“You could ask Maura if she’s going and then tag along with her,” Missy suggests after we’ve talked through a half dozen other possibilities, each one more doomed to fail than the last.
I’m surprised by the idea, but it might just work.
“You could go with her, and Wes and I will meet you there,” she says.
I figure it’s worth a try. The party is at John’s house—the same John who supplied the drinks at Maura’s party. It’s on Saturday night, and from what Missy can tell, everyone is going. So when I hear Maura gabbing away on the phone by her pool, I take a deep breath, say a prayer for courage, and walk next door.
I haven’t talked to Maura at all since her party. I have thought a lot about what it might be like to be Maura’s friend, to really make an effort to become part of her circle. After Maura’s party and my sleepover with Missy, I decided I was happy enough to know Maura isn’t my enemy any more. It is impossible to relax around Maura and her friends. With them, I always have to wonder if I look all right and if I said the right thing. They all talk behind each other’s backs, and they scrutinize one another constantly. As much as part of me wants to associate with the popular crowd, my rational self knows better than to get involved in that kind of self-esteem destroying situation. I have made up my mind to stop being jealous of Missy and instead to just enjoy her friendship, which is so relaxed and easy that I never worry how I look or what I say.
But it is Missy’s idea that I approach Maura. Missy doesn’t need me to go to John’s party. She can go with Wes and have a great time. But she wants us to go together, and I don’t want to miss out when I’m finally finding out what it’s like to be included.
Mrs. Morgan, as always delighted to see me, leads me through the house to the backyard where Maura sits in the sun, painting her toenails.
“Oh yeah, you heard about that?” Maura says, when I ask if she’s going to John’s party.
“It sounds fun.” I don’t even know John’s last name, but I try to sound casual and in-the-know.
Maura fills me in on the whole story. John lives out in the country somewhere, and behind his house, you can walk through the woods a little ways up a hill to a place with great views. They make a fire pit and probably some kids will bring guitars and, of course, there will be plenty of booze.
“And other stuff, if you’re into that,” Maura says. “A lot of kids eat mushrooms up there. I haven’t done it, but they say it’s fun.”
“That’s cool,” I say, trying to convince myself to ask the question I had really come to ask.
“So you gonna go?” Maura says.
“My parents don’t really let me go to things like that,” I say.
“No one’s do,” she answers. “You have to lie.”
“Yeah, I know, I just mean my parents are sort of insanely strict, so I can’t even get in someone’s car without their permission.”
“That sucks,” Maura says, reclining back in her chair and wiggling her toes with their fresh pink nail polish. I get the sense that she’s getting bored of our conversation.
“So anyway, I was wondering if maybe I could go with you. I mean, I think my parents will let me if I’m with you,” I say.
“Yeah, I guess,” Maura says. “But I’m not coming home after so you have to get a ride home.”
I figure a ride home will be no problem. Wes will be driving Missy home, so I’ll just get him to drop me off, too. I think for a minute and then I ask Maura what I should tell my parents. She looks at me like she’s amused by my needy-baby routine.
“Tell them whatever you want,” Maura says.
“No, I mean, my mom will probably talk to yours, so what should I say?”
Maura instructs me to say we are seeing a movie. When I insist we agree on what movie, I think she almost reconsiders letting me tag along with her, but she continues to help me generate my lie. I’ll tell them we’re going to see the new James Bond and that afterwards we’re going to the ’50s Diner for ice cream.
“Hey, is your friend Missy coming?” Maura asks.
“Yeah, I think she is,” I say, reaching for the handle of the sliding door.
“She’s really pretty, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, she’s cute,” I say, waiting to see if Maura has more to add.
“I was surprised she came to my party,” Maura says. “I mean, I had never met her.”
“Yeah, about that,” I say. “Your mom said—”
“No, it’s cool,” Maura says. “I’m sure I’ll get to chat with her tomorrow. I’m sure she’s nice.”
“Okay,” I say, opening the door.
“7:30,” Maura says.
When I get home, just as I predicted, my mother is thrilled that I have plans with Maura. Also as predicted, she wants details.
“What time is Maura’s curfew?” she asks, after hearing the movie and ice cream story.
I tell her I doubt Maura has one, but that anyway, she’s staying over one of the other girl’s houses.
“Well, how are you getting home?”
“Someone else will give me a ride,” I say.
Of course my mother doesn’t like that idea at all. “Maybe we should come pick you up,” she says.
“Mom, seriously, it’ll be fine. A few of the girls live around here. Someone will drop me off,” I say.
She thinks it over and concludes that she should consult Patty. I wonder what, if anything, Maura has told her mother about the plans for the evening. I suspect all Mrs. Morgan knows is that Maura is going out and will not be home until Sunday.
Over dinner that night my mother gives me the verdict. “You can go,” she says, “but you be home by 11:00, no excuses.” I know Missy won’t mind getting me home for curfew. Success! I am going out to a drinking party in the woods, and my parents are none the wiser.
