Left Drowning(40)

“Shut your face and get up here, Chris. Don’t be such a *!”

“I’m a * because I don’t want to die? Get the hell off there, Sabin!”

“I’m not going to die.” He looks pointedly at us and holds his hands out by his side. “I can’t die. Estelle’s precious Jesus won’t let me die!” Sabin walks to the edge and peers over as if thoughtfully assessing his chances. As if he is actually calculating the angles and speed ratios and has decided that there is some possibility that he might not shatter every bone in his body upon landing. “Totally do-able.”

“No, Sabin, no! Back up! Back up!” Chris and I are screaming now. Zach and Eric seem too shocked to say anything, and Estelle has launched into incomprehensible praying.

Sabin slaps the tray against the snowy shingles. “Pray, Stellie! Pray to the power of that sweet baby Jesus, and I’ll be just fine!”

Estelle stops praying for a moment to yell, “Stop it, Sabin!”

“C’mon, ‘Stelle! Our father who art in heaven.” Sabin squats down and adjusts the direction of the tray. “Hallowed be thy f*cking name!”

He is about to crawl onto the slippery roof when I scream. “Wait! Wait! I’m coming! Don’t go yet!”

Chris whips around and storms toward me. “What the hell, Blythe? You’re sure as f*ck not going up there.”

“If we don’t stop him now, he’s going to break his neck. I just bought us a few minutes. Come with me.”

“Okay. And then what?”

“Well, f*ck, Chris, I haven’t thought that far ahead. Let’s go!”

We run up flights of stairs until we reach the third floor.

“This way,” I tell Chris. “He must have climbed from the balcony that’s off the upper lounge.”

The lounge is dark, and we’re lucky that neither of us trips over the furniture in our hurry to reach Sabin. The old French doors to the balcony are open and we run out. The area is enclosed by only a thin, not particularly sturdy-looking iron railing, and Chris tosses the bistro table that’s there behind us into the lounge so that we can both stand. To my left is the small flat area where Sabin is standing. The sloped roof in front of him—his Goddamn runway—looks perilously steep. I take a second to catch my breath so that I can try and deal with Sabin in a relaxed-sounding manner.

Chris, however, is too pissed off. And scared. “Sabin, man! Get the f*ck back over here!”

“There you are!” Sabin turns our way and holds out the tray, which holds what’s left of a six-pack. The cans and plastic rings are covered in the snow that has started to fall. “Beverage, anyone?”

“I think we’ve all had enough,” Chris says. “Especially you. Stop screwing around. It’s time to come inside.”

Sabin just looks past Chris. “Coming, my Blythe?”

I step in front of Chris. My whole body is shivering. “Sabin. Look at me. This is dumb.”

He ignores me and throws the beer our way. We let it fly and it lands on the floor of the balcony. “Then I’ll go without you.” He plants the tray onto the landing and sits down, his legs hanging over onto the icy roof.

“This isn’t f*cking funny. Please, Sabin.”

“Don’t you worry, B. Zach and Eric are going to catch me. See?” He points to the lawn just in front of where we are.

Zach and Eric are holding up a mattress by balancing it on their heads. Or not so much balancing it as they are reeling back and forth while trying to balance it. But the effort is there. Estelle has turned her back, clearly unable to watch.

“Oh God.” Chris sounds desperate.

“Sabin, please. Come back inside with me,” I plead.

“If you’re not coming, I’m flying solo.” Sabin inches the tray forward.

“You’re going to die!” Chris’s voice breaks.

“Don’t be so dramatic. I can live through anything. Watch.”

“Wait.” I throw my legs over the railing and stand a foot away from my stupid, stupid drunk friend.

“No, Blythe!” Chris grabs the back of my jacket and keeps me from going forward. “Don’t you dare. Do you understand me? Don’t you f*cking dare.”

I turn to him. “I’m fine. Trust me.”

“He’ll pull you down with him. No.”

I remove his grasp on my coat, but he holds my hand tightly in his. “Trust me,” I say again. I slowly move out onto the third-story rooftop. I sit down next to him, my right hand still being nearly crushed by Chris’s as he leans over the railing. He won’t let me go; I know that. “Let’s just talk for a second, Sabe. If you still want to tray off here, we will. But first we talk. Deal?”

“Alrighty, B.” He puts his arm around me and drops his head onto my shoulder. I’m pretty sure that Chris is on the verge of breaking my hand. God, Sabin is so drunk. I smell beer, for sure, but something else. Bourbon, maybe? I didn’t even see him drink that.

“Here’s the thing, Sabe. I’m really cold, and I really want to go inside. And I really, really don’t want to sled off the roof.”

“Tray. Tray off the roof,” he corrects me.

“I really don’t want to tray off the roof,” I say matter-of-factly.