AS PROMISED, MOM went all in for her ’70s New Year’s Eve. She made fondue and Caesar salad, and the four of us sat on the floor near the fire dipping hunks of crusty bread into the yellow goo, listening to Joni Mitchell and Fleetwood Mac albums on the old record player of Dad’s that Mom had repaired as a Christmas gift.
“This is actually a little gross, all of us putting our forks back into the cheese,” I said, and Mom gave me a look.
“But it’s so delicious,” said Sam, waving a piece of drippy bread in my face.
“Couldn’t agree with you more, Sam,” Dad said, and plucked the bread from Sam’s fork and then popped it into his mouth.
Mom served carrot cake for dessert, and then we played poker with wooden matchsticks until Sam bankrupted us all.
“I’m not sure whether to be disturbed or impressed that a fifteen-year-old can keep such a straight face,” my dad commented when he handed over the last of his matches to Sam.
At midnight, Mom let Sam and me have a glass of champagne each, and the bubbles made my hands and face warm. Not long after, my parents made up the couch for Sam with sheets tucked around the cushions, poured the remaining champagne into our glasses, then went to bed.
Sam and I sat facing each other on opposite ends of the couch, the quilt spread over our legs. I was bummed about going back to the city in two days’ time and wanted to stay up all night talking. He tapped my leg with his foot under the blanket.
“Are you going to tell me about how your date with Buckley went?” We hadn’t discussed Delilah’s cousin Mason since I first mentioned him in an email, hoping it would prompt Sam to confess his love. It didn’t quite work out according to plan, and I figured Sam had forgotten all about it.
The truth was that Delilah and I had been on a couple of double dates with Mason and his friend, Patel. Last names as first names seemed to be a thing in their circle—they both went to a boys’ private school not far from where I lived, and played on the same hockey team.
I was surprised that Delilah would date someone as quiet and soft-spoken as Patel, but he had these huge brown eyes and an even bigger smile.
“I can tell he’s deep,” she explained when I asked her about it. “Goalies are sexy, and I bet he’s an amazing kisser.”
Mason was obsessed with hockey and building muscle for hockey and growing out his dark hair so it would curl just right from under his hockey helmet. He had blue eyes like Delilah and was gorgeous like Delilah, and I think he probably knew it like Delilah did, too, but he was actually a pretty nice guy. I just didn’t think of him constantly like I did Sam.
“It’s Mason,” I corrected Sam. “And there’s not much to tell.”
“Let’s start with the basics: Do you like Buckley?” He smirked.
I kicked him. Then shrugged. “He’s okay.”
“Just okay, huh? Sounds serious.” After a moment, he asked, “Don’t you think he’s a bit too old for you?”
“He’s turning eighteen in a few weeks, and I’ll be sixteen in February. Besides, we’ve only been on two dates.”
“You didn’t tell me about the second one.”
Was I supposed to tell him about other boys? He didn’t talk to me about girls.
“I didn’t think you would care, and it’s not like he’s my boyfriend or anything,” I said defensively.
“But he wants to be.” It wasn’t a question.
“I’m not sure. I don’t think boys think of me like that.”
“Like what, Percy?” Was he teasing me? Or did he not know what I meant? My head was fuzzy with confusion and champagne.
“They’re not interested in kissing me,” I said, looking down at our legs.
He tapped me with his foot again. “That’s not true. And for the record, I do care.”
* * *
SAM WAS RIGHT: Mason was interested. Delilah and I went to two of his and Patel’s hockey games in January. We sat in the stands clutching foam cups of bad hot chocolate to keep our hands warm in the frigid arena. At each game, Mason waved to me from the ice before taking his position at right wing for the puck drop.
I could see why he loved hockey: He was the best player on the team by far. Each time he scored, he’d look up to me in the stands with a big smile on his face. After the second game, Delilah and I waited for the guys outside the locker room so we could all go for a pizza. Mason came out, hair damp and smelling of shampoo, with a huge gym bag slung over his shoulder. He wore jeans and a tight long-sleeved crewneck that stretched over his chest and arms. He was even more muscular than Charlie, and I had to admit that he looked pretty hot. When Patel and Delilah walked ahead, Mason pulled me into a doorway, told me he thought I was pretty, and gave me a soft peck on the lips. I said, “Thank you,” and smiled at him a little dazed, unsure of what came next or what he expected of me.
“I like how fresh you are,” he laughed.
Both Delilah and I were invited to Mason’s eighteenth birthday party, which was being held at a swanky hotel in Yorkville at the end of the month, complete with a DJ, sushi bar, and a 120-person-long guest list. Delilah had made sure that practically all the girls in our grade knew we were going, and we had been given the appropriate level of awed respect.
The night of the party, we got ready at Delilah’s—curling our hair with hot rollers and dabbing on mascara and lip gloss—but when I put on my dress, a slinky red floor-length gown Delilah said showed off my “killer body,” she let out a horrified, “No way! You cannot wear those!”
“What are you talking about?” I looked down at my gold ballet flats, confused.
“Those granny panties! Have I taught you nothing? Don’t you have a thong?”
I looked at her incredulously. “Not on me!”
“You’re hopeless,” she sighed, and flung the skimpiest pair of red underwear I had ever seen at me.
“I don’t think my mom would be happy about these,” I said, holding them up.
“Well, she wouldn’t be happy about that panty line, either, believe me,” said Delilah.
I shimmied out of my underwear and slipped on the thong.
“Much better!” Delilah said and gave my butt a squeeze. “Mason won’t be able to keep his hands off this.” The thought made me jittery.
Delilah’s parents drove us to the hotel, slipped Delilah a fifty for a cab ride home, and left us at the coat check to mingle.
“I didn’t think there’d be so many grown-ups here,” I whispered to Delilah, looking around the ballroom—more than half the guests were middle-aged or older.
“My uncle is kind of a big deal on Bay Street. Something to do with the stock market,” she hissed back.
We danced together with some of the older girls while the boys watched from slipcovered chairs. At eight p.m., Mason’s dad, a tall, soft-looking white-haired man, who Delilah said was “almost done with wife number two,” gave a toast to his son, and then, to gasps from the crowd, threw him a set of keys. We all shuffled outside, huddling against the cold, where Mason’s new Audi was parked at the entrance. “I’ll take it home for you tonight,” his dad told him with a wink and slipped him a flask. In less than twenty minutes, the remaining adults had all snuck away.
When the telltale pan flute of a Celine Dion ballad warbled over the speakers, Mason pointed at me, then himself with a smile. I walked over and he put his hands around my waist while I rested mine on the shoulders of his black suit jacket. We swayed back and forth, shuffling around in a circle, and Mason leaned down, pressing his mouth up to my ear.
“You look beautiful tonight, Percy.” I looked up at his eyes, which were blue but a darker, muddier blue than Sam’s, and he pulled me flush against his body so that my cheek rested at the top of his chest. “I can’t stop thinking of you,” he whispered.