shades of blushing flesh, tumbled as they fell.

Ryan squirmed, his skin prickling. The people looked sticky to him, but glossy, taut pillows promised to be cool. Not like his own, all sweat-stained and wrinkled.

"Ahhhh." Exhaling slowly, Dawn inclined her head for a better view of the screen. The music swelled to a climax and she fell back, one palm stroking the arch of her throat. "That Sonny is so . . . so . . . Ooooh, God, I just love him."

Something twisted inside Ryan, under the spot on his tummy that his mother rubbed when he was sick. The question crept out, ashamed. "Mommy? Who's Sonny?"

Trey answered, his voice rusty with disuse. Without turning around, he tossed some white paint flakes to the floor. "Nobody. Big surprise, huh?" he sneered. "The guy's made up, Ry. He's just some stupidass--"

Dawn waved a shushing hand, and he clamped his mouth closed.

"Sonny!" she exclaimed. Ignoring Trey, she pushed herself up to peer at Ryan. "On the show, baby! Weren't you watching? He just saved Brenda's life, and now they . . . well, hell, I guess you don't need to know what happens next." She laughed to herself, a sound like a lock turning. Lazily, she retrieved her cigarette, taking a deep drag before she spoke again. "Know what, Ry? If you'd been a girl, I was gonna name you Brenda. And she wasn't even on the show when you were born! But it's a real pretty name, isn't it?"

"Uh-huh," Ryan murmured uncertainly.

Trey didn't move, but a derisive snicker puckered his lips.

"Yeah, smart guy? Think that's funny? Well, you woulda been Erica. Erica Ashley Atwood." Dawn palmed strands of lank hair off her face. Her smile seeped away, and her voice quavered, liquid with regret. "Damn," she muttered, flicking ashes to the floor. "Why couldn't I have had girls? We woulda had so much fun. Shopping, doing each other's hair, trying new makeup, painting our nails . . ."

Ryan studied his fingers, grimy and scabbed from a fall off Trey's handlebars. His lower lip trembled, and he bit down on it hard. "Mommy?" he ventured. "Can't you have fun with boys?"

"Shit, LB!" Trey exclaimed. "What a dumbass question. Stop bein' five, would you?"

Embarrassed, Ryan averted his face. "I can't," he mumbled, twisting the strap of his mother's discarded sandal. "Not until my next birthday."

"Then just stop being a dumbass baby, all right?" Slurping the last of his lukewarm Kool-Aid, Trey tossed the Dixie cup at his brother. It bounced off Ryan's forehead, splattering his bangs with crimson drops.

The surprise attack wrenched Dawn's attention from her fantasy. "Goddamn it, Trey!" she snapped. "Leave your bother alone! And you, baby, don't you listen to him. You are not a dumbass." Without stirring from the couch, she stretched until her toes tickled the sole of Ryan's bare foot. Giggling, he wriggled a scant inch away. His mother's leg pursued him, feather-brushing his skin as he squirmed, delighted.

Across the room, Trey snorted disdainfully and Ryan froze. His smile folded in on itself and he pressed his thumb hard against the edge of the fan, denting the tender flesh.

The scene on TV changed. Forgetting the game, forgetting everything, Dawn settled back to watch. Instantly lonely, Ryan realized that she never answered his question.

"Mom--" he began again. "Are you sorry? I mean, that you had Trey and me?"

Oblivious, his mother puffed her cigarette, peering past him to the TV. "You know what this show should have?" she demanded. Behind a tattered curtain of smoke her eyes danced with excitement. "A character named Dawn. She could be Sonny's girlfriend. Dawn and Sonny! That would be cute, wouldn't it? Huh, boys? Whaddya think?"

"Who cares? It's a fucking soap opera, Mom." Swallowing a yawn, Trey shook his head. "If they had a Dawn, it wouldn't be you."

"Hey! What've I told you about swearing, Trey? And shit, I'm not stupid. I know wouldn't be me. I just said it would be cute. You know, 'cause of the names . . ." Her voice drifted off as the final scene faded. "Aw. Show's over." Sighing her loss, Dawn stabbed out her cigarette. She picked up the remote, aimed it and pressed, her sweaty fingertip slipping off the power button. Nothing happened. "Goddamn it," she grumbled, punching harder and jabbing her arm forward for emphasis.

