Page 96 of The Holiday Hate-Off
“I’m not drunk,” I insist. “I just really, really have to pee. It’s getting worse.”
I clap a hand over my mouth, because I hadn’t intended to say that part out loud.
“Come on, Lucy, you can do this,” Charlie says. “Hold it until the lobster traps get lit. You don’t want to miss the big moment. You’ll always regret it if you were stuffed into a smelly Porta Potty when something major happened.”
“What could possibly happen? Do you think someone could get electrocuted? Mixing electricity and water does seem like a bad idea.”
“He does it every year,” Hudson comments, which reminds me that I’m casually discussing his dad’s possible electrocution. Goodness. Can’t take me anywhere.
I take a sip of my drink to buy a moment of silence, and Hudson says, “Isn’t that going to make you need to pee more?”
The man has a point. But it’s also really cold out here, so I take another half sip. Finally, I cave to nature’s demands: “I’m going to the Porta Potties. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll go with you,” Hudson offers, which ishorriblyembarrassing. There’s no way I want him waiting outside while I hover over the Porta Potty seat after drinking three or four buttered rums.
“It’s okay,” I say, patting his arm. “I’m not going to fall through and go to Narnia. I’ll go alone so you can see your dad flip the switch and shake the wobbly lobster claw.”
“You’re going to miss it,” Charlie says, her eyes wide. “It only happens once a year.”
“And then the tree’s on for weeks,” Lars says, smoothing her hair. “Let your friend pee.”
There’s been entirely too much discussion of my bladder, so I hand Charlie my half-finished drink and turn toward the Porta Potties, lined up by the pier. Okay, calling them Porta Potties, plural, makes it sound like there’s a long line of them, but there’s not. There are only two. At least no one’s waiting—probably because everyone’s excited to see the big moment.
As I approach them, I notice one of them has a sign across the front. “ENTER AT YOUR OWN PERIL.”
Oh, that’s certainly not promising.
The other says “occupied,” so I stand waiting, toggling between one foot and the other. Finally, a guy wearing an antler headband comes out.
“Uh, sorry,” he apologizes, and a cloud of stench follows him out.
Oh no. Suddenly the hot buttered rum in my stomach feels like it’s sloshing around.
I hold my nose and step inside.
It’s fine. All I have to do is lock the door, squat, and get out of here.
I lock the door, do my business, and use the hand sanitizer. But when I try to open the door, it won’t budge.
I try again, my heart pounding, everything inside of me going into high alert. Will Hudson have to call the firehouse and get them to come save me with the Jaws of Life? Will he even realize I’ve been gone for too long? Maybe he’ll assume I have explosive diarrhea and will be too polite to check.
Charlie’s a little tipsy, too, and she’s bound to be distracted by the lighting.
Oh no, oh no, oh no…
I start banging on the door, but at exactly the wrong time, because suddenly there’s a roar of applause from outside.
Everyone will be at the docks now, talking and singing and carrying on. No one is going to hear me. Maybe not ever. I’ll be in this stinky Porta Potty for the rest of my life.
I bang again, and again, and?—
There’s a cracking sound, and the door flies open, spilling me into someone’s arms. I process his scent first, because I basically face-planted into his coat.
Enzo.
My first thought is relief. He saved me from the big, bad Porta Potty. But then I remember what it smells like in there.
“I didn’t do that,” I mumble into his coat.
