Beer tasted like wet money—or maybe just bad beer did. Viola had never tried any other kind. She preferred white wine, but there was no white wine at this party.
“Drink it like medicine,” the guy manning the keg said. “It’ll loosen you up.” He wore a peacoat, a fedora, and darkrimmed glasses. Said his name was Greg.
When some of the beer spilled on her chin, Viola swiped at it with the sleeve of her zippered hoody and burped. Greg refilled her cup. Feeling a little dizzy, she took a handful of potato chips and marveled at the miracle of salt and grease.
“You’re a student, yeah?” he said, drawing a pipe from his pocket. “What classes are you taking?”
“History 103, Greek, and Philosophy 207.”
“Who’d you have for philosophy?” He fiddled with lighting up the pipe. Viola guessed he was a graduate student.
“Wilson. She’s very cool. We’re learning about testimonial injustice.”
“Oh yeah.”
Viola couldn’t tell whether this meant he knew what testimonial injustice was or whether he was asking for an explanation. She plowed ahead anyway. “Some people’s views are taken less seriously than others’. They don’t get respected as knowers or sources of knowledge. Their testimony is discounted.”
“Let me guess. Those people are usually…” He mimed thinking hard. “Could they be… women?”
Viola took another swig from the clear plastic cup, squeezing it tight enough to crack it. “Yes, among others.”
“How astonishing,” he said, blew a couple of smoke rings, filled his own glass, and then offered to refill her cup.
“I think it is,” she said. “Where’d you get the glass?”
He pointed at the yellow cupboard over the coffee maker before moving outside. The glass she found had a half-faded decal of a four-leaf clover but was heavy and firm, classier than the broken plastic cup. She filled it, took a long medicinal swig and decided to go outside herself. The little back courtyard smelled of smoke and something sweet, maybe cooking pumpkin. As her eyes got used to the lower light, she made out a wall covered with a creeping plant, a string of Christmas lights, a broken grill, some planters, and half a dozen people in a loose circle. Viola pulled her jacket tight around her and wished she hadn’t obeyed the posted instructions to remove her shoes at the front door.
She recognized one of the voices from the circle: a sophomore from Viola’s dorm, one of the cool kids, someone she would like to have been friends with. She considered walking over and starting a conversation. But then a blonde girl with a streak of purple in her hair offered her a joint.
Viola had never smoked a joint before, but why not? Everyone said it was harmless, a lot safer than alcohol, and legal, at least if you were twenty-one. She was only eighteen, but that hadn’t kept her from the beer. She gripped the small, damp object between her thumb and forefinger and felt a moment of