Trey shot a weary look at his mother. "Battery's dead," he said dully. "Remember? It didn't work this morning either."

"Oh. Yeah, right." Dawn fumbled for another Marlboro. "Jeez, it's hot," she muttered, nudging Ryan with her big toe. "Baby, turn off the TV for mama, okay?"

"But Trey and me wanna watch cartoons--" Irritation flashed on his mother's face, hot as the flame snapping from her lighter, and Ryan bit back his protest. He scooted forward, bare knees burning on the linoleum, and pushed the off button on the TV.

The screen sizzled and went black. Without its pretense of other lives to provide a buoy, waves of heat threatened to engulf them all.

"I need somethin' cold to drink." Dawn announced abruptly. "And some air! Shit, anywhere's gotta be cooler than this oven. Come on, boys. Let's go out on the porch."

Trey didn't budge. "Not supposed to go out," he mumbled. "Dad said, remember?"

Ryan remembered. Yesterday Trey had gotten caught shoplifting some and a three-pack of HotWheels from the corner store. It had cost him a backhanded blow to the cheek when their father found out, and orders to stay in the house until . . .

The sentence dangled there, unfinished and menacing.

"Yeah? Well I said we're goin' out. Why should I have to suffer just 'cause you can't keep out of trouble for five goddamn minutes? Anyway, you're goin' anywhere that matters." Dawn mopped her forehead. A few strands of hair clung to the damp skin, like lines on a map leading nowhere. Swaying slightly, she pushed herself up and shambled across the room.

Ryan lingered, glancing sideways at his brother. Chewing his chapped lower lip, Trey finally shrugged and forced himself to his feet. Both boys trailed Dawn to the kitchen. They waited while she emptied slivers of ice into a glass, added Kool-Aid, and topped it with some clear liquid. Not water, though, Ryan guessed, because this came in a funny screw-top bottle that his parents stored way up on the top shelf.

It seemed almost like a fairytale's magic potion: harmless in appearance but scary-powerful.

Except he knew—Trey had told him—that magic didn't exist in real life. Only babies and retards believed that it could.

Still Ryan sucked in his lower lip, wondering, while his mother drank. Sighing deeply, Dawn swallowed and lapped lingering drops from the corners of her mouth. Her lashes fluttered closed and she purred, stretching like a cat.

A light seemed to go on under her skin.

Trey shifted unhappily in the doorway. "Shit, that's enough. C'mon, Mom," he muttered.

"Okay, okay. Jeez, kiddo." Dawn flung back her head. Her face glowed suddenly—sapphire eyes, coral lips, cheeks pink as a promise, skin shining a luminous white. "I'm just havin' one little drink-y here. What's the big deal anyway?"

"It's Dad's bottle. And he'll be home soon."

The words sucked any ease out of the room. Above Ryan's head, Trey and Dawn exchanged a private look, like a coded note that he couldn't read. Troubled, he edged closer until his fingers grazed the hem of his mother's denim shorts.

"Mommy?" he breathed.

Without a word, Dawn turned on the tap and replaced the liquid she'd poured from the bottle. Then she shoved it in the cabinet and slammed the door. It bounced open again instantly. "Satisfied, Trey?" she snapped as she headed for the porch. Snagging Ryan's elbow, she dragged him behind her.

Her nails pinched and she nearly yanked him off his feet.

Ryan didn't know why she had to walk so fast or clutch him so furiously. He would have gone with her anyway.

He would have held her hand.

His eyes, clouded with questions, sought his brother. Trey shrugged, his "don't know and don't give a fuck" gesture, but he stood on tiptoe to latch the cabinet door before he followed too.

Once outside, Dawn collapsed on the battered glider, slouching so that she took all the available space. With nowhere else to sit, Ryan and Trey crouched on the top step. Heat wedged between them, solid as another whole body, but the tips of their little fingers still managed to touch, flat on the splintered wood.

