by Seth Fishman
Odessa grew up down the street from me. We used to be friends, maybe even best friends. When we found out that we both got into Westbrook, we snuck out after curfew to Baskin-Robbins to celebrate. When we found out our class schedules, we called each other immediately. A couple years ago, during the first days of school, we sat together at lunch. And then, in a shifting slide, her veneer began to change. She’s not an awful person. She doesn’t put me down or forswear our old friendship. But she plays it a bit like a joke. Like a relic from another age. The thing is, at Westbrook, status really does matter. When you’re dealing with families who go back generations, whose surnames sit on university gates and products in the supermarket and presidential campaigns, families that send their kids to Westbrook from their own kingdoms of politics . . . let’s just say that Westbrook is a petri dish of the national social scene. I can’t believe how seriously some of them take it all; I know a few who literally won’t speak to me because I’m a townie. Odessa has spent the past two years climbing her way slowly into the richie social stratum. It helps that she’s legitimately rich on her own, if newly minted. From the looks of his hand placement, Rory certainly doesn’t seem to mind.
“I heard you had another newspaper interview,” he tosses in, his accent making this sound more serious and, therefore, more jackassy. “Another go at extending your fifteen minutes of fame?”
I feel my stomach sink. “You know I don’t like to be interviewed, right?” I think back to the reporter and what he said about Dad. He was creepy, sure, but my dad didn’t really earn any stars on behavior either. I wonder what Dad’s doing right now at the Cave and just how classified whatever he’s doing is.
“Oh, come off it,” Odessa drawls, knocking Rory’s hand away from her pasty thigh. She’s eternally cute and childlike, and no matter how much makeup she applies or tweezing of her red eyebrows she does, her face will only ever remind people of Pippi Longstocking. “Ever since you and I were kids, you were always so smug about those interviews.” Suddenly her face lights up and she jumps from the couch and gives me a hug, her arms not going entirely around my body because of the cigarette. Typical move by her, the insult and hug. Brilliant, actually. I’m forced to awkwardly pat her back. She smells like men’s Armani cologne—a new trend for the girls on campus—and nicotine. “Oh, it’s been so long. I’ve missed you, Baby.”
“You too, Odessa—”
“Can I get you a beer, Des?” This from Jimmy, near the fridge, Odessa’s on-again, off-again boyfriend. I have no idea what their current status is, but I do know that it’s never Jimmy who ends the relationship. Jimmy’s the final townie at Westbrook, the lone Latino here too, which should be a double whammy against him from the richies and their sheltered ways. But Jimmy is just too big an alpha male (and comes from too much real estate) to be ignored by the gaggle of wealth at the school, despite his race and Fenton upbringing. Jimmy plays every sport and plays well, but he has this look about him that has people underestimating him left and right. Innocently dumb with short, buzzed hair and a wispy mustache, like a surfer bum in the wrong state.
“Definitely need a beer,” Odessa replies, not really looking at him, which leads me to think they are in off mode. Poor Jimmy. He glances my way, offering me a beer too.
“Um, sure. I love PBR.” I shrug my shoulders and grimace for the barest of instants. Did I just say I love PBR?
Jimmy pulls a blue-and-red can out of the fridge and tosses it to Odessa, but she totally misses it; the can slaps to the floor and makes an ominous fizzing noise. She inspects it for a moment before handing it off to me, a ticking time bomb. Jimmy laughs and pulls another, opening it himself and delivering it to her. Odessa takes a chug and surveys her party, leaning her weight backward onto Jimmy’s chest while she begins a nice little rant to Rory about Mr. McPherson, an English teacher I like. I see Jimmy rest his chin on her head, and I think, not for the first time, that that boy has it bad.
I go into the kitchen and pop the can slowly over the sink, but right when I think I’m in the clear, it spits a mist on my face. Awesome. At least no one saw that. I cut my losses and leave the can in the sink.
