Chameleon ✔️

21 beverages

TW: This chapter contains underage alcohol abuse.

"E-li-jah! E-li-jah! E-li-jah!" says the crowd.

"Eli?!" says me.

Eli. The sweet, God-fearing, family-friendly, American Indian boy who thinks white. Is chugging beer from a funnel from the keg. Elijah Whitney.

I come between him and the keg, severing all contact they'd had with each other. A few people in the crowd boo. The unfortunate boy from earlier who was in charge of the keg shouts at me, the word "dude" followed by an unrepeatable expletive.

"Hey!" Eli cries out. "Wait your turn!" And then his vision focuses and he realizes it's me. "Oh. It's you," he spits. "Alyssa." He follows my name with a pair of sloppy air quotes.

I put my hands on his shoulders, hoping either no one noticed or just figured he was acting drunk. "Come on. It's time to go."

He shrugs me off. "No! I'm having fun!"

I push him away from the scene and into the crowd. Some other kid has already taken Eli's place at the keg. "I bet," I reply. "A little too much fun."

"But I'm with my friends!" He plants his feet into the wooden floor between two girls in the audience and I can no longer push him. I turn his shoulders, at least, to see the students around him who've already moved on to cheering for the next contestant — a tall, brawny guy with a full beard who is probably more than twice as able to hold his liquor than Elijah Whitney.

"What friends?" I ask him.

"Anyone here but you," he states all too quickly.

It's a low blow, and it stings like one, too. I shake it off. He's inebriated. He's not my Eli; he's not himself right now. ...But what if he is? What if the alcohol has given him the liquid courage to say exactly what's on his mind? I guess "my Eli" doesn't exist any more. Because I sacrificed him for the truth, and he is no longer mine.

"The fact that you hate me is not the current issue at hand," I state. "You have made your distaste for me rather clear, but I do, however, still care about your safety and am not willing to let you stay here alone and drink yourself into oblivion."

He staggers backwards a bit and one of the girls shoves him forward. He falls into me, and I push him back upright before he takes the both of us down. "I don't know what you just said," he says, "but you should stand still. I can't concentrate when there's two of you."

Oh, dear. He's worse off than I thought. "Come on, buddy. Let's get you home." I attempt to steer him away from the crowd once more. He allows me to guide him for two steps, and then he stops. And he just looks at me.

"Are we friends?"

I stop, too. "What?"

"Are we friends?" he repeats.

"Yes," I tell him. "I mean, we were, at least."

His brows pull together and his forehead crinkles. "Did we have a fight?"

"Sort of."

"I think I'm mad at you, but I can't remember. Wasn't I just mad at you?"

"Well, when you remember, let me know."

"Okay," he agrees.

Two more steps, and we are officially out of the crowd. I take his hand and lead him towards the front door. I look over my shoulder to wave goodbye to Stef, but she's no longer there. I pull the door open with my free hand. I step over the threshold. He doesn't.