He has to be here.
“This way.” Angie has instinctively dropped her voice to a whisper. She draws me toward the back of the house, and from the way she navigates the rooms, even in the dim and changing light, I can tell that she has been here several times before. We move into the old kitchen. More candles here illuminate the outlines of bare cupboards, a stove, and a dark fridge with its door missing and its shelves black with spotted mold. The room smells stale, like sweat and mildew. A table in the center of the room holds a few dusty bottles of alcohol, and several girls are standing awkwardly against one counter while across the room a group of boys is pretending not to notice them. Obviously they have never been to a party like this either and are unconsciously obeying the rules of segregation.
I scan the boys’ faces, hoping that Steve will be among them. He isn’t.
“Do you want something to drink?” Angelica asks.
“Water,” I say. My throat feels dry, and it’s very hot in the house. I almost wish that I had never left home. I don’t know what I should do now that I’m here, and there is nobody I want to talk to. Angie is already pouring herself something to drink, and I know that she will soon disappear into the darkness with a boy. She does not seem out of place or anxious at all, and for a second I feel a flash of fear for her.
“There is no water,” Angie says, passing me a glass. I take a sip of whatever she has poured me and make a face. It’s sweet but has the dull, stinging aftertaste of gasoline.
“What is it?” I say.
“Who knows?” Angie giggles and takes a sip from her own glass. Maybe she is nervous. “It’ll help you loosen up.”
“I don’t need to—” I start to say, but then I feel hands on my waist, and my mind goes still and blank, and I find myself turning without intending to.
“Hi,” Steve says to me.
In the second it takes me to process that he is here, and real, and speaking to me, he leans in and puts his mouth on mine. This is only the second time I’ve ever been kissed, and I have a momentary panic where I forget what I am supposed to do. I feel his tongue pressing into my mouth and I jerk, surprised, spilling a bit of my drink. He pulls away, laughing.
“Happy to see me?” he asks.
“Hi to you, too,” I say. I can still taste his tongue in my mouth—he has been drinking something sour. I take another sip of my drink.
He leans in and puts his mouth right up to my ear. “I was hoping you would come,” he says in a low voice. Warmth breaks across my chest.
“Really?” I say. He doesn’t respond; he takes my hand and draws me out of the kitchen. I swivel around to tell Angelica I’ll be back, but she has disappeared.
“Where are we going?” I ask, trying to sound unconcerned.
“It’s a surprise,” he says.
The warmth from my chest has made it into my head now. We move through a vast room full of more shadow-people, more candles, more flickering shapes on the wall. I place my drink on the arm of a ratty sofa. A girl with short, spiky hair is curled there on the lap of a boy; he is nuzzling her neck and his face is concealed. But she glances up at me as I pass, and I am momentarily startled: I recognize her. She has an older sister at St. Anne’s, Rebecca Sterling, a girl I was kind-of friends with. I remember Rebecca told me that her younger sister had chosen to go to Edison because it was bigger.
Sarah. Sarah Sterling.
I doubt she recognizes me, but she drops her eyes quickly.
At the far end of the room is a rough wooden door. Steve leans into it and we emerge onto a porch even sadder than the one out front. Someone has placed a lantern out here—maybe Steve?—illuminating the yawning gaps between wood slats, places where the wood has rotted away completely.
“Careful,” he says as I nearly miss my footing and go plunging through a bad patch.
“I’ve got it,” I say, but am grateful that he tightens his grip on my hand. I tell myself that this is it—what I wanted, what I had hoped for tonight—but somehow the thought keeps skittering away. He grabs the lantern before we step off the porch and carries it, swinging, in his free hand.
Across an overgrown stretch of lawn, the grasses shin-high and covered with moisture, we reach a small gazebo, painted white and lined with benches. In places, wildflowers have begun to push their way up through the floorboards. Steve helps me into it—it is elevated a few feet above the ground, but if there were stairs at one point, they are gone now—and then follows me.
I test one of the benches. It seems sturdy enough, so I sit down. The crickets are singing, tremulous and steady, and the wind carries the smell of damp earth and flowers.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.