“Here.” A boy I have never seen before holds out a paper towel to me. He looks vaguely northeastern. I’ve seen the style plenty around campus: pale skin and dark hair, lips that fade into the skin and eyebrows that flare out at a point. This one has a small birthmark under his left eye. I take the towel and lean against the counter next to him, wiping my face. He must be someone’s older brother come visiting.
“Thanks,” I say, and then we stand there, side by side, taking in the scene. I curse myself for not having anything to say, but all I can think of is that I have nothing to say. He’s not really paying any attention to me anyway. I could narrate for him, tell him that over there’s my best friend, Jo, and the guy who is nibbling at her neck is Todd, whom I’m going to have to see a lot more of soon, if not tonight. There’s Rob, who’s watching Rory fiddle with the music and put on Vampire Weekend, a band Rob absolutely hates but I secretly like and feel bad about admitting, so I don’t. He makes eye contact with me, finishes off a beer and raises his hands in the air, mouthing DONE! And sure enough, he makes his way to the door and out into the hallway. Probably back to his room and his gaming. I wish he spent more time in the real world. I think I said that to him once and pissed him off.
I glance over at the stranger but can only see his profile. His palms are behind him on the counter, as if at any moment he’s going to pull himself up and sit, and I can see the veins stand in his forearm and disappear up beyond his black polo. He’s wearing a Livestrong bracelet; he must’ve got it before Lance Armstrong copped to doping. Weird he still has it on, though. Everyone I know threw theirs away.
I wish I had another beer, so that I could at least have something to do.
He glances over at me, then at the beer in the sink behind me and grins. “You okay?”
I nod and magically find something worthy of saying. “Are you visiting?”
He looks around the room, then shakes his head. “Nope. New student. Transferred in this morning.”
Midsemester transfer? His parents must be able to pull some pretty weighty strings. “Yeah? You liking it?”
He makes a face. “I don’t know,” he says seriously. “It’s weird—I have the exact same friends back home. Like, I know what to expect here, you know?”
“Totally,” I find myself agreeing, without really understanding what I’m agreeing to.
“But I should be worried. If I were the new kid back home, I’d be treated horribly. No one would give two shits about me. I certainly wouldn’t.” He takes a sip of his beer. “I’m waiting for that to start here.”
He’s got Westbrook figured out, that’s for sure. “I guess day one is a free pass,” I say, trying to be playful.
His eyes catch mine, really taking me in for the first time. He has to flick his thick hair back off his forehead to do so. A small scar whitens along his jaw. “Yeah,” he says, “could be worse.”
I can’t tell if I’m flattered or not, but I’ll admit the attention is pleasant.
“Hey,” he says suddenly, straightening up, “you’re that Baby Mia girl, aren’t you?”
I shrug, all pleasantness fading straight away. “I guess so.”
He sees my reaction and winces apologetically. “Ugh, I bet you hear that a lot. Sorry. It’s just one of the few things that came up when I Googled Fenton before I came here. There are tons of pictures of you online. Must be annoying.”
It is annoying. What teenager likes her yearbook photos splashed on the internet? Why did I wear a bow freshman year?
“If it makes you feel any better,” he goes on, eyeing me, “I think the story is legitimately impressive.” I open my mouth to respond, but then he spots Tiffany Van Stavern across the room and tosses a one sec her way. She’s wearing a short green tube dress.
When she leans forward, I swear I can see her underwear. At least he seems embarrassed when he says, “She invited me. I’ll see you around?”
I look down at our feet—he’s in Sambas—and he doesn’t wait for me to reply. Of course Tiffany had already spotted and managed to get the new kid to the party; her nose job must have given her special powers. I wish I could go interrupt Jo, but she’s too far gone, smiling shyly downward and playing with a beaded necklace I made for her last year. Her favorite flirt game with Todd is to punch him in the gut. But the hand she has on his stomach now is playfully rubbing up and down, and I’m almost embarrassed to witness the scene, like I’m a Peeping Tom because I can’t find someone else to talk to. I’m stuck by the sink, watching the party go by.
