by Gina Ciocca
“I’m well aware of what goes on in the Snow in Georgia parking lot,” Mom says, turning the interrogation to Ben and Joel as I dig the heel of my hand into my forehead. “So I need your word that if you find yourselves unable to drive, you’ll call me and wait to be picked up instead of doing something irresponsible.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Atwood,” Ben says. “There’s no way anything is happening to one of your kids on my watch a second time.” He crosses his thumb to his pinky and holds up the three remaining fingers. “Scout’s honor. Besides, I’m actually mildly allergic to alcohol, so I couldn’t drink even if I wanted to. I mean, I could, but the blotchy skin and runny nose aren’t really worth it.”
I raise an eyebrow behind my mother’s back, silently asking if he’s telling the truth. He turns a lopsided grin on me in response. “I know. Just when you thought I couldn’t get any cooler.”
“So we’re definitely coming back in one piece,” Joel adds. He clamps a hand on Ben’s shoulder and musses his hair with the other. “Because all of Ben’s slushies will be virgin. Just like him.”
The knot between Mom’s eyebrows eases up a bit, even as Joel’s and Ben’s inner twelve-year-olds emerge and they push each other back and forth on the front step. “That actually makes me feel a little better.” She pulls me close for a hug. “I’d never forgive myself if something happened to my girl.” When she releases me, she points to the camera hanging around my neck. “And don’t lose my camera trying to hide evidence.”
“We’ll be fine, Mom.” I pull away, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze. “Nothing bad is going to happen tonight.”
* * *
When we get to Snow in Georgia, the parking lot is already pretty packed. More so than I remember from past years, but when I say as much, everyone disagrees with me.
“It’s always like this,” Joel says. “You’d think they put hundred-dollar bills at the bottom of the cups.”
One thing hasn’t changed: People are spilling out of cars all over the lot, sitting on the hoods, bumpers, and even the roofs, with their cups of shaved ice. Parking is always a crapshoot, because no one wants to be the first to arrive but everyone wants the best parking spaces for their posse. It’s sort of an unspoken rule that the first cars to pull in call dibs on that section of the lot for their school, and the row of spots that hugs the woods behind the building is always the most coveted.
The building itself is angular and white, with neon palm trees and hammocks alight in the windows, and a sign that looks like a JumboTron on the roof with the name of the stand spelled out in windblown snow, flanked by two palm trees. Digital snowflakes fall in a constant, uniform stream in the background, the most unrealistic snowfall imaginable. It’s always struck me as funny, because there aren’t many palm trees in this part of Georgia. But it does snow on occasion, enough that anyone who lives here knows better than to believe it looks like white pellets marching single-file from the sky.
“Sweet,” Joel says as we inch around to the back. “Ridgedale got the back row.”
A few of the football players whoop and thump the hood as we pass, and we all notice at the same time that Joel is wrong—Ridgedale’s managed to claim only two thirds of the back lot. On the other side of the bike rack that sits on the small concrete path to the picnic table area is a line of at least five Mortonville-decaled back window occupying the rest.
Almost as soon as we see them, the kids get off the cars and start booing at Joel.
“Wow. Friends of yours?” Ben grumbles, glaring out the window.
Joel grimaces and cuts the wheel so hard that I grab the handle on the door before I can stop myself. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Guess I’m a traitor no matter where I go.”
I reach over to squeeze his arm as he pulls onto the small patch of lawn in front of the woods. Normally there are picnic tables scattered around it, but in anticipation of the night’s unusual parking patterns, they’ve been lined up like guards against the tree line. Joel jerks away from my touch, and I jump again, immediately feeling stupid.
“Sorry,” he says again. “They think they’re funny. But I don’t.”
I feel so bad for Joel. It was no secret that he had a hard go of earning people’s trust at Ridgedale, but I never stopped to think that his old friends might’ve turned on him for leaving.
“Dude,” Ben says. “We can go if this was a bad idea.”
