“I hear that,” she said, laughing.
Morgan shifted and the Explorer stalled in the middle of US-1. Cars honked and swerved around us while she jiggled the stick. “Okay, okay.” She gasped. “Give me a second.” At last, the engine roared and we lurched forward.
“Hey. What about the Silver Palm Leaves?” I asked.
“You’d christen my band after a smoking accessory?”
“It’s the perfect name. Not to mention, the classic design of the nineties.”
“I prefer Circle of Hell,” said Morgan.
“Hey. Did you hear about the hole they dug in Siberia?”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“I don’t know. These scientists or something. They dropped a microphone into the hole and they heard people screaming down there, like an entrance to hell.”
Morgan fiddled with the radio, clicking past static. She settled on 90.5, “our local college station,” The Voice. “Why would they drop a microphone into the hole?”
“No idea. I looked it up online. It doesn’t really sound like hell, though,” I told her. “More like Dadeland Mall on a Saturday afternoon.”
“Now that is the seventh circle of hell.”
Both of us giggled over this for a while. We could’ve talked about the most random shit and that was cool with me. I’d never felt like that before. This was majorly weird because: number one, I could be myself with Morgan. But on the other hand, I wasn’t being myself at all. I was nervous and not nervous at the same time. Weird.
She revved the engine, and we punched through a red light. My pulse was beating everywhere, in my throat and fingertips, and although I wasn’t driving or smoking, I was the one who felt guilty.
6 : The Party House
The party house was the real deal. According to Morgan, some big-shot architect designed it for Skully’s rich parents. The triple-decker building overlooked Biscayne Bay. You’d think they wouldn’t need a pool, but they had that, too—Olympic-sized, heated, and filled with salt water.
We pulled around the corner, past the Dead End Street signs. Headlights speared the palm leaves. A million cars had parked on the grass, long rows of tank-sized SUVs and sharklike convertibles. People scattered into the street, clutching bottles, smoking cigarettes.
“There’s Danica Stone,” I said, pointing to a girl in a sparkly tube top, remembering her nails on my arm last year.
Morgan made a face. “That skank freaks me out. Why is she here?”
“Everyone is here,” I said.
And it was true. Man, I was already starting to shake.
I climbed out and started walking with the crowd.
“It’s like trick-or-treating,” Morgan said.
“That explains your costume.”
“Shut up, Mr. Abercrombie,” she said. “This dress is not a costume. It’s vintage.”
I wanted to tell her that everyone was in costume, whether they knew it or not. Me most of all.
Skully’s driveway was paved with gravel. My sneakers crunched as I made my way across it.
“Sounds like somebody eating a bowl of cereal.” Morgan laughed and I laughed, too.
“Where’s the front door?” I asked.
Up close, the house was even more confusing, like an abstract painting. Or a prison. Only a single row of windows stretches across the middle of the place, up on the second floor.
“At the top of those stairs,” she said, pointing toward the other end of the building. “But nobody goes that way.”
The steps were hidden by a wall. At the bottom, a skinny strip of concrete extended parallel to the driveway, narrow as a sidewalk. A couple of skaters were taking turns rattling across it and jumping off a plastic milk crate.
Morgan called out to an older dude with a bucket hat and a mustache so long, it curled at the edges. “Hey, Finch. Want me to teach you how to skate?”
“Bite me,” he said, not looking.
But when he noticed it was Morgan talking, he collapsed into a grin. She kissed him on the cheek—the standard Miami greeting. I twisted the rubber band tighter around my wrist.
He looked me up and down. “Nice bracelet.”
I stopped messing with the rubber band. “Thanks. It was a present.”
He laughed as if I’d told an especially funny joke. I just stared at the ground, at the cigarette butts swimming in the gravel.
Morgan kept talking as we filed through the front door. Or was it the back door?
“Finch is like, the only real person here. Except for Skully, of course,” she said.
That didn’t sound right. I thought Morgan knew a lot of people at Palm Hammock. I was kind of counting on it. Of course, that depended on your definition of “knowing” someone. Her profile online—the Polaroid picture and the poem she had uploaded—showed another side that I’d never seen in class.
“Who is that guy?” I asked. “Does he go to our school?”
“Not in the present tense.”
“What?” I was having a hard time, keeping up.
Morgan smirked. “I mean, he graduated.”
She didn’t bother to explain further.
We pushed through the dancing crowd. I squinted in the semidarkness, wincing at the smell of beer and sweat. Couples were draped everywhere. There was no way to ignore them.
“Give me some fire,” Morgan said, giggling. “Don’t lose the Zippo. I can only hold onto it for a few days. Or I just steal my stepmom’s.”
A group of guys in baseball caps had gathered around a turntable. The music pounded against my chest, more beat than melody. It was too hot in there. I leaned against the wall, closed my eyes, and kept reminding myself to breathe.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Morgan was beaming up at me, her eyes almost level with my chin. She did this cute thing, puffing her lower lip and blowing her bangs aside.
“I’m all right.” Actually, I wasn’t.
