Alli went into town with me. It was Friday night, and we went to Halló. I was wearing my favorite torn jeans, a leather jacket, and military boots. Under my jacket, I had on my brand new Sid Vicious T-shirt I’d bought with the money I stole from Grandma. I’d hidden the bottle inside the garage then snuck it out with me, making sure no one could see it. Especially not the cops, who would immediately confiscate it. If older kids had caught sight of it, they would have demanded a drink and threatened to tell the cops if they didn’t get one. We kept the bottle entirely to ourselves, wandering aimlessly and smoking. Every now and then we’d slip behind some trashcans to swig Brennivín, safely sheltered. The burn was so bad I retched after each swig. The bitter cumin flavor gave way to a strongly alcoholic taste, but I was looking forward to getting drunk and finding out what that sensation felt like. Drunk people seemed to be at ease. They were carefree; they sang and danced with joy. But how much did you have to drink to get loaded? I didn’t know. Hopefully, no more than a single bottle. I was scared we’d run out before we got drunk.
The Brennivín made me feel comfortable and gave me confidence. I stopped being shy. I was warming up and I felt amazing. I even stopped kids and talked to them before they spoke to me. If someone called out “fucking punk,” I didn’t look down like usual, but challenged them back: “Shut your mouth, fucking disco freak! Death before disco.” I talked loudly. I liked talking loudly and making myself heard. I had an uncontrollable desire to do something extraordinary, something spectacular. I wanted to sing in a band. I tried to climb the statue of Jón Sigurðsson so that I could get a piggyback ride from him. After I’d fallen down his trouser leg several times, I gave up and ran to the entrance of Parliament, positioned myself there, and sang “Anarchy in the UK” as loud as I could across Austurvöllur, the public square. Someone yelled at me:
“Shut your mouth, stupid punk.”
I replied defiantly:
“Shut your own mouth, disco shitfreak!”
I wasn’t afraid of anyone. I wasn’t afraid of anything. No one could do anything to me. I wasn’t ashamed of anything. I was free. Free to do and say what I wanted. When the police arrived to investigate what was going on, Alli and I ran into the Parliament garden and hid behind a bush. Once we were confident no one was chasing us, we sat on the bench and drank the rest of the Brennivín. Alli was in the middle of an unstoppable laughing fit.
“Jeez, listen to that!”
“Just some damn morons!”
The next day I woke up with a horrible taste in my mouth. I lay there in bed. There was a deafening ringing in my ears. It took me a while to figure out where I was. I felt around for my glasses, put them on, and looked about. I was in my room. What had happened? How did I get home? The last thing I remembered was that I had been in town with Alli. We were in the garden behind Parliament…and then someone had pushed me…
My heart jerked, and I jumped up. I experienced a searing headache. It was like ten ten-inch nails were trying to push their way out from inside my skull. When I stumbled to my feet, my eyes swam. I felt sick. I staggered to the toilet. My whole body shuddered and my hands were shaking. I bounced off the doorframe and slammed the door harder than I’d meant to. Then I threw up. I reached down to open the toilet lid. My stomach, thinking for itself, decided to have cramps and seizures. Gushes of puke sprang from me in long, rhythmic streams. What was happening? My hands shook so severely that I couldn’t use them. My heart rate was so fast that I could feel it without having to put a hand on my chest — it was like my heart was going to burst out of my body. It was as if my whole body was nothing but pulsating blood. I closed my eyes, and it was like a glacial river ran right through my flesh, like a pillar of ice had been driven deep into my soul.
I was hungover. It was worse than the worst illness. I’d never been so sick before. Headache, stomachache, shivering. A gnawing mental torment. My soul shook. An atomic bomb of anxiety. Another of doubt. What had happened? How had I gotten home? What had I gotten up to? Who pushed me? And Mom and Dad? Did they know? What would they say? Did they think it was all okay?
I stumbled out. Mom was sitting in the kitchen and didn’t look up when I arrived. Her invisible stare burned into me. They knew.
“Hey,” I said, low and wretched.
I was startled to hear my own voice: a croaking, hoarse whisper. Mom didn’t answer; she didn’t look up, just continued to play solitaire. Shivering and shaking, I stumbled back into my room, undressed, lay on the bed, and fell asleep.
When I woke up again, it was evening. I felt a little better. My headache was just a memory, and I could think again. How could I lie my way out of this? I would run into Mom sooner or later. What lie should I tell? Most of all, I wanted to ring Alli and ask him what had happened. But I couldn’t do that until I’d faced my mother.
I snuck into the bathroom and changed clothes. I smelled disgusting: sour and bitter. I smelled like rotten caraway. I ran a bath and washed myself vigorously with soap. I gulped down water, and brushed my teeth over and over again. Then I put on some patchouli and went back out.
Mom was making food. I sat at the kitchen table like a condemned man waiting for her to start. She didn’t speak. She didn’t even look at me. Dad wasn’t home. That was a relief. I felt it was better to deal with an angry Mom than to listen to Dad nag. Mom slammed the plates on the counter with a vengeance. I tried to be as innocent and normal as I possibly could. Every now and then she stopped, sighed, and took a heavy breath. I looked down and waited. Suddenly, she turned to me.
“You should be ashamed of yourself!” she yelled.
“Yes,” I muttered.
“Thirteen years old!”
I nodded my head in agreement, like I knew how ashamed I should be. I did, but not quite. I wasn’t sure if she was so mad because I had drunk too much or if I had done something else. I found it hard to remember anything. I was desperately trying to remember something more, but everything was blurry other than some brawl.
“I just don’t know what to do with you! You’re absolutely intolerable! Fooling about downtown, dead drunk, and brought home by the police!”
By the police? The police had brought me home? Why? Because they knew me, or because I had done something? I had no memory of it.
“How could you do this to your father!”
I kept quiet. There it was. Was she angry because it was embarrassing for Dad? Perhaps, then, I hadn’t done anything wrong? Maybe everything just revolved around my dad. I had to call Alli. I looked at her searchingly.