Joel turns to him as he unbuckles his seat belt. “No, it’s cool. They’re harmless, even if they’re peacocking like assho—” He chokes off midsentence, his eyes following something past Ben’s head in the back window. A car pulls into my sight line before I can see what, and in those two seconds, Joel swallows and finishes with, “Assholes.”
Ben swivels toward the window and then turns back to Joel. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah.” Joel frees himself of the seat belt. “Tell me what you guys want, and I’ll grab the first round.”
He’s getting out of the car before we can protest. So we give him our orders and reconvene outside the car. I’m keenly aware of Jadie’s and Meredith’s absences, especially when I spot Ken Davenport eyeing me from a few spots over.
“I wish Jadie and Tyrell had come tonight,” I say to Ben. “And Meredith.”
He snorts. “Can you really blame them for not wanting to? I thought twice about coming myself, except it felt like agreeing that I’m not worthy to breathe the same air. And honestly? Things have been kind of weird with Meredith lately.”
“I know she still feels bad about the diner. And she’d feel even worse if she knew you’d used the word ‘weird’ when you still haven’t asked her to homecoming.”
Ben’s face falls, and I wish I could cut my own tongue out for saying that. So much for staying neutral.
“Oh.” Ben’s eyes drop to his red Converse sneakers resting on the bumper. “About that—”
“Collins,” Joel’s voice interrupts. “Come get your nasty eggnog slushies before they melt all over the good ones.”
Joel is walking toward us hugging a Styrofoam tray, a tower of sample-sized plastic cups stacked between the three full-sized cups balanced against his torso.
“Full-sized? You don’t mess around, do you, Hargrove?” Ben says, eyeing the mounds of shaved ice.
Joel sets the tray on the hood of the car between Ben and me. “I figured these would last longer than a bunch of ice shots. I guessed on the flavors, so you can switch if you want. But first.” He hazards a quick look in every direction before pulling a miniature bottle of Captain Morgan from the pocket of his zip-up, unscrewing it, and slipping a generous splash over one of the snow cones before offering one to me.
“For Macy—”
“Butter Rum?” Ben cuts in, ribbing about my Life Savers.
Joel eyes the cup. “Uh, I didn’t see that on the menu. I picked Wedding Cake, since Meredith had to skip out for a wedding. Did I mess up?”
I reach over to take it from him. “No complaints here.”
If Joel saw a flavor called Wedding Cake and thought of me, this night might hold even more promise than I thought. But it also reminds me that Ben seemed on the verge of saying something important before we got interrupted, and I need to find out what.
“And for Collins.” Joel holds a cup out to Ben. “Pickle Juice, because it was the nastiest-sounding thing on the menu.”
“Dude, you suck.” Ben swipes the cup and downs a mouthful. “I take it back. This is awesome.”
I nod toward the slushie that Joel takes for himself. “What about yours?”
He makes another quick assessment of the parking lot before dumping three quarters of the remaining alcohol over his pink-and-blue ice. “Birthday Cake.” He raises the cup. “Happy birthday to me.”
I gasp, and Ben jumps off the car to give Joel a thump on the back. “Happy birthday, dude. Why didn’t you tell us sooner? We would’ve treated you to the first round.”
“You guys can get the next one,” Joel says as I t
hrow my arms around his neck in a birthday hug. Ben and I agree to spring for round two, or we would, except for the loud catcall that sounds at that instant. It’s coming from the direction of the Mortonville cars, and Joel’s head snaps toward it with a fierce glare.
“Hey, Hargrove,” a boy in a gray hoodie calls out, flicking ash from a cigarette. “Pack up your threesome and get the hell out of here. No one needs to see that shit.”
Joel’s body goes rigid, and his arm pulls back like he’s going to punch someone. “Then how about I jam that cigarette out in your eyes and that’ll solve two problems? Class fucking act, as always, dickwads.”
“Ignore them,” I say, tugging Joel’s cold fingers. “If karma’s any good at her job, they’ll choke on their own vomit tonight.” When his hand curls around mine in response, the chill instantly becomes an electric charge that shoots through my body. I thread my fingers through his before I can talk myself out of it. I know there’s something I’m supposed to be doing, some matter that I just reminded myself to take care of. But when Joel grins down at me, I cannot for the life of me recall what it was.
