—
Agnes applies my makeup with at least fifteen different brushes. When she’s done, she sweeps my hair behind my shoulders and makes me face the mirror.
“Voilà!” she says, like we’ve just finished a makeover scene on a morning show. I look up and smile at the face blinking back.
“Wow,” Dri says, and claps in excitement. “You look a-maz-ing.”
“Thanks, dah-ling,” I say. We gather for a group selfie, since we are all looking pretty damn good, and once we each approve the picture, after only three tries, Agnes Instagrams it and tags us.
Dri has agreed to be our designated driver, since drinking aggravates her IBS. I’m learning that Dri has a lot of what she calls nerd ailments: IBS, asthma, carpal tunnel syndrome, myopia. We all pile into her mom’s car and turn up the radio. I feel like a normal teenage girl headed to a normal party on a normal Saturday night. I might have, for at least a little while, taken off my top-secret grief backpack and left it behind.
—
Gem lives in a mansion. On a hill. Behind a gate. Hidden by ten-foot-high hedges. We hike around the house to get to the backyard, where people are lounging on upholstered couches grouped around the infinity pool. An elaborate bar is set up on a built-in barbecue, and there’s an actual stage laid out on the lawn with a professional-grade sound system. I feel relief knowing that Gem and Crystal will likely not even notice that I’m here.
“Drinks?” Agnes asks, and without waiting for my answer grabs my wrist, and I grab Dri’s, and we head to the bar, which is filled with bottles, presumably pilfered from everyone’s parents’ stashes.
“You’ll introduce me, right? To Liam?” Dri asks me.
“Course,” I say. “I mean, I don’t know him that well, but if I see him.”
A few minutes later, holding drinks, which are devised by Agnes and are red and potent, we begin our lap around the party. I’m glad I let my new friends pick out my outfit. I’m wearing my short black dress from last year’s homecoming paired with Dri’s jewelry and strappy sandals.
I feel hands cover my eyes, and I stifle my impulse to scream.
“Guess who?”
“Hey,” I say, and twist out of the hands and turn to face…Liam. Did I hope it would be Ethan? Okay, maybe a little. Liam gives me a peck on the cheek, which is weird, because we don’t kiss hello at the store.
“Hi,” I say, greeting him twice.
Hey-hi. Really, Jessie? Best you can do?
“Hi,” he says, and his voice is thick and loose. He’s drunk, I realize, though I’m not sure how far gone. He’s not stumbling, but he rests his hands on my shoulders. He has what Scarlett and I would call penis fingers. Dri would call them manly. “I’m so glad you came. We’re going on any minute.”
“Cool,” I say, and then I notice Dri standing next to me. “Liam, have you ever met my friend Dri? She’s the best. You guys have, like, literally the same taste in music.”
“Yo,” he says, and tips an imaginary hat at her. Yup, very drunk. Liam is not a hat-tipping kind of guy. Dri freezes, because Liam Sandler is talking to her, and though I’m sure she’s fantasized about this moment many, many times, it’s a very different thing when fantasy meets reality. Agnes elbows her to wake her out of her stupor.
“Hi,” Dri says. “Oville is, um…You, I mean, you guys, are really very, I mean, good.”
“We aim to please,” he says, a little cocky. Maybe he’s not so different from the other senior guys after all. Someone far away whistles. “That’s my cue, ladies. See you later, Jess?”
Liam heads toward the stage, and once he’s out of earshot, Dri grabs my hands.
“Did that just happen? Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” she says.
“He’s seriously drunk,” I say.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Agnes says, and gives me a pointed look over Dri’s head, though I’m not sure what she’s trying to say.
“Let’s get closer to the stage.” Dri leads the way, and we all hold hands again and snake through the crowd to get a better view.
“What?” I whisper to Agnes.
“Nothing,” she says, but it’s the kind of nothing that means something.
—
We make our way to the front, and then I see the whole band, right there onstage, which also means I see Ethan, and my stomach drops. He has a blue electric guitar strapped across his chest, his hair is even messier than usual, and he looks like an actual rock star, despite the Batman logo emblazoned across his chest. Like he was born to be up there, born to hear pathetic girls like me squeal his name. Our eyes catch—a second, then another, one more—but I look away because: Holy crap. I’m no longer cold.
