Our Year in Love and Parties

by Karen Hattrup

  Tapping into some inner will, Tucker pressed the stream to his lips and took it all, feeling the buzz hit him hard while a couple guys chanted his name.

  He made it to the end, and by those last drops, he welcomed the bitter taste of something gone purposely bad. It had felt awful going down and filling his stomach, but that’s how he knew that he was on his way. When the swallowing made him wince. When the sour taste was stuck there on the back of his tongue. When he thought the word bubbles and that suddenly seemed hilarious, parties were hilarious, everything was hilarious.

  Peter slapped him on the back. “Way to take it like a man, Campanelli. I’m impressed.”

  Tucker swayed, noticing that a space had opened at the flip-cup table.

  Each round started with two people squaring off, their arms crossed and their fists meeting across the table, answering a this-or-that question before they drank. Every time it came to Tucker, he’d ask about two of their teachers—Mrs. Smith or Miss Mendoza? Mr. Chen or Mr. Robinson? People were laughing so hard, and Adam was filling everyone’s cups way too high. Tucker was spilling almost as much as he was drinking.

  He suddenly wanted pizza, and he knew he needed water. Gripping the edge of the table, he waited for his vision to steady, trying to decide if he had it in him to make it up to the kitchen.

  And then he saw Suzanne, standing across from him, keys in her hand.

  “I’m leaving,” she called, and oh wow, she looked pissed. Now would probably be a good time to excuse himself and go talk to her. He was pretty sure he could pull himself together enough to hold a conversation. He should apologize and tell her that this summer had meant a lot to him, that he hoped they could still be friends.

  Instead Tucker said, “Cool,” and went back to his game.

  He meant not to watch as she left, but his eyes followed her as she went up the basement stairs, brushing past Erika, who was coming the other way. Erika gave her a friendly wave, which Suzanne did not return, and he saw a flicker of hurt on Erika’s face.

  Tucker thought about yelling not your fault, but he didn’t have time—he was up again.

  Pete and Dre put out their fists, waiting for Tucker’s question. For a few seconds, he was too far gone to think of anything, but then it came to him.

  “Hermione or Ginny Weasley?”

  “Which one’s Ginny Weasley?” Pete asked, and he was already behind, because Dre had screamed “Hermione forever!” and chugged his beer faster than Tucker thought possible.

  As he clung to his cup, Tucker realized Erika was standing there and smiling at him, teasing and sweet and all alone. Like she was waiting for him.

  Couldn’t she tell he was busy? Couldn’t she see he was locked in an epic competition that would soon make it almost impossible to think?

  A space opened up on Tucker’s team, right next to him. Tucker hiccupped and offered to play both parts, but as he did, a familiar face appeared by his side.

  Christa—Miss Kiss-and-Tell herself.

  “Hi, friend,” she said, bumping her shoulder against his. “How’s it going?”

  A giggle bubbled up inside him, and he thought about explaining that she had been responsible, in a very roundabout way, for getting him laid. He was trying to form the words, and only barely stopped himself when he saw her concerned expression.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah, yeah. I just—I need a shot of something.”

  He’d heard Adam was keeping the hard booze out of sight in the laundry room, so he went looking for it. The first door he opened was the bathroom and the second was a hot water heater and the third was a home office, windowless and cluttered. He paused on the threshold, taking in the messy desk and packed shelves, remembering that Adam’s mom was an English professor.

  “BOOKS!” Tucker yelled to the empty room. “I like books.”

  He wandered in and grabbed the closest one and then sank down onto the floor, squinting his eyes at the tiny text. After repeated tries, Tucker finally made it through a few lines of “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” mumbling what the fuck is this shit as he did.

  His phone beeped. It was a message from Bobby, asking where he was.

  Tucker typed unfortunate tree house situation, or tried to, and then lay back down on the floor, resting the book on his chest, wondering in a vague, detached way if he was some kind of masochist. He could have walked away before he’d heard everything Erika said, but this seemed to be a chronic problem he had—eavesdropping on conversations that he didn’t want to hear.

  Tucker let his mind flow back to when he was a kid, to those intermittent days when he actually spent time with his dad. Ray’s appearances in Tucker’s life were mostly unpredictable, but Tucker could always depend on seeing him in May. Every year without fail, Ray would take Tucker to the place where he grew up—those acres near St. B’s, the place that everyone called the farm, even though it hadn’t been one in years. The family always had a party to celebrate Tucker’s grandfather’s birthday, which seemed like a strange tradition, considering the man was long dead and everyone clearly had hated him. Still, there were fireworks, barbecue, and music, all that beautiful green. Tucker had a pack of cousins who made him nervous—loud, fearless kids from big families. They all knew one another so well.

  Tucker would come home dirty and sunburned and tired, and always he’d run to his room, while his dad stood on the front porch talking to his mom, and how stupid could the two of them be, not to realize that he could hear?

  He remembered exactly how it felt, inching open his window only to be hit by words that would cling to him like burrs. His dad had said a lot of things that Tucker could never forget, but the absolute worst was when Tucker had been struggling with a speech impediment, and his dad could not let it go.

  If you don’t get that fixed, nobody is ever going to fuck him.

