CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When we arrived at the party, Harris stumbled over to us. He wore a shirt with eight vertical strips of blue tape on it. After he greeted us drunkenly with beer-sloshed arms and a slur in the eyes, I regarded him, “Let me guess. The eight pieces of tape are for the eight drinks that you’ve had.”
His smile exuded booze, but it was still blinding. Harris was a very good looking boy with ruby-red lips that would never need to be touched-up by a camera. His golden locks were misted almost perfectly with sweat. The drunk look worked for him.
“No, no. Eight beer bongs.” That was said so matter of fact.
“Where’s the rest of the gang?”
Harris shifted and gestured towards the backyard.
“Thanks, Harris.” I patted him on the arm and winked at Mena. Harris was busy skimming her