I want to look back. I want nothing more in this life but to look back and have him look at me, but I know he’s now on to more important things, like playing guitar and having eye-sex with other girls, and I just can’t take it.
“Aren’t they amazing?” Dri asks, even though they haven’t started playing yet.
“They look like a real band,” I say, which is the greatest understatement of our time. They don’t look like a real band. They look like rock gods. “I mean, not like high school kids.”
“I know, right? We thought they were going to break up last year after Xander died, but then Liam joined and took his place—” Dri stops talking because the music starts and I don’t get a chance to ask more. Who is Xander? Was he the kid who Theo said overdosed on heroin? Have I completely misunderstood Liam and Ethan? Do they live, like, rock-star lives, with needles in their arms and scantily clad girls giving them blow jobs in their tour van? Is that why Ethan always looks exhausted? Too much partying?
Oville starts with a fast one, and the crowd all knows the words and starts dancing with arms thrown in the air. Liam sweats and belts his heart out: We tried, I cried, you hide, and then we do it all over. Do it all over. We tried, I cried, you hide, and then we do it all over.
Simple lyrics, maybe, but before I know it, I’m dancing too, transfixed. Maybe it’s the alcohol—not maybe, of course it’s the alcohol—but I find myself staring at Ethan. I don’t care if he notices, thinks I’m a cray-cray stalker; he’s onstage asking to be stared at. For a second I feel his eyes on mine—I swear I do, and I shiver—but then he looks back into the crowd and I think I must have imagined it.
—
“We’re Oville, and we’ll be back,” Liam says, and jumps off the stage to deafening cheers. I turn to Dri, grab her shoulders.
“You were so right about them,” I say. “Oh. My. God.”
“Right? Right?”
“Not you too,” Agnes says, and rolls her eyes, though she was dancing right alongside us.
“Not about Liam,” I say. “But—”
“Not about Liam, what?” Liam says, and there he is again, standing next to me, shiny with sweat and elation. Thank God I didn’t finish my sentence. I don’t need the humiliation of Ethan finding out I have a debilitating crush on him via Liam.
“Nothing. You guys were amazing. Seriously,” I say, and nudge Dri to join in the conversation. Before she can say a word, though, Gem runs up and practically jumps into Liam’s arms, and wraps herself around his torso. She kisses him and we can all see her tongue.
“Whoa, what was that for?” Liam slowly puts her down. He doesn’t sound drunk anymore. Maybe performing burned it all off.
“Baby, you guys, like, totally slayed,” Gem says, and then links her arm with his, as if we need another demonstration that she is his girlfriend. We get it. He bones you.
“Thanks. Hey, do you know Jessie? Remember I told you about her? She works at Book Out Below!” Liam says.
Gem turns to me and smiles, and it looks so sincere, my first thought, beyond disgust, is that I’m certain that she will one day become famous. This girl can act. Of course Liam likes Gem; he’s never actually met her. I wonder what he’d say if he knew she mocks me daily.
“You’re new, right? Don’t we have English together or so
mething?” she asks. Pure innocence. I shrug, unable to force myself to respond. Agnes thrusts another drink into my hand, and though I don’t really need it, I gulp it down.
“Liam, I like the new riff you added to ‘Before I Go.’ It really works,” Dri says, and I so appreciate her jumping in that I want to cry.
“You think? Ethan thought it was a little flashy,” Liam says.
“Nah, you needed a break right then. Too much tension or something.”
“That’s exactly what I said.”
“Lee-lee, we need to go. Crystal is calling us,” Gem says, and starts to pull Liam away, like he’s a yippy dog sniffing something disgusting.
“I’ll be there in a sec,” Liam says.
“Come on, I want you to make me your special vodka and Red Bull.” Gem says it like an invitation, as if she is asking him to lick her, not to prepare a drink. How does she do that? Talk with innuendo? Is that something I will ever learn how to do, or is it a skill she was born with, just a bonus in her overflowing genetic swag bag?