After that, it isn’t long before the night gets a little blurry. Joel’s pockets and trunk are both loaded with liquor, and the Wedding Cake ice in my cup becomes rum cake. And it’s delicious.
Even in my compromised state, it’s not difficult to see that the more he drinks, the more agitated Joel becomes by the presence of his old classmates. Ever since the threesome comment, he keeps laughing too loudly and stealing glances in their direction. He jumps every time someone addresses him, like he expects to be accosted any second.
Needing a breather myself, I take his hand and lead him away from the car where he’s watching a game of Medusa and toward his own car. When I try to hoist myself onto the hood, I have all the coordination of cooked spaghetti and my foot slips, almost resulting in a face-plant into the black metal. Joel and I are both snickering, a tangle of sloppy limbs as he helps me sit, and he stands facing me.
“You okay there?” he slurs.
“I was going to ask you the same thing, Mr. Jumpypants.”
Joel looks down at his jeans and stumbles a little. “My pants aren’t jumpy. I’m just happy to see you.”
I giggle and pull him closer by grabbing a handful of his jacket, though it’s more of an effort to steady myself than to flirt. “You know what I mean.” I nod toward the increasingly loud Mortonville crew. “It seems like you don’t want them here. Like they’re aggravating you just by breathing.”
“Breathing, existing. Those can be annoying things.”
I give him a Be serious look, though I’m not sure how serious I look myself with bleary slits for eyes. “You don’t really believe you’re a traitor, right?”
He leans against the hood with his hands on either side of my thighs. He’s so close that I can pick out the flecks of green in his eyes and smell the alcohol on his breath. “What does it matter, if everyone else believes it?”
I sit up straighter. “I don’t believe it.”
The corner of his mouth pulls up, and there’s an amused glint in his eyes. “Oh yeah? And what do you know about me?”
“Not as much as I want to.”
Thank you, Captain Morgan, for your power to make me an ace flirt.
Joel raises a blond eyebrow. “But you think I can be trusted?”
“Let’s find out.” I lean closer and position my lips next to his ear. “Maybe I should tell you a secret.” And then Captain Morgan revokes his magical powers, and I say the least-smooth thing I could possibly come up with: “Ben knows where we’re hiding the homecoming float.”
“Oh?” If Joel thinks it’s a stupid thing to say, I’m glad he doesn’t act like it. Especially since Cap chooses that moment to make me walk the plank, and my mouth starts to run independently of my brain in an effort to fight off a sudden wave of dizziness. By the time the wave passes, all I know is that Joel and I are laughing again, and I’m trying to pull him up onto the car with me, but we’re both too drunk and too silly and he might as well be scaling a block of ice for all the progress we’re making.
Finally he lands next to me on his back, smiling up at the night sky. It’s a rare, unguarded moment, and it’s so beautiful that I grab my camera and aim it at him. Joel mock shields his face and says, “No pictures, please!” Then he takes the camera from my hands and pulls me down next to him, holding it crookedly in front of us. “Not unless you’re in it too.” The camera clicks away, and when we finally prop ourselves up to a sitting position, he slings an arm around my shoulders and holds me close before snapping one more.
We turn toward each other as the final click sounds. There’s hardly any space between us. We’re breathing the same air, and I feel the rise and fall of his chest. His lips are right there, so perfect and kissable, and I don’t have an ounce of self-control to speak of.
So I lean in and close my eyes.
And that’s when Joel’s foot slips off the bumper, and he lands with a graceless crunch of dead grass beneath his sneakers.
“Whoa,” Ben says, appearing out of nowhere. He claps a hand on Joel’s shoulder and nods toward the trail that winds through the woods. “Why don’t we take a walk so you can sober up a little?”
Joel rubs his forehead like he’s just realized it’s killing him. “Yeah. Sounds like a plan.” He takes a few uneven steps onto the path.
Ben places a bottled water in my hands. It’s cold, and coated in tiny beads of condensation. “You coming too?”