  “Nine,” Tucker said out loud. “I was nine.”

  His phone beeped again, but this time it was his mother, asking how late he’d be home, reminding him that they still needed to talk about his dad.

  This night was officially a disaster, and it was his own fault—because he’d had some pathetic urge to relive the summer that he was fifteen. He felt newly ashamed as he realized there was zero chance of slipping by his mom without her noticing how drunk he was. No, not just his mom. His mom and Frank.

  Frank, Frank, Frank. Only a total asshole would complain about Frank. He was a great guy, the opposite of Tucker’s real dad, and Tucker was happy for his mom, really he was. Still, there was something so hard about this new life, in a new house, the proximity of it all, suddenly having a stepfather who was an unavoidable witness to Tucker’s lowest moments. It was an intimacy Tucker hadn’t asked for, one he hadn’t figured out how to navigate, one that made him feel that he was hopeless at bonding with any kind of man—a fact that didn’t seem to bode well for him ever trying to be one . . .

  As Tucker was on the verge of falling asleep, he heard someone open the door.

  8

  Erika

  Erika froze, her hand still on the doorknob. Tucker appeared to be wasted out of his mind, and seeing him lying there made it painfully clear that her whole plan had gone to hell. Or maybe it had been stupid from the start.

  She turned around to leave but couldn’t quite do it, because she had a vision of Tucker puking all over the rug with no one to help him . . .

  Slowly, Erika tiptoed around him, settling into the desk chair and considering the T. S. Eliot collection that lay open on his chest.

  “A little light reading?”

  Tucker picked it up like he’d forgotten it was there, then tried to focus on the open page. “In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo. I’m usually pretty good at this shit, but what the hell does that mean?”

  Erika spun herself around a couple times before stopping again to face him.

  “I think that part doesn’t mean much at all, on purpose. People are just wanderi
ng around a party, trying to sound important or something.”

  “Well, that’s depressing.”

  Erika didn’t respond, but she kind of agreed. She’d let her hopes for tonight get so high, and now they’d come crashing down.

  She sighed, looking down at Tucker, who was rubbing his shoulder, wincing a bit.

  “Hope that didn’t happen in the ball pit.”

  He looked up at her, confused.

  “Your shoulder?” she said.

  “Oh, that. No, no. It’s from the spring. It’s almost better.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to joke if it’s something serious. Sports?”

  Tucker closed his eyes, and for a second Erika thought he’d passed out, that she was going to have to go and find Bobby so he could drag Tucker out of there . . .

  “I crashed the fuck out of an ATV,” he said.

  Erika let out a loud laugh, spinning herself in a circle again. This time when she came to a stop, she looked at his face and realized he wasn’t joking.

  “Wait, what?”

  He was the one laughing now, an arm draped over his eyes.

  “I crashed the fuck out of my dad’s brother’s ATV. At the farm that’s not a farm. I haven’t seen my dad since that day, and now my mom wants me to have dinner with him. Like a lot of dinners. So many dinners. What the fuck, right?”

  Erika was chewing on her lip, staring at his prone form and feeling bad for him.

  “Tucker, I’m not really sure what all that means, but it sounds like it sucks.”

  Right then, Erika wished that he was sober enough to make sense, and she also started to feel ridiculous, for this whole silly mission she’d put herself on. She’d been having fun tonight when she was just talking to him, and wasn’t that what she really missed? How nice he was to talk to?

  Tucker mumbled to himself, then laughed again. He shifted around, then very carefully sat up, his eyes focused on the wall in front of him.

  “That was nice of you to notice my shoulder. Suzanne never asked about my shoulder.”

  She took in those words slowly, and as she did, a tingling started on the back of her neck, subtle but sure. At first she wanted to deny it, to think that she had it wrong, but no.

  He was saying exactly what she thought he was.

  “All this summer, we were down in my basement, and I don’t think she ever noticed. She was always leaning on it wrong.”

  On purpose. He’s telling you on purpose.

  Why he was doing that, Erika had no idea. Maybe he was too drunk to do anything, so he didn’t care anymore. Maybe this whole thing had been some weird joke at her expense, who knew?

  The air in the basement office was stifling, and Erika hated herself in that moment, more than she had in a long time. She could not believe that she was still so stupid.

  So. Fucking. Stupid.

  She left the room without another word.

  Erika went first to the backyard, to have a minute to herself, a minute to look at the stars and breathe and be glad that she hadn’t made a horrible mistake.

  When she felt calm enough not to cry, she went inside, in search of Marissa. She eventually found her huddled in the living room with Nina, Kara, and Yrma. Marissa appeared to be regaling the girls with more stories that Nina didn’t want to hear.

  When Marissa spotted Erika hovering on the edge of the room, she hopped up and headed her way, a smile on her face that Erika could tell was masking her concern.

  “Everything okay?” Marissa asked when she reached her. “I hope this isn’t you after being reset, because you don’t look reset at all, if I’m being perfectly honest.”

  Erika kept her lips tight and shook her head. “He’s an asshole. I’ll fill you in later—I really don’t feel like explaining right now.”

  “That’s fine, that’s fine. Come over here. Have fun with us.”

