by Rachel Cohn
Bo said, “I heard she’s had Mayor Jerry in some sort of sexual daze for years and that’s how she got all her Town Council ordinances passed.”
I sincerely believed that was possible, but I said, “Just because a woman is successful at her job doesn’t mean she slept her way there.” Was I secondhand high, or had I just defended Miss Ann Thrope in the name of feminism? I tried to high-five Bo in the spirit of camaraderie, but he did not raise his hand to greet mine. I knew better than to be offended; my gesture was pointless with a germophobe.
I next joined the protest radicals. The “rads,” as they were called, were moshing to the Smiths song now playing as they congregated next to the rotating pie display case. “How’s everyone doing over here?” I shouted over the music to Troy Ferguson, who was bound for the University of Oregon, and who would never, ever be someone whose sweet face I didn’t look at and think, You’re the first guy I did it with. I had no desire to have anything more than that one time with Troy, but there would always be a little bit of affection, and awkwardness.
“The rads are into it,” said Troy, who understood—really understood—how I needed positive encouragement to get through experiences I was nervous about. “Hard to believe that when I come back from college next summer, this place will be gone.”
I sighed. “We’re getting out of Rancho just in time.”
“Let’s go into the theme park!” said Troy, swigging on a beer. “I want to see it before the land is razed.”
“Absolutely not! And don’t you dare try to lead a charge in that direction, okay? I promised Bev Happie.”
Troy said, “Since when does General Navarro take commands? You’re a leader, not a soldier.”
I gave him an imploring look that said, We shared a holy study hour together once on your lumpy twin bed with smelly boy Star Wars sheets, and if that sacred first time for both of us meant anything to you, you will not instigate the rads to storm the theme park.
Troy smiled and patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, I won’t try anything. But if you want to, I wouldn’t say no.” I laughed. That was exactly the line Troy used to ignite the most memorable study session of my high school career.
The party was getting louder, drunker, wilder. Amy Beckerman stood on a stool by the soft-serve ice cream machine, holding yet another bottle of vodka over the top as the crowd around her chanted, “Pour! Pour! Pour!” Pieces of plaster were falling down from the ceiling from all the jumping around on the dance floor. The first wave of pukers were starting to line up at the bathrooms, and I heard someone yell, “Who’s got a plunger?”
There were a million more fires to put out, but all I cared about was the one in my loins. I looked at a text that had just popped up on my phone, from Jake: Get out here to the Chug Bug already. I need to throw you on top of all these stacks of dollar bills and have my dirty way with you. “Laters, Troy,” I said, and darted away, past the line of people at the bathrooms, through to the back parking lot, to my date with carnal destiny. The other fires could wait.
“General Navarro reporting for service,” I announced to Jake as I stepped inside the Command Central that was the Chug Bug.
The line for beers was about twenty-five people deep, but Jake kept it moving swiftly, handing beers and taking money while talking to me. “Business is going too well. I’m going to be out of beer within the hour. Can you man the post here while I go down the road to Al’s Wine ’n’ Donuts to restock the supply? Shouldn’t take me more than fifteen minutes, unless there’s a line for lottery tickets.”
I said, “There shouldn’t be a line. Bev Happie gets Death Valley Psychic News text alerts when the Powerball jackpots get big, and she would have told me so I could play, too.”
I looked at Jake’s money box below the counter, stuffed high with twenties, tens, fives, and ones. Who needed the lottery with these earnings? Jake had plenty of cash now to resupply the beer to last through the night, and then some. He saw me eyeing the cash box, and then his foot lifted and latched around my ankle for a nice game of footsie. “Do you?” Jake asked.
“Do I what?”
Jake paused his beer transaction to look me squarely in the face, lift an eyebrow, and say, “Play.” He handed a beer over to his customer, and then moved that cold hand to graze my warm behind.
“I play,” I murmured.
“Great,” said Jake. “Then play ale wench while I’m gone.” He gave my rear a gentle slap with one hand, tipped his fedora at me with the other, and then placed his hat onto the counter so he could make both his hands into a heart shape on his chest. He leaned closer to whisper in my ear, “This was your best idea, ale wench. I’m forever grateful.”