There was nothing to say. They just waited.

Out of nowhere, a series of sputtering pops erupted. Ryan jerked upright, his mouth a speechless O.

"Damn," Dawn moaned. Her nails raked the air as she covered her eyes. "Don't tell me they're starting that shit already."

"What? What is it?" Ryan whispered. The sounds produced echoes of manic laughter. They beckoned like a leering clown, and Ryan's fingers clutched the rough edge of the porch even as he rocked forward.

Before Trey could answer, a rusted convertible careened around the corner. Immediately, Dawn sat up, draining the last of her drink and swiping her mouth with the back of her hand. A practiced smile, stained with Kool-Aid, flashed nervously into place.

"Hi, hon!" she trilled, as Ryan's father swung out of the car. "You're home early. That's . . . it's great. We were just out here waitin' for you."

Her husband's back hunched as he spoke to the driver. "Gimme five minutes here," he ordered. Then, the thick soles of his boots announcing each step, he strode up the sidewalk, carelessly kicking Trey's bike out of his way.

Beside Ryan, his brother flinched. Trey's cheeks flushed a mottled crimson, the color of remembered wounds, and he scrambled to his feet. "Dad--" he faltered. The single syllable, clumsy with fear, tripped on itself as he took a step toward the house.

Watching, Ryan tensed. He tasted stolen chocolate, felt tiny wheels spinning on the racetrack of his thighs.

Even though he hadn't been in the store he was a thief too, really. But only Trey had gotten caught, gotten hit.

It wasn't fair.

Breathing hard, Ryan started to stand with his brother but Trey's fist, braced against his shoulder, held him in place.

"Don't," he hissed.

Three feet from the steps, their father paused. The shadow of a tree limb bisected his face, leaving half of it light, half masked in darkness. "Hey there! Trey-guy!" he called, starting a backswing. "Incoming! Heads up!"

Automatically, Trey raised one hand and a bag smacked into his open palm. He stared at it, one jaw muscle pulsing in his shuttered face.

Ryan's father chortled. "The fuck, kid? Think there's a snake in there or something? It's candy, that's all, gift from your old man. Open it, for crap's sake."

"Candy?" Trey echoed blankly. He peered into the bag, and his lips crept into a small, bemused grin. "Hey! Skittles! Thanks, Dad."

All at once, the weather seemed to change, heavy heat lifting, a timid air current drifting from the sidewalk. Dawn's wind chimes, a cascade of beaming suns, nodded to each other smugly.

Ryan's eyes widened, shining a newborn blue, as Trey shook a rainbow of candy into his hand. Peeking up from under his lashes, he smiled solemnly. "Thanks, Daddy," he whispered.

Across the porch, Dawn fluffed her matted bangs. "Aw, babe, that's real sweet, bringin' something home for the boys . . . So, you . . . um, you had a good day at work, huh?"

"Didn't go to work," Ryan's dad muttered. "Fucking boss thinks just because he signs the goddamn checks that he's better than me." His face creased in anger, but it smoothed again instantly. Lifting his chin, he stepped into the sunshine. "Nah, I took the day off, Dawnie. Went to the track, won a few bucks. Hell, it's a holiday, ain't it? So I was thinkin', we should all go to the park tonight. Whaddya say? Have a picnic, watch the fireworks, enjoy ourselves for a change."

Her hand fluttering uncertainly, Dawn risked a glance at the idling car. Catching the look, her husband shrugged. "Hey, I'm just gonna make a quick beer run with Carl first. Be back in an hour, and then we'll go. The rest of the damn country is celebrating. Why not us, right?"

"Right." Dawn inhaled an eager breath. "Right, why not us?" Fingering the tarnished hoops at her ears, she added, as if it were a trick question, "You mean the whole family, right babe? All four of us?"

"Fuck yeah, the whole family." Abruptly, his father spun around to Ryan. "Whaddya think, Ry? Fireworks! Not those shitty things Trey played with last year either." With a surge of enthusiasm, he lunged forward, swooping Ryan up, up, over his head and onto his shoulders. "Real fireworks! Huge ones! All different colors!"

