Ali in Wonderland: And Other Tall Tales by Ali Wentworth Read Free Book Online Page B

knew where to score some. “I’m out,” I blurted, “just smoked the last batch.” I prayed they came in batches and not blocks.
    One of the girls knew a guy at Deerfield Academy, the Krispy Kreme of boys’ schools, who was a dealer. She went to call him and figure out the logistics. “We should get some munchies.” I stayed silent; I assumed munchies were short drug lords. And then the recruitment began. After swearing their Sicilian code of silence, my ultimate trial was to go to IHOP and get snacks for “the family.” I would be accompanying a senior named Suzanne who looked like Joan Jett—same haircut, same scowl. I was still in my Lanz nightgown and moccasin slippers when we snuck out of the dorm and disappeared into the trees. I figured we would get to know each other on the walk, tell funny stories, and bond like we would at a sleepaway camp. But when we reached Route 128, Suzanne held out her thumb. All I could see in the flash of speeding headlights was my mother’s disappointed face. (“What the hell are you doing? Wearing your pajamas outside in the middle of the night?”) The evening had taken a dark turn.
    A rusty Buick pulled over to the side of the road, and as Suzanne sprinted toward it, I followed like a needy little sister. She jumped into the front seat and pulled me next to her. The driver was a bearded man in his late twenties (think Jim Morrison in his tubby years). His ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts, and the car reeked of B.O. and beer.
    The driver swerved back and forth over the middle grid as he asked perfunctory questions about who we were and where we were from. Suzanne answered like a pro; we were EMT nurses leaving our night shift. The driver didn’t seem to question the fact that Suzanne was in a lacy nightgown, fluffy robe, and leg warmers. But he didn’t strike me as someone who knew what EMT stood for anyway.
    All I remember is the car flipping over, not monster truck–show style, but fluid and in slow motion. The driver had swerved to avoid the side of a bridge. Next thing I knew my face was pressed against the soft roof. We sat there for what felt like hours. Finally I crawled out, pulling Suzanne with me, and ripping my nightgown on a jagged piece of rusty metal above the tire. When I looked at the car, it resembled a tin cockroach on its back. Stumbling backward from the wreckage, we heard from inside the Buick, “Holy shit!” followed by fits of laughter. Yes, kind sir, Holy shit.
    We ran back to the dorm without stopping, talking, or catching our breath. I panted in my bed most of the night and had never felt so relieved to be on my bumpy mattress, alone in my dorm room. Why couldn’t I have stayed in bed with my Raggedy Ann and Scarlet Letter CliffsNotes like everybody else?

Chapter Six
     
    Hugs Not Drugs
     
    T here are good drunks, and there are bad drunks. I wouldn’t say I was a bad drunk—I’m fun, I’d take my top off—I’m just a bad drinker. I physically cannot chug. I’m a sipper. And I inherited a very low tolerance to alcohol from my mother. She once drank a glass of white wine and performed the entire second act of The Pirates of Penzance in our kitchen. To a standing ovation. For me, one glass of white wine and I wake up in a Hyatt with a group of Persian businessmen.
    Drinking was a big part of prep school—at least, it was at mine. I didn’t like the taste of booze and dreaded the post–spring-break ritual of gulping the mini liquor bottles stolen off the plane. Sometimes I pretended to glug and faked drunk; I became very good at faking. A couple of years ago I was dirty dancing at a friend’s Labor Day party. I was provocative and flamboyant as I jumped on the shoulders of my equally flamboyant and openly gay dance partner and had him mop me all over the floor. The next day a woman asked my friend, the hostess, Who was the crazy drunk on the dance floor? I consumed two ginger ales that night.
    It wasn’t easy charting the