“I’m gonna rest right here.” I take a sip of the water, grateful for the coolness washing through my insides. “You’re a good friend, Ben.” I lean in to kiss his cheek. At least, that’s what I meant to do. But he takes a step at the same time I move toward him, and our faces meet like a pair of bumper cars. “Sorry,” I say through a fit of giggles. “You have so many heads, and I couldn’t tell which one was real.”
Ben gently pushes my shoulders until I’m propped against the windshield. “Go home, Macy. You’re drunk.”
“I can’t go home. You brought me here!”
“No, it’s a sayin—never mind. Lie down until Joel and I get back, okay?”
“Okay.” I raise my pointer finger toward what I think is the general direction of his face. “Be warned, imposter Ben heads. I’ll get you later.” Ben shakes his head and starts to follow Joel, but stops when I pull his sleeve. “Hey, Ben? Do you think Joel will kiss me tonight?”
He detaches my fingers from the material of his shirt. “I don’t know, Mace. I guess that’s up to you.”
As he walks away, I think I ask him why all his heads are such frowny faces. But I’m still being pulled under by the currents of booze in my system, and the moment short-circuits into a fragmented blur of chattering voices and music from car stereos and a starry sky spinning above me.
I think I must fall asleep, because the next thing I know, I’m blinking at the moon, wondering where the past few minutes have gone and thinking hard about where I am. I sit up and look around. The parking lot has cleared out considerably, and I have a moment of terror when I think my ride has left without me. Until I remember that I’m lying on it.
A rustle near the tree line makes my head snap in the direction of the woods, and I’m met with the sight of Joel and Ben returning from their walk.
Joel is slumped over, hands jammed into his pockets, zigzagging unevenly over the path. When Ben tries to steady him, Joel swats him away. Twice. I can’t tell if they’ve had a fight, or if Joel morphed from silly drunk to belligerent drunk.
Joel plunks down on the hood of the car like a sack of rocks, and Ben shoots an anxious glance at me. “I’m gonna go see if anyone else needs a ride.” He steps closer, like he doesn’t want Joel to hear what he says next. “And, uh, to see if I can find a bag or something. I’m pretty sure he’s gonna blow.”
Joel does look a little green, and the corners of his mouth have turned so far down that they’re practically touching hi
s jaw. I offer him my bottle of water as Ben walks away, and Joel shakes his head without taking it.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He sinks against the windshield and covers his head with his hands. “Headache,” he mumbles.
Before I can say anything else, Joel’s cell phone chimes in the pocket of his zip-up. He pulls it out and stares at the screen for what feels like a full minute of silence, his jaw tense and his breath coming in harsh, shallow puffs.
“Joel?” I place a hesitant hand on his arm. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
He slips the phone back into his pocket without looking at me. “Happy birthday email from Afghanistan.”
“Oh.” I squeeze his forearm. “I’m sorry your dad can’t be here.”
Joel snorts. “He said he hopes all my birthday wishes come true.” He rolls away from me onto his side, like he’s forgotten that he’s on the hood of a car and not getting comfortable in bed. “He’s full of shit.”
“Don’t say that. You know he’d be here if he could.”
“I’m glad he’s not. I bet he is too.” On the last word, his voice breaks. And then his whole body shudders, and sobs spill out of him like demons being exorcised. “I hate him,” he chokes. “I fucking hate him.”
It’s the last thing he says before leaning over the side of the car and retching a flood of melted ice. I barely remember his words as my own nausea overtakes me, and our fun night at the slushie stand suddenly isn’t so fun anymore.
Twenty
SENIOR YEAR
It’s a picture-perfect day for the pennant hunt. Not too hot, a clear blue sky, and a hint of leaves shedding their green for cloaks of gold and red—everything I love about autumn in Georgia. It’s so perfect that I decide to go for a run before diving into my homework and then heading over to Old Mill later in the afternoon.
When I get downstairs, it’s chaos. Michael is wearing half of his breakfast, and my mother yanks his shirt over his head, snapping, “Get a new shirt and your brother and let’s go. I have a lot to do today.”