“Foster’s only fourteen, honey, he doesn’t have a lot of girl friends. If it’ll make you feel better, invite a few of your friends, all right?”
I grumbled that it was such short notice, that no one would be available. But everyone I called could come. Even the charming Miss Renshaw, who Cas urged me to call.
I also forced Foster to get Gracie Holtzer’s number from one of the freshboys, and he invited her. I could hear her squealing on the other end of the line from across the room.
“That’s great. She’ll bring her entourage,” I said.
Foster just made a face.
Seven o’clock rolled around Saturday evening and the house was empty. The dining room table was loaded down with food. I was wearing my good jeans, and Foster—lo and behold—had put on one of the shirts my mother had bought for him at the start of summer.
My parents had closed themselves off upstairs for the evening, but my mom kept coming down, nervously flitting around the dining room, rearranging stacks of paper plates, and checking the level of ice in the freezer. Like somehow an invisible crowd had depleted the supply in the ten minutes that she was gone. Foster sat on the couch, flipping through TV channels and looking as blank and Fosterlike as ever, though with that strange new haircut and freshboy shirt. I hovered in the doorway, watching him for a moment. For some reason … my stomach was in a knot. I ached for a knock on the door. Someone would come. Someone had to come.
I swallowed hard. No one would come.
“Foster?”
“Uh-huh.” He paused on an infomercial.
“We could watch a movie or something.… We could play any game you want.”
Foster glanced up at me. He looked so different with the hair out of his eyes.
“They’ll come, Dev.”
I nodded and then went into the dining room and rearranged some stacks of paper plates. What can I say? It was hereditary.
There was a knock at the door at a quarter to eight. I bolted to the front hallway. Foster didn’t move from the couch.
“Hi.” Marabelle stepped into the foyer.
“Hey. Foster’s inside. You’re the first one here.”
To my primitive high school self, being the first one at a party was almost as embarrassing as hosting a party with just one guest.
But Marabelle just smiled. “Someone has to be first.” And then she floated into the living room.
I was about to shut the door behind her but then I realized there was someone else on the front stoop: Ezra Lynley.
“Where’d you come from?”
“I drove Marabelle.”
“You guys know each other?”
He nodded.
“Um…” It was only slightly less embarrassing to have a party with two guests. “You want to come in?”
“No, I figured I’d just stay out here for the evening.”
That was a joke. I was almost sure of it this time. I smiled a little and held the door open, and Ezra entered our house. I followed him into the living room and watched as he plopped down on the couch with Foster and Marabelle and took the remote from Foster’s hand.
“Not fair,” Foster said.
“I’m the oldest,” Ezra said, and flipped channels.
“But I’m the host.”
“Devon’s the host.”
Foster wavered a moment and then said, “Fine.”
And then there was another knock at the door.
“Oh my god, that’s Ezra Lynley’s truck!”
“I knew he’d be here. He and Foster are like best friends.”
I cleared my throat. “Uh … hi.”
Gracie Holtzer stopped and her entourage came to a crashing halt behind her. “Hi, Devon!” she said, and smiled pink lips and bright white teeth at me. Maybe she had been one of Miss Victoria’s Little Beauties. She certainly commanded the hallway like a runway.
“Oh my god, you look really cute, Devon. I love your jeans.”
“Uh, thanks. Cute…” I scanned her outfit. Insanely tight jeans and a baby-sized T-shirt with a brand name emblazoned across the chest. So no one would have to ask her where it was from, I suppose. “Shirt,” I finished lamely, and held the door open for them. “Come on in.”