Suicide

That’s what we called it: all the liquor in the cabinet mixed in Tupperware jugs, whiskey and brandy, schnapps, crème de cassis, Grand Marnier, a bit of sloe gin, the vodka from your mom’s plastic stash. My dad drew a line on the bottle with a permanent marker, we filled it with water, the wine coolers in two-liter jugs and lemonade we bought after school at Piggly Wiggly tasted good with the pocket-sized pints of rum I bought Oasis on Sixth Street, a hair salon by day, cheap underage booze much later. I always got it, your mom’s Nova running while I carried Bud Dry cases, the man behind the counter saying “Girl, you got nice hips. Child-bearing hips.” We always paid in cash, on our way to Colonial Park, a Truth or Dare game in the woods, a kiss in the dark.