A ZOO OF BEERS

By Freya Nie

“I LOVE YOU!” he shouted from across the room. I turned my head to a middle schooler or perhaps a rabid dog standing on the dinner table, declaring his love for a girl he had only known for three days. In his hands was a can of beer crushed in his hands. What a joke.

My family left me in a camp during the summer of eighth grade to learn about emotional intelligence... or quality... or whatever. After days of solving complex puzzles and forcefully holding my money hostage, the instructor announced that today would be the day we drink beer. Mom would not allow this.

After a long day of interviewing on the streets, I entered a restaurant. Tall cans of beer were placed on each table. Soon enough, people bustled through the glass doors, and each raced to the tables, waiting to fill their growling stomachs.

After ten minutes of eating dinner in peace, the clicking sound of opening cans began filling the room. We stood in line with a glass of beer to pay our respects to our instructors. I stood in line, too, instead with water. “I refuse to raise my glass to someone who won’t drink,” the instructor yelled.

I felt anger flush my cheeks and smiled an obvious frown.

I stayed at an empty table where I watched a peaceful dinner gradually unfold into a zoo of wildly drunk animals. One second, I heard glass cups shattering on the floor. Then, in the next second, a person would be found passed out on the floor and comfortably snoring away. I anxiously glanced at the clock every few minutes, hoping the instructors would open the door. Five, four, three, two, one. The second the door opened, I rushed out of the building, running as far away as possible. Oh, Thank God I listened to Mom.