Perched closer to heaven than he'd ever been before, Ryan laughed and curled pudgy fingers into his father's hair. He wasn't sure what that meant—fireworks—but his mother's face glowed the giddy pink of excitement and even Trey's eyes sparkled before he hooded them.

"Really, Dad?" Without looking, Trey swatted a mosquito that landed on his knee, smearing his skin with the insect's mangled body and his own blood.

Dawn swung off the glider, kicking her glass out of the way as she did. "Of course really!" she cried. "We'll have a picnic. I'll make sandwiches—I think I still got some lunchmeat—and hard-boiled eggs. Oh, and potato salad! Well, maybe we'll just have chips. Barbecue flavor. Your favorite, right Trey? Just like your dad's."

"I guess," Trey conceded. Hope glimmered behind his eyes, like a distant light. "Fireworks would be cool, Dad. But, um . . ." Averting his face, he mumbled so that Ryan could barely hear, "You said we'd go last year."

"Yeah? And now I'm sayin' this year, wiseguy. You gonna believe your old man or not?"

Clasping Ryan's ankles, his father snorted. He lowered his head, pawing the ground like a bull until Ryan shrieked, dizzy with delighted fear, and they charged Trey together. His grip tightened reflexively. Intent on watching his brother somersault to safety, he gasped, stunned, when his father cursed, whipped him overhead and dropped him down to the splintered porch floor.

It hurt, all of it: the violent plunge and cruel landing and the bewilderment.

"Fucking hell, Ry! You're what, six or something? You have to behave like some goddamn little girl?"

Confused, Ryan crept close to Trey. From behind his lashes, his gaze darted to his dad. The man was scrubbing his scalp, erasing all traces of his son's touch. Instantly, Ryan lowered his eyes again. "What did I do?" he whispered, lost.

Trey hunched one shoulder. "Held on too tight, bro. Jeez, how many times I tell you? Dad fuckin' hates that."

"I didn't mean to." Swallowing hard, Ryan shrank against the glider. His leg stung where stubble had scraped. Unconsciously, he rubbed the line of pinpricks before he snatched his hand away, catching his lower lip in his teeth.

It didn't hurt much, he told himself.

Anyway, he deserved it for acting like some damn little girl. Who had maybe ruined everything.

That moment of happiness, suspended and heady, had made him forget: his father's good moods were always balloons, bright and buoyant, and so easy to break.

Not quite trusting his voice, Ryan said carefully, "Sorry, Daddy." Something sounded wrong, and he amended, "Dad." There, that was the word he wanted. Emboldened, he edged toward his father, but Trey caught his t-shirt, fingers drumming a familiar warning.

Ryan's father shrugged, deflated. "Yeah, yeah, whatever, Ry . . . Where the hell are my cigarettes? Dawn, you got my goddamn smokes?"

Dawn patted the pockets of her skintight shorts. "No, babe. But I got a brand-new pack inside. Want me to get it for you?" she offered hopefully.

"Nah. I'll fucking do it myself."

The screen door bounced twice on its hinges as it slammed behind Ryan's dad.

Outside, his family waited like actors in the wings. Slouching against the wall, Trey gnawed caked chocolate from under his fingernails. Dawn picked up her discarded glass, running a thumb around the lip, then licking any stray drops she collected. Next to her, Ryan crouched in a sliver of shade. Arms locked around his knees, he rocked slightly, staring at the closed door.

He was trying to remember a spell he had heard, a phrase that would open any door.

Except, no.

That was in some fairytale. Not in real life at all.

Ryan reminded himself: there were no magic wands, or potions or words. No enchantments at all.

Just sometimes his dad, eyes crinkled with laughter, jogging backwards, challenging Ryan and Trey to keep up, pacing himself to stay in eyesight.

Calling them his boys. His sons.

And sounding proud, even.

Sometimes

For Ryan, the wait seemed to last forever, but after four minutes his father reemerged. Bare-chested and dripping cold water, he had a clean t-shirt slung over his shoulder and a pack of cigarettes clutched in one fist. As he strode past his wife, he grabbed Dawn, hauling her unceremoniously into his arms.