The heat was sweltering and I really owed Bev Happie an apology, because she and the Death Valley Psychic News were right. Oh yes, there would be some earthquakes happening here before the night ended. The hottest kind.
Jake returned his fedora to his head and pointed to a stack of index cards on the counter, next to an empty glass goldfish bowl with a few index cards placed inside. Jake said, “Encourage people to fill out the comment cards while I’m gone, would you? Gotta know what’s working about the Chug Bug and what’s not.” He exited the beer truck, got into his mom’s SUV, and took off.
I quickly typed a text to Lindsay before I resumed beer service to the next customer. Will you still love me even if I’m the dumbest dumbslut in San Francisco?
She responded immediately. I’ll love you even more. But the competition for that title in this city is pretty fierce, so bring your best work ethic.
Aye, captain, I answered, determined to have my fun now. Thinking about where Jake and I would have our after-party made me acutely aware that in a week, I’d be living in a cramped group house of dirt-broke twentysomethings, sleeping on an air mattress in my sister’s bedroom, which would probably cool my sex drive. But a group house of lesbians was just what I needed, I told myself. Without the distraction of boys, I’d be able to focus on whatever I was supposed to focus on in the next stage of life. Like how I hadn’t gotten into college and what the hell was I doing with my life and could this night never end so I didn’t have to figure out these issues?
Raheem Anthony, next in line for beer, cleared his throat to get my attention. He asked, “Hello, Vic? Are you helping people or not?”
I put my phone down. “Sorry, buddy. How many?”
“Three.”
“When do you leave for Berkeley?” I handed him the brews in exchange for a fistful of crumpled dollar bills.
“Not till September,” said Raheem. “I’ve got some part-time programming work this summer in Las Vegas to keep me busy till then. Can’t wait to get out of here.”
“I’m going to be in San Fran. We’ll practically be neighbors. We should hang out.”
“Totally,” said Raheem. He popped open one of the beers and lifted it in toast to me. “Great party. Thanks, Vic.”
“Make sure Fletch isn’t too hungover for her plane trip tomorrow,” I said.
“Will do,” said Raheem.
Leticia Johnson was next in line. “Two brewskis, please.” I handed them to her. She paid me while inspecting the Chug Bug’s exterior. “The design on the sides of the bus could use more flourish. Tell Jake I volunteer to graffiti paint it if I could photograph the work to use in my portfolio?”
I gave Leticia a comment card. “Write down your ideas and put the card in the fishbowl. I’ll be sure to tell Jake to look for yours.”
“Thanks.”
“And Rhode Island School of Design made a huge mistake turning you down, Leticia. Next year, for sure!”
Leticia smiled.
I was surprised to see Jamila “Bashful” Beshara next in the beer line. “Two beers?” she asked shyly, not able to make eye contact with me, and not just because her head scarf was partially obscuring the top of her head.
“Are you sure, Bashful?” I asked, invoking her nickname so she could feel comfortable with me in this potential
ly awkward situation. I hesitated to hand over two bottles of cold brews to a devout Muslim, no matter how much her face, beaded in sweat from the heat and her scarf, appeared to need hydration.
Jamila nodded. “The beers are for my teammates. They’re just about passed out over there.” I looked past the beer line and saw a couple of girl jocks slumped against the fence, their heads on each other’s shoulders.
“Save your money,” I told Jamila. “If they’re too passed out to come get their own beers, they’re not okay to drink more. I have all the restaurant’s leftover water bottles lined up against the wall over there. Take some. They’re free. Hydration encouraged.”
“The girls will be bummed if I return without beers,” said Jamila. “I don’t like to let my teammates down.”
“I know, so tell them I said no. This is not on you. They can come back for more beers when they’re able to stand on their own two feet.”
“Okay,” said Jamila, looking relieved.
“Hey, I heard you got a soccer scholarship to USC. That’s amazing. Congrats!”