“I do make kick-ass cocktails. Catch you guys later?” Liam asks, and gives us a wide smile, big enough that Dri can now cross see Liam Sandler smile at me off her bucket list.
SN: you look beautiful.
Me: are you here? where are you?
I don’t acknowledge his compliment because it’s too easy to lie. Maybe Agnes has a point: writing is different from speaking after all. My mom used to tell me I was beautiful, but I always felt like she meant it in a general way, from the perch of someone whose own body had betrayed her, and maybe also as a public service message, a way to build up my flagging self-confidence. Scarlett’s mother, on the other hand, used to say that Scarlett could be gorgeous if she only lost ten pounds, which was cruel, of course, but also specific, as if her mom thought she was worthy of an honest assessment.
I look around. A tall, good-looking guy in the corner wearing glasses and a gray T-shirt is staring at his phone. It takes me a moment to place him. He was the first person I saw at Wood Valley: Kilimanjaro gray T-shirt boy. The one who spent the summer climbing mountains and building schools in Tanzania. I doubt he’s SN—I picture SN as more of a homebody, unlikely to have spent his summer scaling mountains—but it’s worth further investigation.
“Who’s that?” I ask Dri, motioning to the guy in the corner.
“Caleb. Agnes went to junior prom with him last year as friends. He’s cool. Why?”
“Trying to figure out who SN is,” I say. Dri jumps up onto one of the lounge chairs to get a better view of the party. I try to pull her down. I don’t want him, wherever he is, whoever he is, to see her scoping him out. Dri is many wonderful things, but subtle is not one of them.
“I’d say three-quarters of the guys at this party are texting right now,” she reports. “Could be Caleb, though. He’s a little weird like that.”
“SN is not weird,” I say.
“Right,” Dri says. “Because anonymously texting someone all day every day is not weird at all.”
SN: nice try. i’m good at hiding in plain sight. i rock the camouflage.
Me: Fine. Are you having fun?
SN: a little bored, which is why I’m texting you.
Me: You could just talk to me, you know, IN PERSON instead.
SN: one day. not tonight.
Me: We don’t have parties like these back home. Like with a real band.
SN: you liked Oville?
Me: I thought they were amazing.
SN: eh. they used to be better.
Me: I think I may be drunk.
SN: me too.
Me: So let’s meet. Come on. What’s the worst that can happen? You don’t even have to talk to me….
SN: what are you implying?
Me: I don’t know. I warned you I was drunk.
SN: the old “I was drunk” excuse.
Me: Not an excuse. An explanation.
SN: I love how you’re always so precise with your words.
Me: I don’t get this. What’s the point?
SN: ?
Me: Of all this talking. Are you embarrassed to be seen with me? Are you worried I won’t like you? I don’t get it.
SN: none of the above. I just like this. a lot. this IM’ing thing works. I’m too drunk to explain now.
Me: The old “I was drunk” excuse.
SN: I promise we will meet. soon.
Me: You keep saying that.
SN: you know what I think about sometimes?
Me: What?
SN: you know that piece of hair that always falls into your eyes—the not-quite-a-bang piece? I want to be able to tuck it behind your ear. I want to be able to do that. I want to meet you when I feel comfortable enough with you to do that.
Me: You are so weird.
SN: you are not the first person to say that.
Me: Am I the first to say that I really like that about you?
I look over at Caleb again, try to imagine SN’s words coming out of that guy’s mouth, try to picture him making as romantic a gesture as tucking my hair behind my ears. Him understanding that touching my hair requires a certain amount of intimacy. No, the image doesn’t work. Instead, I picture Caleb as a future frat president, the type to yell at his pledge to chug a beer. SN’s probably not Kilimanjaro gray T-shirt boy then. But who the hell is he?
—
“I’m drunk,” I tell Dri and Agnes.
“You’ve already told us,” Dri says. “Like a million times.”
“Sorry. Apparently, I’m the type of drunk who likes to let other people know,” I say.
“It’s charming,” Agnes says, in her typical dry way. “I’m a little drunk too. Though not as sloppy as you.”