Gasping, she lifted her face to meet his.

Their kiss didn't look anything like the one Ryan had seen her rehearse earlier. This was rough and sloppy, all groans and mashed lips and grinding jaws and spit.

An irritated yell from the curb ended it abruptly. "Hey, Atwood! You comin' or what? I'm fucking burnin' up here!"

"Back in one hour," Ryan's dad muttered into Dawn's open mouth. Pulling away, he yanked his t-shirt on and vaulted off the porch.

He never looked at Ryan or Trey.

Dawn's fingers fluttered to her pale face, patting her puffy lips. "I'll fix myself up while you're gone, babe!" she called. "We'll be ready when you get back, okay?"

In response, the convertible roared as it peeled away.

For a moment Dawn stood, watching the car disappear. "Okay" she murmured. Her voice brightened in streaks, like scoured metal, as she turned to her sons. "Okay! Let's go, guys! You gotta wash up and change. C'mon, move, move, move!"

"Why?" Trey demanded dully. "He's not really gonna take us."

"Sure he is!"

His mouth twisting, Trey shrugged a jaded "Whatever."

"Not whatever!" Dawn retorted fiercely. "He's gonna do it this time. Shit, Trey, it's not like your dad never took us before."

Ryan titled his head, wondering. "He did?"

"Course he did, baby. Tell your brother, Trey!" When he didn't respond, Dawn prodded his arm insistently. "Come on, kiddo. You were, what, seven, when we went. Remember we couldn't believe how Ry slept through all the crazy noise? But you—every time there was another boom, you'd stamp your feet and just roar, roar right back at it. And your daddy laughed. He laughed so hard . . ." Her breath hitched and Dawn rubbed her eyes. "God," she sighed, "that was such a good day . . . But hey, now we're gonna have another one. So go! Let's get ready!"

Herding them inside with tiny swats, Dawn trilled bits of a song about picnics and surry and sassafrass. It sounded silly to Ryan, and maybe it was, because his mother giggled between off-key notes. She stopped to shoo both boys into the bathroom. "With soap," she warned sternly, but she winked, so really, Ryan decided, she wasn't mad.

"Trey?" he asked as soon as the door was closed. "Why was Daddy . . . Dad . . . acting so, um . . .?" He didn't know how to describe it, his father's heat lightning mood.

Shrugging, Trey took aim at the toilet. "It's the Fourth of July."

"Oh." Ryan considered the words as he lathered his hands, but they didn't mean anything. "Why would that make Dad excited?"

Trey tucked himself in and wiggled his fingers under the tap. "I told you, LB, it's the fourth of July."

"Uh-huh. Only--?"

With a snort, Trey flicked water at Ryan, who hopped back to escape the spray. "It's like the country's lameass birthday, all right?" he explained. "Like a big stupid party for America. Jeez, Why-an, do you got to know everything?"

Ryan ducked his head, hiding the hurt behind his lashes. "Why-an" was Trey's latest nickname for him. Slurring the syllables into a single "whine," he mocked all Ryan's questions, his disappointment when no one answered, the times he still lapsed into a baby lisp.

"Not everything," Ryan replied stubbornly. He studied the bubbles playing tag on his wrists. "But I like to know stuff. Don't you, Trey?"

"Shit, Ry. Knowing stuff is for school, and who gives a rat's ass about that? I like to do stuff and have stuff." His gaze narrowing, Trey stared out the window, over Ryan's head. "That's what matters."

"Oh."

Puzzled, Ryan lingered at the sink until the last froth of soapsuds swirled down the drain. He wanted to argue, but he wasn't sure what to say.

Besides, Trey would probably just call him Why-an again.

As soon as they changed both boys camped on the couch. Perched on opposite ends, they watched Dawn flit between rooms, transforming herself. Once a dozen hot rollers bobbled on her head. Another time, she teetered on her heels, holding cotton balls wadded between her toes. Later, she stumbled past, peeling away a green mask like an alien face.

Trey snickered, but Ryan squirmed as his mother's soft curves and pastels and dewy skin disappeared bit by bit.

