“What voice mail?” She unlocks her phone.
“It’s nothing! Seriously, just drunk rambling. You should delete it. . . .”
“Ohhh, this voice mail?” She turns her phone to reveal my unlistened-to message, and she presses play.
I lunge for the phone, but she’s too quick. She jumps off the couch and I have to chase her around the living room table, trying to get it. The message is playing in the background, and I’m yelling over it so she can’t hear the voice mail.
“Um . . . hi. I punched someone. . . .”
“Oh, I heard about this! He deserved it.” Bo laughs.
“Stop! Give it to me!” I hop over the table and she dives out of the way, laughing and throwing pillows at me like this is a game and not like my biggest secret is at stake.
“Oh, the party sucked. I should have stayed with you. . . .”
“LA LA LA LA LA!” I shout, trying desperately to cover the noise of the message. I finally tackle her and manage to pin her phone-holding hand to the floor. I keep shouting over the phone. I can barely hear my voice in the message. Maybe she can’t. I grab the phone and scramble to delete the message before it’s too late.
“。 . . I don’t think you get it. I liiiiike—”
Deleted. I drop the phone and fall onto the floor.
“Jesus, what the hell?” Bo rubs her hand where I slid it against the carpet. I feel bad for giving her carpet burn, but it’s the price I had to pay to keep her from finding out.
“Sorry. It’s just embarrassing. You know . . . drunk talk . . .”
Bo snorts, then hops to her feet and reaches out her hand to help me up. I let out a sigh of relief and take it. When she pulls me up, the headache pulls down. A grunt escapes my mouth.
“Come on, I’m starving.”
I can smell bacon grease. We go down to the kitchen, where Bo’s mom is eating, and her dad is cooking. It’s the first time I’ve seen Bo’s mom at the house. Her dad serves us both bacon and pancakes.
“Good morning!” her mom says. “You must be Yamilet?”
I nod and extend my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’d like to talk to you about last night,” she says with a hand on her husband’s shoulder.
“Mom, really?” Bo starts, but her dad cuts her off with a hand gesture.
“Oh . . . okay,” I say. Did Bo tell them what happened?
“You did the right thing, Yamilet. We’re glad you called Bo to pick you up instead of driving home. It takes a lot of courage to ask for help.” She squeezes my shoulder with her free hand.
“You’re not mad?” So they know I was drinking. They know Bo left at three a.m. to get me. They know I stayed the night because I was too drunk to let Bo know where I live. And they’re proud of me?
“We’d much rather you inconvenience someone than end up dead,” Bo’s dad responds.
“Oh . . . well, um, thanks. For letting me stay here. And for the pancakes,” I say, trying not to let on that my face is burning right now from embarrassment. I don’t mention that I actually had no intention of asking for help. I only called Bo to make that drunken confession. I’ll let them think I’m responsible, though.
“We can’t stop you from doing what you’re going to do, but we hope you’re doing it safely.”
“She’s fine, Dad,” Bo interrupts, trying again to save me from the lecture, but her mom continues.
“Make sure you’re always with someone you trust. And don’t ever accept a drink from a stranger. Here.” She takes my phone from where it was sitting on the table. I fight the urge to stop her. “I’m putting my number in here. If you ever find yourself in a situation where you need help, and you don’t feel comfortable calling your own parents, give me a call. You won’t get in trouble, but I’d rather an adult be the one to come get you.”