“You don’t look all right. I mean, for a second I thought you were going to pass out or something.”
“I said I’m all right.”
She looked hurt. “Sorry I asked.”
I felt like I had to explain. “It’s just that I get these …
weird feelings when I’m in a tight space.”
“Like claustrophobia? I get that too.” She moved closer, pushing a cold bottle in my hand.
Red Stripe. The bottle dripped all over my feet. I took a long gulp. It tasted like lighter fluid.
“Better?” she shouted.
I took another sip, burning a trail down my throat. Morgan kept staring. Her mouth opened and closed.
“You have a lot of hair,” she said.
“So do you,” I said. “Where’s Skully?”
“I think she went to the docks.”
“The docks?” I glanced around, as if I could see through the walls. “I didn’t know we were so close to the water.”
“It’s low tide now. Don’t you smell it?” Morgan grabbed my hand and yanked me into the living room. She grinned as she tugged me along. “Come on. I’m hiding from my ex.”
Couples had scattered into corners, making out in a lazy sort of way. Others were grinding against each other, keeping time with the throbbing bassline. A skinny girl took a drag on her cigarette, blowing smoke between her boyfriend’s lips. Nobody had ever invited me to parties like this. Until all this police stuff, I had pushed all the emotions out of my system. Now I was on high frequency, soaking up the newness of things. I couldn’t stand the thought of going back and becoming that person again, the loser who hid in the bathroom.
I was taking mental notes, trying to size up everybody. I didn’t see any self-proclaimed “druggies,” like those sunken-eyed actors in public service announcements. N
o boys snorting cars and boom boxes up their noses, nobody morphing into snakes. No leather-jacketed dealers getting pounded by Ninja Turtles.
In the living room, a few people I didn’t recognize had gathered around a flat screen. A boy who looked a couple years younger than Haylie (I could never tell kids’ ages) was messing with a plastic guitar.
“Ever play Guitar Hero?” Morgan asked.
“I suck.”
“Me too,” she said. “But I kick ass on old-school Atari games like Galaga.”
I followed her up a spiral staircase. On the second floor was a kitchen fit for a TV chef. Morgan opened the fridge and rooted around the half-empty shelves. I noticed a tiny bottle in the so-called “crisper.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Sebastian’s insulin,” Morgan explained. “Skully’s little brother.”
Her brother? That must’ve been the kid I saw.
The sink was overflowing with Corona bottles. Beside it was a digital scale, a few crumpled twenties, and a coffee grinder flooded with the chewed-up remains of green leaves. Kryptonite. High-quality stuff. I knew all too well.
“Superman’s downfall,” said Morgan.
“Looks like we missed out,” I said. Obviously, someone was selling it. Not enough to warrant a bust, though, and I didn’t have a name. I needed to find who was supplying. In other words, who was the shot caller? The million-dollar question.
I glanced around the kitchen. “Where do they get it?”
“In the garage. Up in the ceiling,” she said. Not exactly the answer I wanted. “There’s more where that came from. Just like MTV Cribs,” she said, helping herself to another beer. “Breakfast of champions. Do you have something to open this with?”
“Sorry.”
“No worries.” She angled the bottle against the marble countertop and smacked it. The cap skittered across the floor and beer sloshed everywhere. “What can I get you? A hotdog bun? Some mayonnaise?”
“I guess Skully’s parents eat out a lot.”
“Her mom and dad? They don’t even live here,” she told me.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“They live next door.”
I must’ve looked confused because she burst out laughing. “There’s a little guest house thing where the nanny used to live—back when they had a nanny. Now they stay there. I mean, when they’re in town, which is almost never. And Skully and her brother have this huge place to herself. Except for her abuela.”
“Her what?”
“Her grandma. She lives in the actual guest house. Takes out her hearing aid whenever Skully throws a party.”
Morgan grabbed a lime and crammed it into her bottle, stuffing it down with her thumb. “Once Skully’s older brothers moved out, the house got too big. At least, that’s what her parents said.”
“They must be doctors or lawyers or something.”
“Who knows?” she said. “I have no clue what they do. Oh, wait. I lied. On weekends they rent this place.”
“Like a hotel?”
“No. Like a location. All these fashion people take pictures for magazines here. You’ll see trailers parked out front and all these skinny-ass models prancing around like it’s the Playboy mansion or something. I helped out on a shoot once. Got to stand in the boiling sun for hours, holding a bounce card to reflect the light. My arms almost fell off.”
I couldn’t really imagine it. I mean, my mom could be a major pain in the ass. But who’d want to live all alone this big house?
“Sounds like fun,” I said, looking out the window. From there, the driveway almost seemed to glow.
“I’m going to major in art next year. Got my portfolio and everything,” she said.
“You’re going to do fashion photos and stuff?”
“Hell no. I’m not that superficial.”
“What kind of camera do you use?”
“I’m more into drawing than taking pictures. I know. When someone says ‘art’ these days, you automatically think ‘photography.’”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You were thinking it. Get this. I don’t even own a camera. I just borrow my ex-boyfriend’s,” she said. “Have you picked a major yet?”
