When my alarm clock rings, I hit it as hard as I can, knocking it off my dresser. Something about that feels good for a second. Then I hear it, still beeping. I look at the side of my hand, which is bleeding—from the alarm clock, maybe, or maybe from something else. I turn over onto my stomach and bury my head in my pillow and drown out the noise and the tiny twinges of pain (I’ve felt worse), and I will myself to go back to sleep. It’s summer, and there’s nowhere I need to be. Setting my alarm at this point is just for appearances, even if appearances have ceased to matter.
Downstairs, I hear people moving around and breakfast sounds, like pouring cereal and the toaster dinging and the chatter of my little brothers. Here in this room, my head is pounding, and the inside of my chest feels ragged. I shut my eyes. The only thing I can do is wait for the hangover to pass. The problem is, shutting my eyes doesn’t necessarily bring rest. That’s when my head feels like it might explode. That’s when I get pretty near desperate for another something to soothe me. Most of the time, I give in. Nothing like popping the top of a cold one, as they say.
My name is Grant. I’m seventeen years old. I used to be the captain of the football team, the most promising young quarterback in the history of my school, maybe the entire state of Alabama. I used to date the hottest girl in town. Now I’m just a guy. Don’t expect too much from me. If you do, I’ll probably let you down.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.