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2011-08-08 - 10:40 a.m.

There were lines not to cross. John's Dad, Bob, was fine with cigarettes and beer but not liquor. Peter had brought a pint of peach schnapps. Back then, peach schnapps was the kind of liquor we got. It was easy to steal, and it was sweeter than whiskey. Jesse and I followed Peter downstairs, to the big living room, the room where John had shot the family couch years before. The suit of armor still stood in the corner. Peter took a big swig and handed the bottle to Jesse. We sat on the couch, facing the huge Christmas tree that John�s mom had decorated months before. Everything on it was golden: the tinsel, the lights, the elaborate ribbon, the satin-covered balls. It was nearly February by then, but the tree was still up. Jesse took a swig and thrust the bottle at me.

�I don�t want it,� I said.

�Come on,� Jesse said. Peter laughed.

I was already drunk. I pushed the bottle away. �Why don�t you go again?�

He took another swallow and stuck the bottle into my hand.

�Come on, Buck,� he said.

�I don�t want to.�

�Why?�

�Because I'm already drunk.�

�We're all drunk.� He laughed. �Just open your throat and let it go down.�

I stared at the bottle. Then, quickly, I brought it to my lips, tilted my head back, and got a mouthful. I tried to let it go down my throat, but I couldn�t make my throat do that. So I swallowed a little and let the rest sit in my mouth.

�What are you doing?� Jesse said. �Swallow it! Jesus.�

I closed my eyes and swallowed.

Jesse clapped me on the back. �Not so bad, huh?�

�Fuck off,� I said.

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