“I’m not sloppy,” I say. I look down. Am I sloppy? Everything seems to still be in place except my mind, which is rolling around in my head. I’ve gotten drunk before, though usually alone with Scarlett. I guess my tolerance is two Agnes Specials.
“You’re both sloppy,” Dri says. She throws her arms around our necks, which I’m grateful for because it helps me with my balance.
“Do you think it’s possible to have a crush on two people at once?” I ask, which is one of those embarrassing questions I would never ask sober. Maybe I should never drink again.
“Totally. I’m usually into, like, five guys at a time,” Agnes says. “I like to keep it varied. Optimize my chances.”
“So who do you like? SN, obvi, but who else? Please, please don’t say Liam.”
I’m about to say it out loud, tell her Ethan, and finally get the entire scoop since I know Dri is not the type to withhold details: she’ll tell me his life story, what he was like in sixth grade, whether he has a girlfriend, whether he’s a d-bag. Maybe she’ll even help angle us closer to him so I can say hello. So far, our only contact has been when he passed by me after the show—a “hey” that was neither rude nor friendly nor an invitation to talk more: the same closed-up can of nothing he seems to lob at everyone else. I thought we were getting past that. I guess I thought wrong.
Just as the word is about to come out of my mouth—“Ethan,” which is a pretty word, don’t you think?—Gem comes barreling toward me.
“You stay away from my boyfriend, you skank,” she says, and gets right up into my face, my grill, which is an expression I’ve never once had an occasion to use until right now.
“Umm…,” I say. I wish I could go back in time and not drink those two drinks, because I’m having trouble understanding what’s going on. Why is Gem yelling at me? I’ve grown accustomed to her passive-aggressive under-the-breath taunts, which I can usually pretend I don’t hear. I can’t do that with her yelling into my mouth. And skank? Really? “What?”
I want to wipe her breath off of my face, a slathering of onion and alcohol. I want be far away from here, maybe tucked in bed. California is exhausting.
“Stay. The. Hell. Away. From. Liam,” Gem says, and then flicks her hair, like she’s in some mean-girl movie, and struts
away. I take it back. She’s not a great actress. She lays it on too thick.
I look around to see if anyone saw, but it’s just me, Dri, and Agnes in our own little circle in the vast backyard.
“Holy crap, did that just happen?” Agnes asks, and starts to giggle.
“It’s not funny,” I say, though I wish it were. “What the hell?”
“Gem’s been all messed up since her dad got arrested last year. It was, like, all over the tabloids,” Agnes says. “I mean, she wasn’t that nice before, but since then she’s gone full-on raging bitch. I hear he could go to jail.”
“What did he get arrested for?” I ask, though I don’t really care. I hate her. No Wood Valley sob story is going to get sympathy from me.
“Her dad solicited a prostitute,” Dri says. “And there’s some sort of tax fraud thing.”
“Seriously?” I ask.
“Whatever,” Agnes says.
“Just tell me one thing?” Dri asks, and I can hear the plea in her voice. “Before, were you just about to say you liked Liam?”
“No, of course not,” I say, but I can’t tell if she believes me.
Me: I’m DRUNKY.
Scarlett: Me too.
Me: Having fun?
Scarlett: A BLAST.
Me: Yeah, me too.
Even through my drunken haze, I realize I’m lying. My hands are shaking. My teeth are chattering. I want to go home. No, home doesn’t really exist anymore. I lower my expectations. I want to go to bed.
—
I see Ethan only once more before we leave the party, on our way out the door. He is lying down on one of the lounge chairs, alone. I’m pretty sure he’s sleeping. Good, I think. He needs it. It takes all of my willpower not to brush the hair from his forehead.
CHAPTER 19
Me: Three Things: (1) I have a headache. (2) The room is spinning. (3) I’m never drinking again.
SN: (1) I intend to waste most of my day playing Xbox, with occasional breaks to eat pizza, preferably with eggplant, which I get a lot of shit for, but whatever. sue me. I don’t like pepperoni. never have, never will. (2) I was up early, so I’ve been listening to Flume all morning. (3) my mom is still sleeping, like she’s the teenager in the house.
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