“What are you? My mom?”
Morgan flushed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get up in your business.”
“It’s okay.” Jeez. No wonder I was a social retard. I couldn’t even have a conversation with a girl without pissing her off. Only one thing to do now.
“Hey. Do you have any change?” I asked.
She gave me a funny look. “I’m not a vending machine.”
“You sure?” I said, pulling a nickel from her ear.
“Oh, my god. My perverted uncle used to get drunk and do shit like that,” she said. “Can you make it disappear?”
I put the nickel on the counter. Pressing down with my palm, I hid the coin between my knuckles, faking surprise when I flipped my hand over.
She giggled. “Are you going to pull it out of my ear again?”
“I’m not that good.”
“You’re magic. Don’t deny it.”
This was totally untrue. Right at that moment, I felt like an asshole.
Morgan gulped the last of her Corona and plopped the bottle in the sink.
“To the boat docks,” she said.
7 : Crossfade
The docks were crammed with people when we reached them. Some of them sat swinging their legs on a concrete seawall by the water. Others wandered around, clutching plastic cups and flashlights. Music thumped from a turntable, propped on a stack of cement blocks.
I saw Skully hoist herself onto the seawall and stand there, wobbling on her heels. For a second, I thought she might fall, but she managed to find her balance. I couldn’t get over her Frankenstein boots and weird tank top. Not to mention her reverse mullet. Morgan’s dresses were one thing, but Skully was something else. It took guts to wear whatever the hell you wanted. Or maybe she didn’t give a shit.
A couple of girls walked past her, laughing. “Jump,” one of them called out. I got the feeling that they didn’t know Skully at all. I doubted that half the people at this party knew her real name.
“Are we having fun yet?” Skully spun around in a circle and for the first time, I noticed the tattoos on her back: a pair of feathery wings. Her stare cut across the crowd like a searchlight. I walked closer.
“I really like your house,” I told her.
She rolled her eyes. “Did Morgan give you the grand tour?”
“I tried,” she said.
“I bet you did.” Skully took a gulp from her plastic cup and giggled, spilling liquid down her chin.
“Skully acts wasted all the time, but she’s almost straight-edge,” said Morgan.
“Almost,” Skully added. “Except for these.” She dangled her pack of cloves. “I’m allowed one vice.”
So my supposed alpha dog was straight-edge. This wasn’t what I expected. I wasted my time, coming here. Another false start. Skully was so desperate for friends, she just let everybody party at her fancy house and do whatever the hell they wanted.
But if Skully wasn’t supplying, then who was my next target? I peered up at the seawall, but she had disappeared. I pictured the wings on her back unfolding gently, like a fan, and lifting her into the sky.
“Didn’t you say that Skully could hook me up?” I asked Morgan.
She shrugged. “Not her personally. I meant you could get some at her party.”
“Who then?” I was starting to sound desperate.
Morgan wasn’t listening. She waved her hands to the music, lost in her own world. As we made our way toward the water, she beamed a flashlight at me. I squinted in a flood of brightness, stepping in
to a place so unfamiliar, I might’ve walked onto the moon.
“What’s stressing you?” she asked.
“Nothing. Everything.”
“That’s all?” she said, pulling closer. “Let’s see. Nobody knows you well enough to hate you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“People in this school can be kind of fake,” she said.
For a moment, we just stood there, soaking up the silence. I was with Morgan Baskin and I didn’t know what to do: whether to get up and leave or lean closer. I kept thinking what it would be like to kiss her. My thoughts rushed with the things I’d seen online: her poem, the Polaroid of her scars. What else was there that I couldn’t see?
Morgan dipped her head toward mine, moving so close, her eyelashes tickled. “Can you do magic again?”
She took my face in her hands and we tilted into a kiss. I was breaking all kinds of rules right then, but instead of pulling away, I slid my tongue around her mouth. Now I was aware of too many things: the smell of her shampoo, the Red Stripe I downed earlier, and voices in the distance, like the buoys tolling across the bay.
We kissed under the Big Dipper, the only heavenly object I knew by name. Long ago, the Greeks looked up, noticed scorpions and centaurs. All I could see was a lopsided spoon.
“Hey, Morgan.”
Skully stood a few feet away, her shirt snapping in the breeze.
“What are you guys doing out here?” she asked.
Morgan smoothed the sand off her jeans. “Looking for you,” she lied.
“I’m not hard to find,” Skully said, narrowing her eyes. If she’d seen the kiss, she didn’t let on.
God. That kiss. What the hell was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking. Not with my head, anyway. It’s not like I’d had many chances to make out with a hot girl. Carpe diem, as Collin used to say. From here on out, I had to be more careful.
We followed Skully around the house, and Morgan drifted away. Clumps of skinny kids sat on plastic chairs facing the water. I watched a girl on a guy’s lap, taking pictures with her iPhone. This party was a false lead. Maybe I needed to find a different crowd before it was too late to blend anywhere.
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