I had played junior varsity with Jamila during our freshman and sophomore years. I was a decent enough player, but Bashful Beshara was a true star. This past year, she became varsity captain and led the team to state semifinals, no small feat since the rest of the squad members were good athletes but also party girls. I had been too busy with ATEC to go out for soccer senior year, but I always tried to go to games just for the awe of watching Jamila play. Though painfully shy on a normal day, like many great performers, she completely came alive on a stage—or a soccer field, in her case. She played in fierce and graceful leaps and bounds, like a world-class dancer, and not even her perpetual head scarf could get in her way when she eyed a goal opportunity.
Jamila’s mouth moved into a very sweet, shy grin. “Thanks. So what’re you doing next year, Vic?”
Not going to USC, I thought. My mood threatened to take a negative shift as I realized what I felt toward Jamila, whom I genuinely liked: major jealousy. I was never going to get a soccer scholarship, but I would have liked to have gotten into USC. Why had I been such a dumbfuck who didn’t apply to any other college? While I’ve learned how important it is to go through life sounding confident even if you’re not, what I now realized was that maybe the appearance of confidence had inadvertently made me overconfident. Certainly it had where college applications were concerned.
Someone toward the back of the line shouted out, “The line’s moving too slowly! Hey, General Navarro, are you campaigning for office or operating a beer truck?”
Zeke stepped into the Chug Bug, once again appearing out of nowhere. “Need some help?” he asked.
“I guess I do,” I said. “The crowd is getting angsty.”
“Know what your problem is?” Zeke asked.
“I’m talking too long to the customers?” I turned around to say good-bye to Bashful, but she was already gone, and the next person in line was Bo Tucker, sighing in irritation and flashing the ticking stopwatch on his phone, to let me know I was taking too long.
Zeke said, “Yeah. And not drinking enough.” He popped open a beer and then pulled out a wedge of lime from his pants pocket and inserted it into the top of the beer bottle. He handed it to me like it was a precious gift.
I said, “I don’t want a lime that’s been in your sweaty pocket all night.”
He took the lime from the beer bottle and tossed it outside onto the ground. “So don’t have the lime. I went to get you a beer a while ago and cut the lime for you then. Never found you, so I drank your beer but held on to the lime in case you’d want it later in another one.”
“Thank you?” I said, meaning it skeptically.
“You’re welcome!” Zeke said cheerfully. “Remember: With great beer power comes great responsibility. You’ve thrown together an awesome party, but we gotta keep the line moving, ale wench.” He snapped his fingers, like chop-chop.
When Jake called me “ale wench,” the words sounded like the hottest enticement. From Zeke, they sounded absurdly funny. I giggled and took a swig of beer. Yes, that was exactly the refreshment I needed. The beer and Zeke. Whoever nabbed this sweet, oversize stud for a boyfriend would be one helluva lucky guy.
Jake returned about a half hour later. “Powerball jackpot’s up to almost two million. Not a mega-lottery, but somebody ought to tell Bev Happie.” He handed me a lotto ticket. “Here, I bought you one to give to her, as a little thank-you for tonight.” He looked at his XL-sized baby brother. “Make yourself useful, little man. Al’s was out of ice because we pretty much cleared them out earlier. Go check the freezer room and see if there’s any more supply in there.”
“I’ll come with,” I said with some reluctance—because I really wanted to be on ale wench duty by Jake’s side. But I needed to monitor the inside situation again. The noise from the restaurant had been getting louder, more boisterous, and I’d heard glass breaking and reports of dancing on countertops (which wasn’t forbidden—I just wanted to see it in action).
As Zeke and I passed through the throngs, he asked, “So when can my band play?”
“You’re still serious about that? Where’s your bandmates?”
“They can be here within half an hour once I alert them.”
“How can you be so sure they’re still up?”
“They’re musicians, dude. The night’s just starting for our kind.”
We stopped at the freezer room so I could unlock it for him before I proceeded back to check on the party in the rest of the space. But I was stopped from opening it by the lob of a marshmallow to the side of my head.
