“Josh, you heard those cops. You can’t get in trouble again.”
“What trouble? What’s going to happen?”
It’s about an hour after the cops left our house. We’re in the parking lot of a liquor store. He’s placing the second large keg into the trunk, the car sinking visibly under the weight.
“Uh, you’re buying forty-five gallons of beer?”
“So?”
“You’re underage?”
“Not according to my ID I’m not.”
Patrick is grunting, trying to lift the third keg. Josh grabs one of the handles and they put it in the trunk. Josh starts to tie the trunk lid closed.
“Is this part of the Quest, Josh?” I ask.
“Sure, yeah. You’re learning how much beer to get for a house party.”
“Josh, Mom and Dad—”
“Aren’t home.”
“You signed the contract.”
“The situation has evolved.”
I know how it evolved. I did a little more electronic espionage, snooping on Josh’s phone. There was a string of text messages between him and Trish.
TRISH: You could have a party.
JOSH: Not like youd come.
TRISH: I might.
JOSH: You wont get a drink w/me but youd come to a house party.
TRISH: Maybe.
And so on, back and forth, until the sentence that I saw him composing earlier: If I do it, will you show up?
And the magic, golden-smile-inducing reply:
TRISH: Yes.
So we’re at the liquor store. I don’t know why, but I try again: “Josh, you can’t have a party.”
“Why not?”
“Things could happen. Things could go wrong.”
“Like what? It will just be a few people. It will be fine.”