* * *
At 7:30, Maura, Katherine, Jessica, and I climb into Maura’s car. Maura blasts the music, and the three of them sing along for most of the ride. It’s after eight when we pull into John’s long gravel driveway. It winds up a hill to the house. I can see why people like it. The house is so far off the road that you can park loads of cars and no one driving by will even know they’re all there. We are arriving fashionably late; there are already almost a dozen cars. I wonder what John’s parents will say when they see tire marks all over the lawn, but that’s John’s problem.
Katherine produces a flashlight and Jessica opens her bag to reveal two bottles of Boone’s.
“You’ve never had it?” she asks when I ask what it is. “I’ll give you a taste when we get up there.”
“It’s gross,” Maura says. She holds up her Nalgene bottle, which appears to be full of some red juice. “This is the stuff,” she says. “Cranberry and vodka.”
“Do you have to bring your own?” I ask.
“I never take my chances with the shit they have,” Maura says. “You might luck out and get something good, or you might be drinking mystery punch.”
“Did you bring something, too?” I ask Katherine.
She shakes her head.
“Katherine’s afraid of getting a beer belly,” Jessica says, laughing. “She prefers—”
“Shut up!” Katherine says, interrupting her. “Can we go?”
We walk around the back of the house and up a path through the yard into the trees. It’s a short but steep hike to the clearing where the party is underway. Maura was right about the view. The party is scattered across an outcropping and you can see clear across the valley, the lights from all the towns, the sunset on a lake in the distance. It’s beautiful. Way better than what I always pictured as the typical high school drinking party locations: Someone’s dirty garage or damp basement.
A couple of guys are lingering around the fire, occasionally throwing things into it that cause loud pops or turn the flames strange colors. I scan the crowd for any sign of Missy, but I don’t see her.
“Hey, there,” someone says, walking up to me. In the
dim light it takes me a moment to realize it’s Paul. “Know me this time?” he asks.
“Hey,” I say.
“I don’t see a drink in your hand,” he says, extending a beer toward me.
I can’t exactly turn it down; I’m at a drinking party. I take it, and seeing he’s holding up his beer to toast, I tap my can to his and take a sip. It’s disgusting, and I try not to grimace, but I fail, and Paul laughs.
“Have you said hello to our kind host?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“I think he’ll be very interested to know you’re here,” Paul says, putting an arm around my shoulder and steering me toward the fire.
John is holding a beer and roasting a marshmallow. He does seem particularly interested in talking to me, firing off one question after another and shamelessly looking me up and down. I guess I’m fresh meat. I wish Missy would get here already. Then everyone can ogle her instead. Besides, it took a while to get here, which means we’re going to have to leave pretty early for me to make curfew. Thankfully someone else comes over and demands John’s attention so I’m able to slip away. There’s a circle of kids sitting around listening to someone play guitar, and I find a place to sit just on the edge of their circle. No one seems to notice me. I’m still holding the same warm beer, and it occurs to me that I can hold that same can all night and probably nobody will notice. They’ll think I’ve been knocking them back, just like everyone else. I feel comforted by the thought. I am startled when the kid next to me nudges my arm. I turn to see that he’s offering me a joint.
“No thanks,” I say.
“Pass it on,” he says, nodding to the kid next to me.
Another first for me. I hand it carefully to the kid on my left.
I sit there for a while, and then someone is draping her arms around me from the back. It’s Katherine, being absurdly affectionate. She must have changed her mind about drinking tonight. “Somebody’s looking for you, pretty Lizzie,” she says, practically purring. Missy and Wes have arrived. Thank God.
“What’s she on?” Missy says, when Katherine wanders away.
“Probably E,” Wes answers. We both look at him, wondering how he knows this. He just shrugs. “Her reputation precedes her. Either E or valium.”
I notice the two of them are holding hands, and Missy is beaming. “Sorry we took so long,” she says. “We got lost.”
I look at my watch. Almost ten o’clock. “But you can still get me home for curfew, right?” I ask.
“Oh yeah, no problem. We don’t have to stay here long,” Missy says. “I just wanted to check it out.” Then she notices the beer I’m holding. “Are you drinking?” she asks.
“Not really. Somebody gave this to me.”
“I want one,” Missy says. Wes wanders off to find her one. “We totally made out,” Missy says as soon as Wes leaves.
“Wow. And you didn’t even have to get him drunk,” I say.
“I know, right? I just told him I really want to kiss him.”
I’m impressed that Missy found the guts to declare her interest and make things happen. I still have no clue what she sees in Wes, but she’s happy. Once again I find myself feeling a little jealous. I wish I had someone to like who liked me back. “Did you do anything else?” I ask.
“I let him feel me up a little,” Missy confides. “And how about you? How’s the party? Any sightings of Hunter?”
“I haven’t seen him,” I say. “The party’s OK, though.”
“Good,” she smiles and hooks an arm in mine. “Let’s go by the fire. I think I smell toasted marshmallows.”
Wes finds us and hands Missy a beer. We discover that not only do they have marshmallows to toast, but also all the ingredients of s’mores, and somehow I quickly become the official s’mores maker of the evening, which is ok with me. It gives me something to do.
