Seventeen years old.
Now that I’m seventeen, I should finally feel like I’m becoming a woman. It’s when people come out of their shells, moths turn into butterflies, and girls embrace their true selves, right? I’ve always heard that you stop caring what people think when you’re older. You do what you want. You say what you want. You give zero fucks.
However, this morning, I feel exactly the same.
I still have all the fucks to give.
If I were Libby, I’d probably be methodical and solemn about it: write in my journal, take a long, contemplative walk through the windy November woods, make a bucket list of things I want to do before I turn eighteen.
Instead, I sleep in—it’s a Saturday and there’s no field hockey practice, thank God—and then spend a full hour leisurely getting ready. This morning I spend time on the little details—body bronzer, a few passes of the curling iron, the special mascara that makes my lashes look a mile long—enjoying the feeling of making myself look glamorous. I know the cool thing is to pretend I don’t care what I look like and just roll out of bed—like India and Flossie—but I like makeup, damn it, and if I want to spend twenty minutes applying bronzer, I’m going to spend twenty minutes applying bronzer.
I hate being a cliché—the girl upset over her neglectful boyfriend—but everything with Edward is only getting worse, and it has me in a funk.
It’s not normal to have your boyfriend ignore you like this, right? Is he my boyfriend? We never said anything to make it official.
I don’t know what to think. I don’t like feeling so out of control.
As I get ready, the texts roll in:
LIBBY: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! Love you so much. Proud of you. Tonight’s going to be fun! Xoxoxoxo
LIBBY: By the way, I have a little surprise for you . . . ?
INDIA: Happy birthday! It’s going to be a great year. Xxx
FLOSSIE: Happy bday! Don’t forget 2 bring red wig for 2nite. Meet at gates at 12. X
ALICE: It’s SO real now, RIGHTTT?
TARQUIN: HB, yo.
EDWARD: Sending u big kisses. Can’t wait for 2nite. Happy birthday! Xx
eleven
The piercing, happy voices of drunk teenagers echo throughout Flossie’s country house, past the barn onto the polo fields and the forests beyond.
Flossie’s place is only five minutes from campus, a two-story farmhouse surrounded by tall hedges and shrubs so that it’s not visible from the main road. With five bedrooms, it’s relatively small, considering how much money her family has—but apparently they have about seven houses, so it’s not like they have anything to prove or need the extra space.
The group met at the front gates this afternoon to share cabs to Flossie’s house. I split a cab with Libby and Edward, and the two of them spent the entire ride talking about homework and upcoming assignments and their shared history professor. I guess their study sessions are, like, a regular thing now.
Libby and I are sharing a room on the driveway side of the house. Flossie has invited India to share her bedroom, giving the boys prime real estate overlooking the property’s polo fields. Edward gets his own room in the back of the house, as always—his security team doesn’t like him sharing rooms. They needed to do a sweep of Flossie’s house before he arrived and put Simon the bodyguard next to Edward’s room. Edward’s security team is on strict orders to protect him from security threats, but that’s all, so they’re not allowed to interfere when they see him doing things like drinking.
The whole barn has been turned into a disco, with the doors flung open onto the polo field. Bales of hay are scattered everywhere, there’s a vinyl dance floor in the center of the barn, and an actual disco ball has been affixed to the barn ceiling. Flossie’s gone all out: she’s rented speakers, she’s gotten a DJ and a bartender, there’s a taco truck in the driveway leading to the polo fields, and there’s even a photo booth. The lights are turned down, the beer is flowing, and Rihanna is blaring. The perimeter of the barn is surrounded by heating lamps, so that we don’t all freeze to death in our flimsy costumes.
Libby and I walk together to the bar.
“Two glasses of wine, please,” I say.
“Just don’t drink too much,” she says. “You have the big game tomorrow.”
“Whatever, I’ll be fine. I won’t have more than a couple glasses.”
“I wish Flossie hadn’t scheduled this for today,” Libby says, looking worried.
“Yeah, but it’s my actual birthday—it’s the first Saturday birthday I’ve had in years!”
Libby doesn’t look convinced.
Flossie’s by the speakers, her hands waving animatedly as she talks to the DJ. Her costume is amazing—she’s dressed as the supervillain Poison Ivy, wearing a green corset with green leaves affixed to the bodice, a green mask, and the fire-engine-red wig I lent her.
“I said no reggae,” she complains to the DJ as “Could You Be Loved” floats from the loudspeakers. “Not only reggae.”
“Floss, you look incredible,” I say as we walk up to her. The DJ shoots me a wounded look. “That corset is bananas.”
Her face immediately brightens. “You think? You don’t think it’s too much?”
“No way. It’s genius. The leaves are a nice touch.”
“Thank you,” she says, practically purring. “I like your outfits, too.” I’m dressed as Wonder Woman and Libby is, as promised, Ginger Spice.
“Oh, this old thing?” I joke. “The barn looks incredible. Thanks again for throwing this.”
“Any excuse for a party, right?” She smiles at both of us, leaning in quickly for cheek kisses before turning back to the DJ. “Do I need to send you the approved music list again?”
Libby and I turn and face the crowd. Tarquin and David wear suits and oversized Batman and Robin masks, running around the perimeter of the dance floor like lunatics, waving their arms. India’s lounging on a hay bale, wearing a flowy white tunic and a long red braided wig—I’m not sure who she is—while talking to a girl in a Russian fur cap. Alice stands next to them, wearing a white flapper costume and enough pearls to anchor a ship. Georgie and Oliver—who are now totally dating—are dressed as Bonnie and Clyde. Edward is a pirate, with a long, curly black wig, a thick black mustache, and a magnificent red-and-black costume threaded with gold. At his waist, a sword hangs from a golden belt.
I poke Libby. “Do you think the sword and the belt are real?”
She considers the question. “He does have access to lots of historical knickknacks. You never know! Hey, I need to go do something quickly. Do you mind?”
“Oh. Okay. Sure.”
I lean against the bar at the far corner of the barn with my drink, watching the action as people approach me every few seconds to say hello and wish me a happy birthday. Surprisingly, I don’t know most of the crowd—word must have gotten out.