The fridge opens next to me, and there’s Rory, pulling out a couple beers and leading me back to the couch he’s been perched on. There are others here, people I know, and they’re playing quarters or dancing lazily or shouting out the window. There’s the new kid, leaning in to speak with Tiffany. Rory’s pretty close, his gaze on my cleavage. Disgust rises to my lips. He pokes a hole in the can’s side with a key and hands me the beer.
“Chug it,” he commands.
I’m tired of all this and make to leave, but he tips the can and spills beer on me. I’m so annoyed, so angry at this spiky-haired douche that I actually give him what he wants. I know he’s just goading me. That he wants to get the boring townie to do something “crazy,” but I can’t stand the sneer on his face and the plaque between his teeth. I pull the beer from his hand, pop the top and shotgun it down. Because, fuck you, Rory—I can be just like anyone else when I want to.
The beer tastes like burnt ginger ale and smells worse. Rory watches with openmouthed fascination, which only infuriates me more. I finish the first beer and pull his can to my mouth too. Odessa sees me chugging and literally runs across the room chanting “Ba-by, Ba-by,” which everyone quickly takes up, and I can’t help but feel a rush of adrenaline as I finish the beer and throw the can onto the floor. The crowd cheers, and Rory tries to kiss me on my cheek, his breath hot and rancid, and I have to press hard to push him away. He tosses his shoulders and smirks like, whatever—you missed your chance. For one disturbing second, I imagine my life as Rory’s girlfriend, cheering him on at rowing competitions and wearing his button-down shirts. Todd could stay at Jo’s and I at Rory’s, and we’d double-date everywhere, and that wouldn’t be so bad.
Rory makes a beeline to Tiffany and taps her on the shoulder and kisses her on the lips when she turns around. Rory’s a dick. Tiffany rolls her eyes and turns back to the new kid, who’s clearly confused by the whole thing. He tucks his hands into his jeans and flicks his hair away again as he did before. I kinda like that gesture. Rory puts his big callused hand on the new kid’s chest and gives him a gentle push. Maybe he’s wasted, or maybe he’s just so totally not expecting this, but the new kid loses his balance and falls backward, knocking over and shattering a lamp that I know for a fact is from the ’70s and is worth a couple thousand dollars. I almost scream in worry, but close my mouth before I make a fool out of myself. The music doesn’t stop, and the crowd barely notices. But I see Odessa bolt into his face and push her finger into his forehead. The newbie’s got some patience, because he just grits his teeth and pulls himself up and then slips from the room.
My head swims, and I fall back down to the couch; it’s so much more comfortable here. The lighting in the room is perfect—a hazy warmth—and the music bounces in my feet.
My phone lights up.
Miss Kish, can I trouble you for a follow-up meeting?
Who’s this?
Blake Sutton.
I’m confused. He has my cell number, sure. He called me to arrange the meeting. But why is he texting me? Why so late at night? The phone flashes again.
U still partying?
Not Sutton this time, but Rob, and I almost gasp in relief.
Rob!!!! Where r you?
In bed. All OK?
Come over! Things r weird.
Ha, course they r. But I’m saving it up for ur big day Sunday.
Bday for me! Bday weekend starting now! Come over!
Ha. K crazy. I’m going to bed. Have fun.
Boo, party pooper.
OK, Mia. Goodnight. Turning phone off.
Sleepnight!
I type, pretty proud of the expression I just made up. Jo’s gone, and Odessa’s door’s closed, which might mean nothing at all or might mean I can actually go home now. There are eight or so kids in the room, but no one’s talking to me. My phone flashes again.
Would love to connect. Let me know . . .
I try to ignore the message, the memory of my father’s seething anger at this strange reporter, and sink deeper into the couch, listening to the music and the voices merge into one.
3
THE MORNING ISN’T TOO WEIRD. EXCEPT FOR THE hangover.
I’ve never drunk like that before. Sure, I’ve had a couple beers, a shot of something from time to time, but I’ve never spent a full night drinking. Most of the richies have—they take tailgating very seriously, prepping for college, so they say. But not me, and when the sun hit my eyes this morning, I thought someone was poking a needle into my skull.