She changed so much just to please his father.

Finally Dawn emerged, all lacquered and sprayed. Twirling, she caroled a triumphant, "Tada!" Her hair bristled with stiff, forbidding curls, and she was slashed red everywhere: cheekbones and lips and the tips of her fingers and toes. Even her ankles were sliced by the scarlet straps of her shoes.

Looking at her, Ryan winced inside.

"So guys?" Dawn demanded. "Whaddya think? Your mama cleans up real good, doesn't she?" Without pausing for any reply, she nudged Trey off the couch and sat down sideways, curling her legs up next to her. Sighing, she massaged one instep. "Damn heels hurt like a bitch, but hey, your daddy likes them. And I'll take 'em off anyway when we get to the park."

"When we get to the park."

She made the words sound like magic, Ryan thought.

Dawn turned on Wheel of Fortune, filling the room with faraway excitement, but as soon as the show ended, she made Trey switch off the TV. "We should be all set to go when your daddy gets home," she explained. "He'll be here any minute."

Only the minutes crawled past, five and then ten, and then a half-hour, and then two more.

Sometime, he wasn't sure when, Ryan fell asleep, curled in a corner of the sofa, lulled by the clink of ice in his mother's glass.

He woke up whimpering, pursued out of his dream by goring horns and sharp hooves. It took him a moment to recognize where he was: home, wedged next his mother who sprawled like a rag doll, her head lolling sideways, all the bright colors on her face smeared and dull.

"Trey?" Ryan whispered, searching for his brother. Shifting slightly, he dislodged a spike heel that poked into his side. "Trey? Dad's not gonna take us to the park tonight, is he?"

At the window, Trey groaned wearily. Without looking, he stabbed another hole into the pockmarked screen. "Duh," he scoffed. "Ya don't think? Shit, LB, sometimes I swear--"

Trey stopped. He seemed to debate saying something more, but at last he just shambled wordlessly out of the room.

On the way, he paused, grimacing, to drain Dawn's half-empty glass and to kick a stray cushion under the coffee table.

Left alone, Ryan sat still for a moment, his eyes old and empty. Then, very carefully, he edged off of the couch. Retrieving the pillow, he smoothed it, tucked it gently beneath his mother's feet, and wandered into the kitchen.

He was thirsty. Hungry too. And there was the picnic basket—well, the grocery bag—that his mom had prepared, crammed with foil-wrapped sandwiches and a big bag of chips. His mouth watering, Ryan started to reach inside when he noticed two other items on the table: a sweaty jar of Kool-Aid and, next to it, the bottle from the top shelf.

Just standing there, open.

Ryan hesitated, sucking his lower lip.

He really, really, wanted something to drink.

And maybe just this one time it would be okay . . .

Except that stuff was supposed to be for adults, not for kids.

But then he remembered: "Would you stop being five?" "Do you have to act like some damn little girl?"

Ryan could be grown-up if he tried.

Resolutely, before he could change his mind, Ryan got a glass from the sink. Using both hands, almost holding his breath, he poured in Kool-Aid and then added a splash of the mysterious liquid, just like his mother did.

The concoction sparkled like normal fruit punch, and, suddenly parched, Ryan forgot about sipping. He simply filled his mouth and swallowed.

Waves of flame instantly flooded his throat.

Choking, his eyes stinging with tears, Ryan gulped a lungful of air, trying to quench the fire. It didn't work. The blaze raged down to his stomach and up again, staggering him so that he nearly fell.

Somehow, though, he kept his grip on the glass.

He wanted to empty the contents down the sink or maybe back into the Kool-Aid container. Only . . . he couldn't. His dad wouldn't and neither would Dawn. Even Trey, Ryan knew, would finish the drink no matter how much it burned, and he wasn't so much older than Ryan, really.

Besides, beneath the bitterness, something tasted sweet, something that tingled and buzzed all the way to his fingertips.

Panting shallowly, Ryan braced himself. Then, sipping very slowly, mere drops at a time, he drained the entire glass.

The liquid still scalded, but somehow it made him smile too.

