by Jeffrey Marquis

bawled from the bottom of Dante's heart as he blindly gazed into his mother's moist eyes. The cold look on her face screamed, "What's become of my baby?"

I could see that she had just gotten home, the way she rushed around like something had caused a panic attack disturbance to her mood. I sat there unsure of what to do, with my heart pounding so hard, as Dante's mom stepped over day lilies and daffodils, treading from her car and up to my friend. And she looked at me. She gave me a look with those watery eyes and quivering lips, "Save my, my son." I wanted to yell to her that I hadn't done anything, that I'm innocent. I felt an uneasiness swelling from my spine. I felt that my voice would tremble if I spoke.

I gave my younger sister, Jill, a look that said, "I hope you're ready for some excitement." She flared her nostrils, telling me, "Just go home. I don't want any part of this," as Dante staggered up to the rear of the car, carrying much clothing and exotic import beer bottles in shopping bags. So here's my sister, a kid who's looking to get back to her Vogues or whatever, and here's my best friend, a kid who's faux running away from home at the age of nineteen, all because of his drinking and drug problems.

And there's me behind the steering wheel, still not understanding what's going on. Dante fell into the back seat to which I questioned, "Where am I taking you?"

"Just drive." He mumbled, "Sorry, but just get me out of here."

"But, but why do you have so many bags? Why is she looking at me like that?"

I pushed the rubber shifter into reverse, looked for some acceptance from my sister, and eased out the gentle clutch on the Ford Taurus. Jillian didn't really give me an answer; just gave me a look that said, "This is who you hang out with." Not judging, but more so informing me that this is who I call a buddy. What does she know? She's witnessed Dante drunk plenty of times, but she doesn't know what he's really made of: high SATs, creative mind, charming intellect.

I looked back at Dante's mother. She gave me a look that said, "… PLEASEEE," but I blipped the throttle hard enough to send us off. I didn't think about it at the time, but I soon understood that she now held me in a different light. Dante's still here, looking misty eyed or whatever from the huge argument. Jillian is still here, looking nervous from the falling out she's just witnessed. And I'm barely here, with beads of sweat accumulating on my forehead. I breathed with recovery after the last few minutes of my life had played out completely by instinct.

Dante started to stammer out the words the words that would begin a necessary storm of conversation as he lifted a La Fin Du Monde beer, nine-percent alcohol content by volume, something his dad keeps a few bottles of, thinking himself a beer connoisseur. I usually don't allow people to casually drink in my car—I could lose my license—but I thought I'd let it slide, seeing as how I was already involved in what seemed to be a crime.

"No, what are you doing?"

"Jeff—I can't go back there—maybe I'm going to live with Natalie in Texas, but I just need to figure this out. She's got some family there. Thanks for picking me up though, I'll give you money for gas, the car looks good, what CD is this, hi Jill, just drive." He said, but fast enough to let you know something was up. I figured he took a bunch of his Adderall, and I asked,

"Are you on anything? I mean, you look out of it—or maybe your eyes are just, wet—like, I haven't seen you like this before. I mean, come on man, you're not leaving home—COME ON—you just need to relax. Let's go to Tortilla Sam's, and we'll forget about this whole thing. I'll burn you a mix CD at my house; we'll buy some shit at Best Buy; we'll watch an old South Park." I didn't know what to do with him, and he pulled out a wad of twenty-dollar bills, saying, "I don't know what to do right now, but I think I'm going to see Natalie when I can get a plane ticket. I talked to her last night about where, I don't know, where we're going in life, and we talked about, I don't know. How we need to branch away from home and start doing something with ourselves." He said before taking a damn kitchen bottle opener out of the bag and cracking one of those foreign beers.

I knew he was serious when I saw all the money he took from his house, but my sister had other concerns. "Are you going to drink that in here?" She asked, as Dante took gulps from the bottle like it held the answer. "Nevermind. . .nevermind." My sister didn't know what to do, knowing she didn't have any business with this. Me, I just drove with a certain focus like everything needed to be fluid, like I believed smooth shifts held the answer. It got us home quick, but my mother was having her damn book group. NO.