  The music was too loud, the room was too hot, and all Erika wanted was to go home, but Marissa was dragging her by the hand, calling to Yrma that Erika would braid her hair next, so Erika gave in. She settled on the couch, taking Yrma’s shiny locks and dividing them into careful sections.

  Five more minutes. She’d give this five more minutes, and then she’d drive her and Marissa home.

  “We were asking Marissa for all of her senior year advice,” Kara said. “So if you want to add anything . . .”

  It was such an innocent question, but Erika’s cheeks went pink, and she had no words to offer. What could she possibly say, after all?

  I kept my head down, worked my ass off, and somehow managed to survive nine months of jokes and stares.

  Quiet seconds ticked by, and then Marissa jumped in.

  “The news may not have traveled beyond the walls of our high school, but Erika had a bad senior year. Some dickhead shared a thing that should have stayed private on his phone.”

  Erika’s hands went still, her eyes flashing up to her best friend, silently asking her what the hell? Marissa wasn’t looking at her, though; she was just sitting there on the floor, casually picking at the carpet.

  “Oh no,” Nina said. “I’m sorry, that’s terrible.”

  Yrma whipped her head around, undoing all of Erika’s hard work, staring at her with wide eyes.

  “Do you want me to murder him?”

  “Ooooh,” Kara said. “I like that idea. You and Erika have no connection. It would be completely untraceable.”

  Nina clucked her tongue and raised her beer. “Not to put a damper on this plan, which I would love to support, but what about the fact that literally dozens of people can see the two of them talking right now?”

  “We’ll kill them, too,” Yrma said. “Collateral damage.”

  The conversation continued that way for some time, slowly and steadily gaining in silliness. Eventually, Erika took Yrma’s hair in her hands again.

  Resuming her careful work, she did her very best to smile and laugh along.

  “Maybe check with me next time, before you spill that to a bunch of strangers?”

  “They weren’t a bunch of strangers. It was Nina and her two friends. And I knew they’d be cool.”

  “That’s not your call to make.”

  Erika had said she needed a breather, so she and Marissa were outside, standing shoulder to shoulder against Erika’s car and avoiding each other’s eyes. They looked instead at the clear night sky, the white moon.

  Marissa sighed and crossed her arms. When she spoke again, her tone was gentler.

  “Okay. You’re right. And I’m sorry. But also—I think you need to give people more of a chance.”

  Erika struggled to respond. It was almost midnight, and all around them, the cicadas swelled like an orchestra, louder now than the muffled clamor of the house behind them.

  “Do you not remember how many of our friends totally sucked after everything happened?” she finally asked.

  “Yes, one hundred percent I remember. But, E . . . I think you might be happier at school if you tried a little harder. You’ve always kind of been like this, to be honest. Even before. You are really slow to open up.”

  Tears pricked the corners of Erika’s eyes, because nothing hurt like the truth. At the same time, Marissa knew exactly what she’d done back there—she’d told just enough of the story. She certainly hadn’t mentioned that the guy in the video was some other girl’s boyfriend—one of their friends, no less . . .

  Erika swiped at her face with the back of her hand, a defensiveness growing in her chest.

  “Well, I gave Tucker a chance tonight. Or tried to. And that was a total disaster.”

  Marissa closed the gap between them, put her head on Erika’s shoulder.

  “Do you want to talk about it now?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “We could see if Yrma would murder him, too, since she’s got such a long list going anyway?”

  “No, no. I don’t want to talk about it. I want to go home.”

  Swallowing hard, Erika kept her ga
ze on the stars and took a deep breath before pulling her keys from her purse. She noticed that the heat of the day was finally dying, and that came as a small relief.

  Summer was ending; a new season was on the way.

  The Christmas Party

  9

  Erika

  Erika’s closet was empty and her mini-fridge cleared out. All the girls on her floor were gone—those freshman souls she thought of in some small way as hers. Cleaning the bulletin board in the hallway was the last task she had to do, and she kept putting it off because she was sorry to see it go. She’d worked so hard, putting up something new every month. She’d even bought a Polaroid camera and was always taking photos of everyone, posting fresh ones. She had an eye for it, and she knew the girls liked to pause and see themselves there, looking pretty.

  The midday sun was shining from the big window as she opened the trash bag and picked up her staple remover.

  “Need some help?”

  She turned with a start to find it was Salma, the RA from a couple floors above.

  “Sure, okay,” Erika said. “I mean—if you don’t mind.”

  Erika moved over to make room for her, and Salma slid in, started taking things down gently.

  “I need to up my bulletin board game,” Salma said.

  Erika was about to shrug it off, say it was nothing, but Salma was smiling at her, and Erika started smiling, too.

  “I’m not going to lie, this was a masterpiece,” Erika said.

  She watched Salma out of the corner of her eye, her dark brown hair wrapped in a neat bun, that perfect beauty mark above her lip. As Erika was trying to figure out what she was doing down here on her floor, Salma started talking.

  “It was you, right? Who found her? You don’t have to say yes or no, because I shouldn’t really be asking, but . . . I heard you did everything right. Or as right as anyone can, with something like that.”