“What the fuck?” I said.
“Please don’t curse,” said the shooter. “It’s so unladylike.” I turned my head to see Evergrace Everdell. She was holding a marshmallow gun and wearing (unironically) a Robin Hood hat on her head, like she’d come to save this party.
“Or you’ll do what?” I said. “Lob another fucking marshmallow at me?”
To prevent just a scenario, I tried to grab the weapon from Evergrace’s hand, but she resisted, and so began a ridiculous waste of time on a tug-of-war over a marshmallow gun. Evergrace said, “You’d better let go, or I’ll alert Thrope.” She paused. “Or maybe I already have.”
I let go.
“DID YOU TELL THROPE?” I demanded of Evergrace Everdell.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Did you or did you not invite me here tonight?”
I knew I should have invited Evergrace, but she had too much history as a tattletale to school administration figures. Her complaint file was notorious. No one told her about the junior class trip to Six Flags. She didn’t get invited to the homecoming game pep rallies. Team LARP never sent her the alert for Star Wars cosplay day.
I didn’t invite her because I didn’t want to risk her telling Thrope. But I tried to save face by telling her, “I guess we forgot. Technically, you’re not on our class phone tree because you were homeschooled, and that’s how we sent out the invites. So sorry about that!”
Not sorry. Happies was indeed for everyone, but could be better enjoyed without guests having to worry about inadvertently offending the fragile sensibility of Evergrace Everdell. She brushed off my insincere apology and focused her eyes on Zeke and, with all the casualness of a random encounter at the grocery store checkout line, said to him, “I heard you’re running for president of the Gay-Straight Alliance next year?”
Zeke shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You should!” said Evergrace. “Too bad I’m no longer eligible for a second term ’cuz I’d totally do it all over again. But I could coach you to run for office if you want.”
“Pretty sure I’d run unopposed,” said Zeke. “No one even ran for posts in the GSA till you wanted to be president. No one actually cares who’s president, I think? Isn’t it just something to put on college applications?”
Evergrace said, “It’s so much more than that! There are many important respons
ibilities like—”
“Excuse me!” I interrupted.
“What?” both Evergrace and Zeke said.
I said, “Did you tell Thrope about the party or not?” Bao Ling had said Thrope was in Vegas for the night, but that was less than an hour’s drive away. She could be gunning her way here right now for all I knew. Where had I put that brownie I procured from the Dunk? Now would be a good time to take a bite into mellow because fear was not an option.
I couldn’t hear Evergrace’s response over the roar of the crowd in the main part of the restaurant, chanting “AMY! AMY! AMY!” Then there was a collective scream, followed by the sound of glass bottles being thrown onto the floor and shattering. Concerned, I followed the sound of the commotion, and found Amy Beckerman standing on top of the long countertop for single diners. She was country line dancing to the song “Party in the U.S.A.” along with Nestor Castillo, the most danciest, losingest quarterback in the history of Rancho Soldado High School. Amy’s side of the dance, though, was more a striptease, and every time she reached the end of the countertop that was opposite the ice cream machine, she played with the unstrung loose ends of her string bikini top and shimmied toward it, as if she was going to take it off and throw it into the opened pour top. And each time she seemed like she would throw it in, the crowd shouted “AMY! AMY! AMY!” and when she didn’t, the people assembled around her on the floor smashed their finished beer bottles onto the ground.
Zeke said, “She really knows how to put the tease in striptease.”
“Do I need to stop this?” I asked him. If Thrope was on her way, I needed a contingency plan, but there was too much noise and chaos for me to focus on anything but what was going on directly in front of me.
All around, classmates who weren’t dancing had their phones on Amy and Nestor’s dance, recording her every move. Zeke said, “I’m thinking, yeah.”
“How?” Getting a drunk girl down from her pedestal when revelers were cheering her on was an impossible and thankless task. And where the fuck was Olivier Farkas, who was supposed to be monitoring Amy and had been insulted when I made him promise—twice—to buddy system her?