“So that’s happening, huh?” she asks, pale eyebrows raised and a dozen different embroidery floss friendship bracelets stacked up one arm—she had a poolside arts-and-crafts thing on the schedule this morning, I remember. She grins at me. Then, off my clearly stricken expression: “Oh, God, sorry, no, I’m not trying to give you a hard time or anything. I like Gabe, I think he’s a good guy.”
“No,” I say immediately, the impulse to lie like a reflex. I remember what I said to Patrick that day in the store, I know what you think, but there’s nothing going on here. “I mean, he’s a good guy, I just—”
“Hey, don’t worry about it.” Tess holds a freckly hand up, shaking her head. “You know, don’t even answer that. It’s none of my business, I won’t say anything to anybody.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, exhaling. “Thanks.”
Tess shrugs. “No problem,” she tells me, reaching up to scrape her hair into a ponytail. “Hey, listen, I don’t know if this is hugely weird or whatever, but Imogen and I were talking about it, and we were going to ask you anyway—we’re gonna do Crow Bar tomorrow, if you wanna come with.”
It’s a suicide mission. It’s completely absurd. Why are you even talking to me? I want to ask her. Why are you being so nice? Still: “Sure,” I hear myself answer, like this summer’s got a swiftly moving current, like somehow I’m getting swept away. “That could be fun.”
Tess grins. “Good,” she declares, turning around and heading for the lakefront. “And, hey, your Chapstick’s totally smeared.”
Day 23
Crow Bar is a squat stucco building near the entrance to the highway, a giant silhouette of the black bird in question leering down from the wooden sign outside. It’s after ten when the cab drops us off, the short, stocky bouncer giving us a perfunctory once-over before he waves us inside. The place is a dive right off the highway in Silverton that’s notoriously easy to get into even if you don’t have an ID, and for good reason: It’s dingy enough that no self-respecting adult would ever want to hang out here. It smells dank and beery, with a pool table at one end and a jangling game of Buck Hunter, the crush of bodies and the clang of a dumb Kings of Leon song on the jukebox. I freeze for just one second in the doorway, and Imogen slips her hand into mine and tugs me along through the crowd.
“Shots?” Tess asks, eyes wide and grinning. She’s more dressed up than I’m used to seeing her, her red hair loose down her back and a scattering of freckles along her cheekbones that make her look sort of mischievous. I can see what Patrick likes about her: In the cab over here she offered me both her drugstore-brand lip gloss and some dried mango from her purse, friendly enough to make me wonder if maybe girlfriends aren’t totally out of the question for me this summer, even one as improbable as Patrick’s. If maybe it’s okay to relax.
“Shots,” Imogen echoes, and I laugh, digging some cash out of my purse to hand to Tess. I can see Patrick across the bar along with Jake and Annie from the Lodge, their faces lit by the blue-red glow of a neon sign for Pabst. After a moment they catch me looking: Jake waves and Annie tips her beer in not-quite-friendly recognition, but Patrick just stares at me, eyebrows raised, before saying something I can’t make out to both of them and disappearing toward the back of the room.
Tess heads over to say hello to them. Imogen weaves her way to the bar. I scan the crowd for another moment, spotting some faces I recognize and more who clearly recognize me—a few girls who used to sit at my lunch table, and Elizabeth Reese in a slinky black top. I stop and blink when my gaze lands on a girl not two feet away from where I’m standing, raven hair and red lips, pale skin like Snow White in the enchanted forest; the Donnellys have always been a ridiculously good-looking family, but Patrick’s twin sister is the winner of that genetic lottery, no question. Julia’s dressed in skinny jeans and ballet flats and a long, loose tank top with a bright purple bra underneath, and she’s frowning.
I gasp. I can’t help it, like seeing a wolf in the middle of a shopping mall or the feeling of tumbling off a cliff right before you fall asleep. Julia was totally straightedge the first two years of high school, didn’t drink or smoke at all. Crow Bar is the last place I ever expected to see her.
Looks like the feeling is mutual; her blue eyes widen when she notices me, like maybe she thought her welcome home fuck you campaign was enough to keep me in the house for longer than this. Then she sighs. “Bitch,” she mutters, just loud enough so I can hear her. She sounds profoundly annoyed, like she’s irritated at having to expend the energy it takes to hate me, like it’s a game I keep making her play even though she’s bored. Julia and I grew up like sisters, shared clothes and dolls and makeup until we were sixteen years old. Now, standing here in the middle of Crow Bar at the beginning of our last summer before college, she tilts her delicate wrist so that the contents of her beer glass tip right down the front of my shirt.
For a second, I only just gape at her, Julia who loves Full House reruns, Julia who snorts when she laughs. We’ve got a little audience by now, the half-dozen people standing in our immediate vicinity, plus Imogen, who’s crossed the bar like some long-dormant Spidey-sense was tingling in her brain stem. “Jesus, Julia,” Imogen says, grabbing my arm and pulling me back like she thinks maybe Julia’s about to do something worse. “What the hell?”
“It’s fine,” I say, holding up both hands in surrender. I was right; this was a terrible idea. I don’t know what I was possibly thinking. I can feel the scorching heat through my whole entire body, the cold shock of the beer where it’s soaking through my top. I shake Imogen off. “It’s okay,” I manage, more sharply than I mean to. Then, to the back of her receding figure: “Good to see you, too, Jules.”