There's Jillian walking directly to the front door with strong steps and body language that said, "I am a separate entity," like she doesn't need any involvement. There's my mom smiling with her friends. And there's me, saying hello to the old ladies while Dante lolls around in the front yard like he's in a ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese, with my dog licking him. I could see that Dante was noticeably impaired by just the way he rolled around with Bogie. I had to get him out of here, to a location where Dante—the invalid—would be accepted of his disoriented functions. To Mike's. I walked up to this poor bastard, cocked my head to the left, looked at him sprawled out on the lawn, and suggested, "We should get out of here. Let's head to the mall."

"Yeah," he said. "I need to buy the new Interpol CD," like what a brilliant idea. I didn't know if he was serious about his Texas plans, and I had no idea how this was going to end, but I had to get him away from any commotion—to somewhere quiet where we could figure out a plan. I had to put myself in control, somehow, and driving my car to wherever I wanted to go was the perfect option.

I got him in the car. I drove fast. I told him to shut up. Understandably I was very nervous seeing as how I'm now a part of this scheme with Dante fleeing. I, myself, wanted a drink to chill me out, but I knew that a buzz wasn't the answer to this sticky situation. My driving reflected the timid sensation running through me, with not much of any conversation taking place. Dante sat there, laying back; he let out little whimpers that said, "I'm scared and don't know what to do." It was a hushed cry.

We got to the mall alright, and I was soon chaperone of the staggering and swaying Dante who took a liking to the bookstore. Granted he wasn't completely lucid, but I admired his aspirations to read large, difficult novels. I was more concerned with the magazine section, and this told me I lack his complexity, even though he was in no condition to actually read the books he purchased.

Another thing, Dante adopted a "nothing really matters" outlook, dropping books on the floor and messing up displays, kind of acting out. I knew it was only a matter of time before this childlike behavior bit us in the ass.

"Are you hungry D?"

"I'm—nah man, not really." He said. "Or—yeah—let's go get some Golden Fever wings."

"I was only talking about the food court. Let's get you a burger or something to eat. You look greenish."

Dante had developed a seaweed tint to his skin. He didn't look good, and I feared the thought of my friend vomiting everywhere, just helpless. And we were off to the food court, where I could get myself a Diet Coke—shut up—and make a few phone calls. You should have seen him walk though; kind of like floating with a sway to his steps. Thankfully the food court wasn't much of a hike. With much "tipping to the left, tipping to the right" we made it to the blah cuisine destination alright, with his mind obviously set on food.

We stepped up to the Burger King counter, and my cuisine lusting buddy listed random items off the menu. The worker took him seriously at first, pecking up a storm into the register, but it soon became clear that someone wasn't in a lucid state. I rose to the challenge of acquiring said food.

"Yeah. Sorry about him. Could I get a—what number?"

"Uh, like, uhhhhhh, three." He mumbled, "With a Sprite."

"Three with a Sprite and a large Diet Coke."

I had no intention of paying. Dante pulled out a wad of aged twenty-dollar bills, and I said, "Pay the good man!" He handed the man a $20 bill, but I got the feeling that he expected me to somehow repay him—like I owe him a favor. I knew that he didn't grasp the storm of anxiety I had rocking in my head. Can't really blame him though; he looked like awful; he was noticeably shaky from the events of the day. It wasn't easy for him, I could tell.

Our stuff came. We sat down. We needed to have a talk about what we're doing.

"Hey man, really, how do you see this ending?" I asked.

"Natalie. We're going to head off to a youth hospice—to a place where I can get everything straight—before school starts up," he muttered intelligibly as his eyes lolled shut.

"Wake up. Wake up! Dante, you're nodding off. Take more Adderall." I snapped my fingers in front of his eyes with a realization that he wasn't going to eat any of the food he ordered. "Grab a couple French fries, and take a sip of your drink. You're a mess, man. I'm calling Mike."

I dialed Mike's cellphone—voicemail. I dialed Mike's house and his mother picked up, "He's in his room with Catie. . .Sure you can stop over. I'm just watching blah blah blah."

With that we were off to Mike's place not too far away. I grabbed my drink, prodded spacey, and took some deep breaths on our way to my car. I pretended to walk by myself like I didn't know who this kid stumbling right behind me was. You should have seen him stumble, stumble, and then quickly skip to regain his balance. Funny, but only amusing in retrospect. We got to the car alright, and I didn't really want to be with him. It was very awkward, helping out a friend while being so angry at him, but I knew enough to set it aside for the time being. He needed someone with him—a sitter.