Althea and Oliver by Cristina Moracho Read Free Book Online Page B

Althea owned, a gift from some relative. She won three times before Garth gently suggested they play something else. When Althea pointed out that she had no other games, her father produced a deck of cards and a pile of poker chips and explained the nuances of Texas Hold ’Em. When Nicky returned, Oliver and Althea were asleep on opposite ends of the couch in the basement, their cards pressed closely to their chests.
    They never played Candy Land again, but in winter they holed up in the basement after school, drinking hot apple cider around the space heater and honing their military strategies on the Risk board. In summer, when it was too hot to throw a Frisbee on Wrightsville Beach or float down the Cape Fear River on an inner tube, they played gin rummy and casino in the shade of Althea’s porch, a pitcher of cranberry iced tea on the table between them, slices of Key lime pie going runny in the heat.
    And then there were the games they made up themselves. Swaggering around downtown Wilmington wearing sunglasses, black clothes, and sullen expressions—that was called Playing New York. Whoever cracked a smile first lost. Sitting in the gazebo in August, complaining about the humidity, drinking limeade out of silver mint julep cups, and exaggerating their mild Southern accents—that was called Playing New Orleans. You won by keeping up your accent longest. Last spring, after catching
Deliverance
on cable late one night, they started passing the afternoons on the banks of the Cape Fear, stalking, chasing, and ambushing each other in the woods, although neither ever consented to squeal like a pig. That ended in a draw.
    â€œNon-Stop Party Wagon doesn’t sound like much of a game to me,” she says, batting at the foliage in her hair.
    â€œThen it will be easy to play,” Oliver says.
    â€œCome here.” Standing close, she brushes leaf detritus from his shoulders. Her sweatshirt smells like the beach.
    Often they are mistaken for twins, although their faces look nothing alike. Oliver doesn’t have her high cheekbones, and she doesn’t have his dimples. But they are both lean and narrow, and when she is dressed in his clothes, Althea’s straight-up-and-down body doesn’t look all that different. They have the same blond hair, pale skin, and blue eyes. She brushes her bangs out of those eyes now with one chapped, nail-bitten hand so she can scowl at him more effectively. She wrinkles her nose. “Okay. I’ll play along.”
    When they arrive at the party, Oliver’s own resolve wavers. It’s as though someone rounded up every teenage misfit in New Hanover County and doused them with so much alcohol that if anyone lit a cigarette, the whole house would ignite. Taking hold of Althea’s elbow, he shoulders his way through the crowd. The air is stifling, like breathing through a whiskey-soaked rag. His friend Valerie appears, wading through from the opposite direction, a plastic funnel and tube hung around her neck like a stethoscope. Another friend, Coby, shoves past them, precariously toting at least half a dozen cans of Natural Ice—tucked under his chin, wedged between his elbows and ribs, and stuffed in his pockets.
    â€œWhere the hell is he going?” Oliver asks.
    â€œTo hide them,” Valerie says. “You’ve never seen him do that at a party?”
    â€œWe don’t really go to parties,” says Althea.
    â€œAll over the house. In the mailbox, in someone’s underwear drawer. Toilet tanks are his favorite—they actually keep the beer cold. But he’ll hide them anywhere that will guarantee him a beer later when everyone else is out.”
    â€œChrist,” says Oliver. “He’s like an alcoholic Easter Bunny.” It fits Coby, though, the kind of guy who reads Bukowski and is building his own apartment over his parents’ garage, presumably so he can continue to pilfer their bourbon long after he’s