“We’ll be right back,” Missy says, setting down her empty beer can beside me. So I sit there with some strangers making s’mores until no one else requests one, and then I just sit there. John notices and sits beside me.
“So. Does the new girl play with boys?” he asks, sliding his hand behind me on the log where we are sitting.
“What?” I say. I should be flattered, I guess. Isn’t this what I want—a reasonably attractive guy (not my type at all, which is to say not tall, dark, and handsome, but he’s okay) asking me to make out with him? But he smells like beer and hot dogs, and he is staring at my chest instead of looking me in the eye.
He leans in toward me and puts his other hand on my leg. “You’re very cute,” he says.
And you’re very drunk, I think and stand up. “I have to go,” I say. And when I look at my watch I discover that I have not lied. I need to find Missy immediately or I am going to be late, and that might be the end of my freedom, regardless of my mother’s adoration for Maura.
I scurry from group to group looking for Missy but not finding her.
“Everything okay?” Paul asks, noticing me standing alone near the path back to the cars.
“I have to go home,” I say, nearing hysteria.
“Okay, chill out,” he says. “Bad trip or something?”
“What? No. Curfew.”
“I think I know where your friend is,” he says. “I saw her walking over there with her little boyfriend.” He points up the hill further. “If you really want to interrupt that,” he says.
“My parents are going to kill me,” I say.
“I can take you home if you want,” he says. “This party is pretty lame anyway. Too many stoners.”
“You’re drunk,” I say.
“Maybe.”
What options do I have? Wander into the woods in search of Missy who is making out with Wes, sit around waiting for Missy and get home late, or get in a car with someone who probably shouldn’t be driving. “You’d seriously take me home?” I ask.
“Sure. What the hell,” he says.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.” I am so angry at Missy for her typical inability to keep track of time that I don’t even care. She’ll figure out that I got a ride and she’ll probably be relieved. She and Wes can have their gross little romance without any interference from me.
“You live next door to Maura, right?” Paul asks once we’re on the road. I confirm this. “You know I was pretty surprised to see you at her party,” he says. When I don’t respond, he continues. “She launched a real campaign against you back at the beginning of the summer, you know. She warned everyone that you were, and I quote, ‘a sneaky little bitch with a bad attitude.’”
“We had a misunderstanding,” I say.
“I see.”
“Does she know there’s a Facebook group devoted to hating her?” I ask.
“I’m surprised you know about that,” he says, “and I’m sure someone must have told her, although she pretty much thinks all press is good press.” Neither of us say anything for a moment, and then he asks how Maura and I patched things up.
“I don’t know really,” I say. “Our moms are friends, and one day she just sort of extended an olive branch.”
“And you trust her?”
“No,” I answer. “Not really.”
“Smart. She’s one imbalanced girl, if you know what I mean.”
“Good to know.”
“And what about your friend Missy?” he asks.
“Everyone wants to know about Missy,” I say. I am tired and cranky and it’s dark in the car, which somehow makes talking to Paul easy.
“Sure. She’s beautiful. Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls who won’t admit another girl is pretty,” he says.
“What girls are like that? I think you’re thinking of guys who are afraid everyone will think they’re gay if they say another guy is good looking,” I say.
“Touché. But you have to admit, Wes is one lucky guy.”
“Yeah, I have no clue what she sees in him.”
“Me either, but I’ll tell you this; Wes has gone ou
t with a lot of really hot girls, so he must have something the rest of us don’t.”
“You’re joking,” I say, looking at him to see if he’s smirking. He isn’t.
“I wish,” he says. “Seriously, he’s gone out with most of the hot girls in his class, and a few in ours, including Maura’s pal Katherine.”
“No way.”
Paul insists it’s true. I tell him how Missy is convinced that Wes is shy and insecure. Paul suggests that perhaps that’s Wes’s approach, that maybe Wes lets girls think they’re doing him a favor, building up his ego and making him feel better about himself. That doesn’t seem very likely to me.
“Believe what you want, but maybe Missy should ask Wes a few more questions about his relationship history before she rides that train.”
“Nice,” I say.
“Good metaphor, huh?”
“Disgusting.”
He laughs. “And you didn’t care much for my buddy John, I noticed,” he says. “Too bad. You’re totally his type.”
“His type?” I really want to know what type Paul thinks I am.
“You know,” he says, “curvy.”
“You mean busty?”
“Yeah, sure. I was trying to be polite, but if you want me to be blunt, John really goes in for the double D’s.”
“Well, John’s not really my type, thanks,” I say. I am starting to wish the drive wasn’t so long or that Paul would at least shut up.
“Let me guess,” he says, “your type is taller, darker, more intellectual. Perhaps a tall, dark, handsome poet.”
“You really have me figured out,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Oh no, there’s more. If you could have any guy in the senior class, you’d pick Hunter Groves,” he says. I don’t answer, which is all the confirmation he needs. “Listen, don’t waste your time. All the girls are in love with Hunter, and Hunter is so busy studying and playing soccer that he doesn’t have five minutes for any of them.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I say. “And as for you, your type is the standard long-legged, long-haired, skinny mini who bats her eyes at you and lets you feel big, strong, and intellectually superior.”
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