“Tequila done right,” she corrects, arching her brows. “You know, with the lime and all.”
“Oh,” I say again. Back home, all we drink is beer and rum. “Our parties aren’t so…”
“Cool?” Tiffani smirks. She pours some salt onto the back of her hand. “You can teach them this when you go back. Now lick the back of your hand between your thumb and forefinger.”
I feel dumb all of a sudden. It’s like I’m in freshman year all over again, where I’m subject to scrutiny by the much older, much cooler students. But this isn’t high school and they aren’t other students. This is a party, and they know exactly what to do and what to say and how to fit in. I, on the other hand, have no clue. “Okay,” I say, and lick my hand. I feel ridiculous, and I’m beginning to wonder if Dad and Ella are home yet.
“Salt.” Tiffani passes me the shaker, and I pour a small amount onto my skin, mimicking her. It sticks. “Okay, there’s gotta be limes somewhere.”
“Tiff, they’re right there,” Meghan says and laughs as she points to the basket of limes that has clearly been provided for this exact purpose. I don’t even like limes.
Tiffani presses her hand to her forehead and then sighs. “I haven’t even had one drink yet, and I’m already going blind. Alright, grab a slice. Eden, hold it in the hand with the salt.”
I do as instructed, placing the lime slice between my thumb and forefinger and then staring back at her, waiting to hear what my next move should be. “Now?”
“Salt, tequila, lime,” Meghan answers instead. She steps back to examine Tiffani and me, and when Tiffani nods, she cheers, “Go, go, go!”
I panic but lick the salt anyway and throw my head back as I attempt to force the tequila down my throat. I fight the urge to gag. It’s so gross and so bitter. I remember the lime in my hand and bite into it, despite how screwed up my face is, but the juice only squirts all over my cheeks, and I make a dive for the kitchen sink, spluttering the drink all over it.
When I get home, I am so dead.
“You know what they say,” Tiffani says with a grin. I must look horrified, and she quickly passes me a can of beer, as though it’ll help clear the taste. “One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.” Several people file into the kitchen to fill up their drinks, and she decides to seize this opportunity as her getaway. “I’m gonna go find Tyler. You guys have fun.”
The music gets louder all of a sudden, bouncing from the walls and drilling into my ears. The intense beat drops are giving me a headache. Meghan reaches for my free hand and pulls me out of the kitchen and into a large—but cramped—living room. She talks to a couple people on our way, but thankfully none of them ask her why there’s a loser by her side.
A bulky guy approaches us from the opposite side of the room, and Meghan instantly yells “Jake!” over the sound of the music.
“Hey, Megs,” Jake says. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with a huge slogan scrawled across the front of it, which I don’t bother to read, and his blond hair is gelled messily in all directions. “Where are Tiff and Rach?” Jake, I discover, likes to cut names short.
“Rachael’s with Trevor,” Meghan says, and she rolls her eyes, as does he. “And Tiffani’s looking for Tyler. Seen him?”
I notice the way Jake’s expression hardens slightly. “Yeah,” he says a little stiffly. “Doing what he does.”
Meghan glances sideways at me, bites her lip, and then moves the conversation on. “Where’s Dean?”
“He was looking for you guys.” Jake laughs, his expression softening as he takes a sip of his beer. As he swallows it, he stares at me. “Who’s the new girl?”
“Eden,” I answer before Meghan can. I already know which questions are coming next, so I go ahead and throw the answers out there before Jake can even ask. “I’m Tyler’s stepsister. I’m here for the summer.” There go his hardened features again. He shoots Meghan a glance, and she shrugs in return. “What?”
“Um,” Meghan says. “I’m gonna go check on Rachael. Gotta make sure she doesn’t get knocked up.”
“Want some rubbers to give ’em?” Jake smirks. He pats his pockets in a joking manner and then chuckles. Meghan giggles, adjusts her hair, and leaves. “So you’re Tyler Bruce’s stepsister?”
I want to shake my head no, but that would be bullshit, so I murmur a quick “Yeah,” and change the subject as quickly as I can. I ask him the first thing that pops into my head. “Are you all seniors?”
He tilts his head. “Aren’t you?”
“Junior,” I say quietly. Yet another reason why I’m so out of place here. I’m a junior attending a senior party. There’s no way Amelia is going to believe this. In Portland, seniors refuse to associate with the rest of us. The guys are too cool for us, the girls too busy acting like adults. It’s almost as though they believe they’re a superior race. Kind of like New Yorkers.
“Where did you say you were from again?”