The rest of the night was a blur. I guess Jo kept pace, alcohol-wise, because later on, we found ourselves holding hands in the bathroom while we puked. For the first time since I remember, though, I didn’t need the bathroom light on to sleep. Seems like being blackout drunk is a good way to cope with my little nighttime phobia and unwanted texts from strange men. I’m sure the school psychologist would be pleased.
No amount of brushing cleans my teeth, and the smell of alcohol on my skin makes me gag, but we’re walking in a loose clump with other students toward the quad, the open space between all the academic buildings.
“You have to drink more water.” Jo’s holding out her Nalgene. She’s wearing sunglasses today, and her face is so sweaty she has to push them back up her nose time and again. “And eat some bread.”
“Ugh, if I put something else in my stomach I’ll vomit on Mr. Geller’s floor.”
“Thank God we didn’t have practice today.”
Even the thought of doing over-unders makes my thighs hurt. I can’t honestly imagine being in good enough shape for the race tomorrow. At least I usually don’t have to be at my best to win.
“And don’t worry,” Jo adds. “I know you don’t want a party for your birthday. We couldn’t top Odessa if we tried.”
I roll my eyes, but am pleased she has brought it up. “I don’t need anything, Jo.”
She smirks, which is less effective than normal because of her sunglasses. “I know you, Mia Kish. Don’t pretend your birthday doesn’t mean anything. It’s okay to like having one.”
“Especially big seventeen,” I respond in a singsong way.
“Almost old enough to vote.”
“Not really anywhere near old enough to drink.” I wince, feeling my headache against my skull.
We get to the doors and file in behind the other students, putting on our game faces. Jo squeezes my arm and turns to her first class. I watch her for a second as she spots Todd by his locker and approaches him, her books held to her chest like a girl from the ’50s. He steals her sunglasses and puts them on himself, and she gets an excuse to touch him while trying to retrieve the frames. I shake my head; I couldn’t imagine trying to be cute today.
First period, European History, is buzzing when I arrive. As if no one else in the entire school had anything to drink last night.
There are ten people in the class, and we all sit around a big table, no desks or anything. That’s the way it is here, a low teacher-to-student ratio, a close learning environment. I put my stuff down next to Rob and take a seat. He’s lost on his iPhone and barely looks up. The phone is sealed in
an enormous OtterBox, one of those cases that are huge and designed to withstand water and dropping from, like, a hundred feet—one of many things people hassle him about. He’s sporting headphones, and the music is loud enough for me to know he’s listening to Pavement. Rob’s an indie-music freak, half hipster, half goth, and is generally half a year ahead of the rest of Westbrook when it comes to the cool bands. Whenever someone starts listening to a band that he’s been preaching for months, he rolls his eyes and takes them off his playlist. But only for a week or so; he loves the music too much to let it be sullied by a petty hatred of his classmates.
I get a text. What up, Mia? It’s from Rob, who doesn’t look up from the phone.
I laugh and text him back, adding Jo into the thread. Wish u were there longer.
Yes! Where U go? Jo comes back.
Rob pops off his earphones and glances up at me, his long hair covering tired eyes. “You okay?” he asks. “You look awful.” Compared to us, Rob didn’t drink very much. He probably had a nightcap with his tiny flask and went to bed.
“Screw you,” I say, and vaguely mean it. Rob left me there last night, and now I feel like an idiot, hungover, remembering it all. It would have been nice to have had him there when Sutton texted. “You were supposed to be my wingman.”
“You said you didn’t need one!”
“That was Jo, Rob. You shouldn’t have left me there.”
Rob’s a good friend, but if he’s one thing, it’s defensive, and calling him on anything is like inviting yourself to speak to a brick wall. He sighs dramatically, returning his attention to his monstrosity of a phone.
Then someone shouts my way. “Yo, Baby, I hear you made out with Rory last night. Truth?” This from Geoffrey, from Seattle, six foot three, lacrosse captain, Princeton bound. I know that might sound appealing, but his father, a lumber magnate, kills trees for a living, and Geoffrey looks like a billy goat.