I’M UNDER ORDERS TO PACK ALL OF MY belongings into boxes labeled KEEP and THROW AWAY by the end of the week. Which is harder than you’d think, because who knew I had so much stuff? I’m drowning in a sea of books, old papers, and odds and ends that I’ve spent over a decade smushing into the corners of my closet, cramming into the back of my desk drawers, and piling on the edges of my bookshelf.
It started off easily enough:
My lacquer box: KEEP
Four Super Balls from who knows where or when: THROW AWAY
Collection of poems by Emily Dickinson, my favorite poet: KEEP
Assorted elementary school certificates: Perfect Attendance, Fourth Grade Math Olympiad Participant, etc.: THROW AWAY
But now it’s getting tricky, because some of the things I’ve dug out have some messy feelings attached to them, and I’d rather not go there right now.
Don’t think. Just sort. The wedding picture that I found in the attic last year and that Mom refuses to display because it’s “showing off.” KEEP. The Hogwarts robe that I loved so much, I wore it two Halloweens in a row. I’d meant to be Hermione but everyone said I was (who else?) Cho Chang. THROW AWAY. A cheap plastic vase left over from my thirteenth birthday party, which three girls skipped to go to the movies instead. THROW AWAY.
Don’t think.
As I toss the vase into the THROW AWAY box, a scrap of fabric flutters out: a swim team ribbon that I found in the Glen Lake Country Club parking lot when I was seven. Hmm. Now that’s a feeling I can do something about.
All the best families in Glen Lake belong to the Glen Lake Country Club, which has a historic redbrick clubhouse, a lush green golf course, and a lily-white membership. Back in grade school, when Trish and I spent more time together, she used to bring me with her to the club all the time during summer vacation for barbecues and lazy afternoons at the pool. But in high school, she became suddenly, dazzlingly popular. The boys and queen bees started swarming, her Instagram filled up with likes and pictures of people who barely acknowledged me in the halls, and our country club days became a thing of the past.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like she’s been mean, or anything. Days might go by without her texting me, but she always answers my texts right away. She’s usually too busy to hang out with me, but she’s always apologetic. And even though it’s painful to sit on the edges of her crowd at lunch, listening to stories about parties I haven’t been invited to, it’s not like anyone’s ever asked me to leave the table.
When we used to see more of each other, Trish was always after me to “open up” and “spill everything.” Which, whatever, she’s an oversharer. For example, she texted me seconds after Toby Benton, her first boyfriend, put his hand up her shirt in eighth grade. (OMG I just let Toby touch my boob!! Under my shirt!! )
But whenever I thought about telling her anything important, I froze. Even now, when people talk at lunch about who wants to hook up with who, or who hopes their dad gets custody on the weekends because he’s totally cool about drinking at the house—I feel relieved that no one’s especially interested in me or my life. I don’t want anyone poking around and freaking out about what’s wrong with my family, what’s wrong with me. Like what if I’d answered honestly the first time Trish asked me at the beginning of freshman year, “Sana, who do you like?”
“Well actually, Trish, I think I might have a crush on you.”
Nope. Forget it. Not happening. I’m not even a hundred percent sure it’s true, and life is already complicated enough.
But now . . . things have changed. I mean, we leave in three weeks, and I might never see her again. So I’m going to ask her to bring me to the first Glen Lake Country Club barbecue of the summer, for old times’ sake. I’ve got nothing to lose, right? We’ll get drunk together for the first and probably last time—I’ve never been drunk before—and maybe . . . maybe if all goes well, she’ll get nostalgic, we’ll bond again, and . . . and . . . something good will happen. I don’t want to think too hard about what, exactly. But something good.
On Friday, I find Trish in the parking lot after school, sitting with her boyfriend, Daniel, on the hood of his car. Daniel is a big-shot football player, with a face like your favorite love song and a body like fireworks on the Fourth of July; sadly, though, he doesn’t have the brains or a personality to match. His biggest claim to fame is that he got a Mustang for his sixteenth birthday—and one week and a six-pack of Milwaukee’s Best later, he drove it into a tree and his dad gave him another Mustang.
When I ask Trish about the barbecue, it turns out she’s already going with Daniel, but she seems excited to have me come, too.
“Oooooh!” she says. “We. Are going. To get. So. Wasted. Together. It’ll be so much fun! And Daniel can drive us back to my house afterward.” She snuggles up to him. “Right, honey?”
“Sorry, babe, but Drew and Brad are back from college and they’re bringing a bottle of J?germeister tomorrow night.” As he says this, a couple of football bros walk by. “Did you hear that?” he shouts at them. “J?ger shots!” The three of them high-five each other and howl together like a pack of teenage werewolves, and for the millionth time, I wonder what Trish sees in him. Beyond the obvious, I mean.
When Daniel sees that Trish—thank goodness—is unmoved, he whines, “Come on, make someone else drive.”
Trish rolls her eyes at me. Then she wraps herself around Daniel and says, “I’ll make it worth your while,” and whispers something to him. She starts nibbling his ear and kissing his neck, and pretty soon they’re making out right in front of me, and I have to look away or I’ll vomit. If she’s using her womanly wiles to get her way, he seems to be falling for it—though from the sound of it she’s having as much fun as he is.
But at least he seems to have agreed to drive.
Trish and Daniel arrive to collect me and my overnight bag at six o’clock on Saturday. I’ve persuaded Mom to let me go by reminding her of all the times I used to tag along with Trish’s family to the club when I was younger. “Her parents will be there the whole time,” I said, which is true.
The plan is to begin sneaking vodka from flasks during dinner, while the adults are too busy getting drunk themselves to care. Then we’ll go to the golf course to finish up. I can hardly wait. All I ever hear about is how much fun it is to get drunk, and I am so ready to try it out and be part of Trish’s life again, even if it’s just for one night.
We arrive at dusk, and pretty soon Trish and I are on the patio with barbecue on our plates and orange juice (and vodka—shh!) in our cups, surrounded by a hive of popular girls. Minutes into my first drink, my face starts to feel warm, and Trish says, “Sana, are you okay?”