"Hey, LB? You getting' something to eat in there?"

Startled, Ryan spun around. His gasped, and his mouth filled with saliva, but when he swallowed, bubbles bounced down, popping back up again in a barrage of hiccups.

Like tiny firecrackers erupting inside him.

Ryan wanted to laugh, but he couldn't catch his breath. He swayed, squinting around the room, wondering why the walls kept moving. "Trey?" he stammered uncertainly.

His brother looked strange, like some blurry cartoon. Curious, Ryan reached a finger to confirm that he was real, rocking forward and back, before he slipped limply to the floor.

"Shit, LB!" Trey's voice pulsed, far away, and then right beside Ryan's ear. "What the hell did you do?"

"Nothin'. I. I just. I." Clutching the chair next to him with both hands, Ryan stopped, bewildered. The inferno inside him had abated, becoming a fluttering glow, as though he had swallowed a hundred fireflies. He opened his mouth to release the one on his tongue and another hiccup skipped out. It tickled, and Ryan giggled helplessly.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Trey groaned, prying Ryan away from the table. "You're drunk, Ry. Shit, Mom's gonna kill me."

That didn't make sense—why would Dawn want to kill Trey?--but Ryan didn't care because "fuckfuckfuck," sounded so funny. His head bobbing with effort, he mimicked the words, but their final consonant stuck on the roof of his mouth, so all he could manage was "fuhfuhfuhfuff."

Dawn stirred on the couch and sat up blearily. "Wha—wha' time is it?" she murmured. "Trey? Ryan? Hey, where are you guys?"

"Mommy?" Crawling from the kitchen, Ryan cuddled against his mother's leg. "I love you Mommy," he murmured. "Fuh. Fuck."

Dawn stiffened. "Baby?" she prompted anxiously. Cupping Ryan's chin, she tilted his head to peer into his eyes. He blinked, trying to focus, while she stroked his clammy cheek.

For some reason, his mother's touch made him shudder. Still, Ryan couldn't pull away, even when she let go.

Suddenly everything began melting together, strident voices, and sobs, and slamming doors, and from somewhere the clump of his father's boots and mocking laughter, and something sour was rolling around Ryan's stomach, and something else was pounding inside his skull.

"Goddamn it, Trey! Ryan's five! He's a baby! Why weren't you lookin' out for him? What kind of brother are you anyway?"

"Me? You're his mother! Anyway, Ry did it himself. I wasn't even there."

"Not even there," Ryan mumbled.

"Aw hell, Dawnie, so the little shit's drunk. Won't be the last time. Get me something to eat, why don't you? And get that kid outta here before he pukes."

And then Ryan felt himself flying and water flowing over his face and everything inside him swirling the wrong way and the burning began all over again, only this time it tasted even worse as it spewed out of his mouth. And then darkness swallowed him whole.

Someone nudged Ryan, prodding him out of a dream.

"Come on, LB," Trey urged.

"Huh?"

"The fireworks. Come on. You can see 'em."

"Don' wanna," Ryan moaned, burrowing into his pillow.

"Yeah," his brother insisted. "You do."

Despite Ryan's groans, Trey pulled him out of bed, puppet-walking him to the window, propping him up with his own body.

"Look, Ry," he ordered, forcing Ryan's head back up when it drooped.

There was a muffled boom, and Ryan blinked, first scared and then dazzled.

Everything hurt, but he couldn't look away.

High above the treetops, tendrils of redblueyellowwhite bloomed against the night sky. Impossibly beautiful, they beckoned, like laughter, like secrets, like starlit promises. And then, as Ryan's fingers grabbed the empty air, trying desperately to hold onto something, they vanished.

That had to be magic, didn't it?

"See, LB?" Trey flicked a dead fly off the windowsill. "We didn't miss nothin', not going with dad tonight. Just some stupidass noise and lights, that's all. Figured that you should know."

Releasing his brother, Trey shuffled back to bed, but Ryan lingered. Eyes wide with wonder, he watched a thread of smoke ghost over the rooftops.

Then even that disappeared, leaving only darkness and doubt and unanswered questions behind.