Swell by Julie Rieman Duck

so I covered it with towels and laundry, and distributed several poofs of body spray around the area. Then I changed, sprayed myself with the body spray, and hid the empty booze bottle under the bed.
    The vomit wouldn’t come, though, even after tickling my throat with a toothbrush. Nope, I did not throw-up until I smelled the eggs my mom was cooking for breakfast. In the hall. On the wall. And it smelled just like, if not worse, than the spill in my room.
    There was no place to hide after I got sick. Mom held her breath when she smelled it, fetched me a damp towel and sent me to the bathroom for a wipe-down. I dunked my head in the sink and prayed to God that I wouldn’t get in trouble.
    “Rebecca Marie Ionesco! Come out here! Now!” seethed my dad. I walked nimbly into the hall, which was now clean and dry. The smell of bourbon was still there, but faint. My dad pointed to the dining room, and then a chair. He had a way without words. My mom was washing the yuck off her hands, and then she joined us.
    “I think you know what happened,” he said, pressing his fingertips together until they turned white.
    “I threw up.”
    “You threw up alcohol . You’ve been drinking, and we want to know where you got it.” Would it have been wise to say that I got it from their stash? If I told them that, the rest of the stash would disappear and there’d be nothing to fall back on.
    “Someone gave it to me,” I said, hoping that the questions would go no further.
    “Who?”
    “This girl. She’s friends with Allison. I don’t really know her.” It was hard to think fast when I could barely think at all. I just wanted to die.
    “And you’re not going to. I want you to stay away from whoever this girl is… and Allison, and anyone else associated with that crowd.”
    “But what about Christian? I’m supposed to go somewhere with him today,” I said, wondering if he would call me like he said he would.
    “Christian is fine. Just don’t go near those girls. If you do, you’re grounded.”
    “I don’t think she should go anywhere, hun,” my mom interrupted, adding to the fun. “She doesn’t know how dangerous drinking is.”
    My mom crouched down next to me for a heart-to-heart. It was all I could do to keep from passing out over the hangover and the interrogation stress.
    “Your uncle Dave died from drinking. His liver rotted away. He was also in jail God-knows how many times. Don’t go down that path,” she warned. Her older brother, David the Great, had been the apple of my grandparents’ eye, except for the drinking habit that killed him. My mom usually brought him up if there was a drunk driving story in the news, to make a point that I shouldn’t drink. Given that she and my dad had plenty of wine every night, I summed it up as a case of do as I say, not as I do.
    “I’m not Uncle Dave and I’m not going to be, okay? I just wanted to try it and I don’t like it. I’m done.”
    “Okay, then. Never again, Rebecca,” said my dad upon leaving the table. I remained seated because my butt felt like lead and my head like a cinder block. If I fell asleep at the table I would probably get in more trouble, so I dragged my tail back to my room and checked my phone.
    It was no surprise that Christian had not called, so I went to bed.
    /////
    I was stretched out on the bed, my arm covering my swollen face and about five hours into my recovery nap. I almost fell again, startled by the ringtone coming out of nowhere.
    “Let’s go for a drive.” Christian sounded neither excited nor bored with his idea. A drive could mean several things.
    It took every bit of willpower to shower, dress and put on makeup. I poked myself in the left eye with the mascara wand, and got lipstick on my teeth. I was never good with beauty products, but because I was now with the “in crowd” I had to look the part, even if you could tell I was hung-over and puffy underneath the paint.
    My parents were wary of the “drive” I was