A Nearly Normal Family(61)

I balanced the glass in my hand, hesitating.

“Cheers,” said Amina, and we took the shots.

I did it to be a good friend. For Amina and the alcohol. After two ciders and several shots that were basically forced on me, my heart sped up and my body got warmer. I don’t usually drink that much. Amina started our “Party Like an Animal” playlist on Spotify and at last we sat on our bikes on our way to Tegnérs. It was early June and the nights were still chilly. I had to grip my skirt, which blew up around my legs.

Brimming with giggles and expectations, we stumbled into Tegnérs. The flashing lights made the dance floor overflow. Cascades of color were flung at us from every direction and the vibration of the bassline rumbled like cannon fire in our chests. Amina and I went all in. Purses on the floor and hands in the air.

A few guys from our old high school showed up and were shockingly entertaining. As I shot the shit with them, Amina disappeared over to the bar.

“Need a glass of water,” she said.

After quite some time, the guys had moved on and she still hadn’t come back.

I found her at the bar.

She was standing on tiptoe. She’s always wished she were a few inches taller. Her eyes sparkled, and between her lips she held a long straw that vanished into a toxically green drink. Next to her stood a guy in a paisley shirt, babbling as if he was afraid the oxygen was about to run out.

“So this is where you’re hiding?”

Amina jumped. The guy stopped midsentence and stared like I had just ruined his night. He was one of those classic hunks with thick, slicked-back hair and bright blue eyes. I realized that he was also old. At least ten years older than us.

“Who’s the grandpa?” I asked, dissecting him with my gaze.

Amina groaned, but Paisley Shirt chuckled, all laid-back.

“I’m not that old, am I?”

“It’s all relative. Al Pacino is like seventy-five. And Abraham lived to be one hundred and seventy-five, right?”

“Abraham?” Paisley Shirt asked as he waved the bartender over.

“From the Bible,” I said. “Like, the forefather of all religions.”

He ordered a drink across the bar before he looked at me.

“So you’re Christian?”

“Not at all. It’s called being well-informed.”

He laughed again. His teeth were a little too straight and white to seem natural.

“I apologize for her,” said Amina. “She’s not used to drinking.”

“Blame the alcohol,” I said.

“She has her good sides too. If you look really hard, for a long time.”

“So how old are you?” I asked. “Because you are old.”

He struck a pose: put his hand on his side and stuck out his chest as he fired off another smile.

“What do you think?”

“Thirty-five,” I said.

He pretended to be offended.

“Twenty-nine?” Amina guessed.

“Nice. On the first try too,” he said, touching her arm casually. “You’ve won the drink of your choice.”

Amina turned to me.

“His name is Christopher.”

He put out his hand, and after a moment of feigned hesitation I took it.

“Chris,” he said with a wink. “You can call me Chris.”



* * *



I wanted to dance again, and Amina promised to join me soon. As if.

I reached my arms high up in the air and pumped them to the beat. It felt like there was helium in my chest. I had wings.

Time flew by with no sign of Amina. I was sweaty and aching when I finally tracked her down at a table, her gaze sunk deep into Chris.

“We’re drinking champagne,” he said, offering me a glass.

I tried to make eye contact with Amina. What was this? Was she interested in this guy? Amina’s not the flirty type. She would never go home with a guy she met at the bar. Last time she had a serious crush on someone was when we were in fifth grade. And this guy was ten years older than us. Almost thirty.

I filled my mouth with bubbles and got the feeling that there was something shady about this whole thing, that something was off.

“So what do you do?” I asked.

Chris flashed a big smile, as if he appreciated the question.

“A little of everything, actually. Business. Mostly real estate. I have a couple different firms.”

This mostly sounded suspicious to my ears.

“Amina told me she’s going to be a doctor,” said Chris. “So what are your plans?”

I tried to attract Amina’s attention, but she only had eyes for Chris.

“I used to want to be a psychologist,” I said. “But I don’t think I could deal. People have so fucking many problems.”

Chris laughed again. I’ve always had issues with people who seem perfect. Seems like there must be some serious fault behind all that fantastic exterior.

“Maybe I’ll get a law degree,” I said. “My mom’s an attorney, but I guess I’d rather be a judge. I like being in charge.”

“My mom is a lawyer too,” Chris said. “A professor these days.”

“Exciting,” I responded.

It sounded more sarcastic than I had been aiming for.