Apologetic

*

Dan’s never been religious, or even spiritual. He’s never believed people who talked about out-of-body experiences. But he’s having one, right now. He doesn’t know where T.J. got this stuff, but it’s gooood. And to think he had worried that he wouldn’t be able to find drugs – or the people who use them – at Dartmouth.

Monty sticks his head into the room, waves away the miasma of pot smoke. “Rydell! Phone.”

Dan looks up, laughing. “Phone? No fucking way. I can’t...uh-uh.”

“Dude, it’s your dad, and he sounds fucking iii-rate.”

“My dad?” Dan laughs harder. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.” He stops laughing. “Oh, shit. Sam.” He lumbers to his feet – no small accomplishment, as he can’t feel his feet, and says, “Today’s my kid brother’s sixteenth birthday. Dad’s gonna bitch me out for not calling.”

As he walks to the common room, he hears T.J. yell, “Hey, you guys! Rydell’s gotta talk to his dad – and he’s stoned!” The room explodes in laughter, and when Dan lifts the receiver, he sees all five of the guys hanging off the doorframe to listen.

“Hello, Dad.” The best offense is a good defense. If he doesn’t say too much, maybe his dad won’t catch on.

“Daniel.”

Uh-oh. Too late, somehow. “I know it’s Sam’s birthday, and I was supposed to call, and I was about to, seriously, right now, but this thing came up, and—“

“Your brother is dead, Dan.”

Dan blinks to clear the haze at the edge of his vision. “Wh—“ He has to clear his throat so his voice doesn’t sound like sandpaper. “David? What happened?” Because, it has to be David, right? David’s in terrible shape, doesn’t take care of himself, and it doesn’t matter that he’s only 24; the guy is a heart attack waiting to happen.

“Not David,” his father snaps. “Sam.”

The room is wobbly. Dan sits down. “But...but today’s his birthday.”

“Yes it is.” Dan has forgotten what a cold, unfeeling bastard his father can be. “He got his license today. Took his buddies for a ride. His buddies brought their buddies. Mary Jane and Jack Daniels.

Christ. Sam’s dead, and his father’s making his bitter, poisonous little jokes. Dan rubs his hand across his face. He’s shaking so hard he can barely hold the phone.

“Be on the next plane home, Daniel.”

“I will,” he whispers.

His father hangs up. He doesn’t say, “This is your fault,” but he doesn’t have to, because Dan knows he’s thinking it, and Dan is starting to think it, too.

Slowly, so painfully slowly, Dan returns the receiver to the cradle. He looks at Monty and T.J. and the rest of the gang, waiting for him to tell them what’s going on. And he will, as soon as he remembers how to speak again.

It’s the funniest thing: he knows, intellectually, that the drugs are still in his system. But in his head, he’s sober. He’s completely sober.

And he’s so, so sorry.