THIS IS THE FIRST SATURDAY NIGHT IN NEARLY A YEAR that I’ve had plans. Last time, I watched a partial lunar eclipse with my father and a local astronomy group comprised of a bunch of sixty-year-old hobbyists. I don’t expect tonight to be anywhere near as fun.
Juniper said her party starts at nine, and the Internet suggests it therefore would be weird if I got there before ten. I don’t see why they don’t just start it at ten, but who am I to make edits to social norms?
After dinner, I bury myself in a new book, one I stole from my father’s study. By the time 10:00 PM rolls around, I’m so invested in the book, I don’t want to leave. I dawdle for fifteen more minutes, but eventually, I mumble myself into it, grab the spare keys, and head for the door.
A voice stops me, calling from the recliner in front of the TV. “Going out, kiddo?”
My father seemed to stop adjusting to my changing age when I was ten or so and now only refers to me as “kid,” “kiddo,” and “sport.” Maybe for Christmas I’ll buy him a parenting manual that was published after 1960.
“Clearly,” I say.
Dad’s gray-brown hair sticks up as he shifts his head against his ergonomic pillow, looking up at me. “Whereabouts?” he asks, a hopeful smile propping up his round cheeks. It’s almost sad, watching him trying to connect to me in whatever small way.
“A party. I need to talk to a girl from my grade.”
“A girl, huh?” Dad winks. “Well, then, I won’t keep you. Go get her.”
I turn away, restraining an exasperated sigh. “Right. Sure.” That sort of thing is exactly why I speak to my parents as little as possible.
“Curfew’s midnight, all right?” My father goes back to the History Channel, and I grumble my assent, heading for the door.
I reach Juniper’s neighborhood at 10:30. Called Mossy Grove, the place is composed of a maze of cul-de-sacs. The houses look as if some architect Googled “upper-class suburbia” and modeled his designs after the results. Each house has the same gable over the front door, the same carport set off to the side, the same vaulted black roof with a chimney poised near its edge. I get lost not once but twice, thanks to the genius who decided that both “Mossy Grove Place” and “Mossy Grove Court” needed to exist.
I slow down, triple-checking the address. Juniper lives near the back of the neighborhood with the other houses that veer into “mansion” territory. Her house sits on a dark, sweeping lawn, perched far back and high up like a king surveying his realm. Halfway up the yard, a pebbled path littered with flagstones circumnavigates a two-tiered fountain, and tall conifers sway at the edges of the lawn, making the house’s driveway seem even longer than it is. The golden light pouring through the magnificent windows, as well as the distant thud of bass, suggest a huge gathering.
My throat tightens. I can’t believe I’m breaking my precious sixty-three hours and twenty minutes of weekend solitude for crowds and noise. I haven’t even knocked on the door yet, and I already feel on the brink of panic. Yet here I am, cruising past the stream of cars that eats up the curb on Juniper’s street.
Part of me doesn’t want to find out which teacher it is or learn the whole story. Knowing would make me even more responsible than I already am. I didn’t ask to get involved.
Despite my every instinct urging me toward the contrary, I shove the car into park, steel myself, and start the trek up.
The skinny metal neck of the sink clouds up, up with my breath
how did i get down here? slumped down here, i’m blackout drunk and it’s only 11:00.
pathetic.
the roof of my mouth tastes like vomit.
i can’t get away from me
(i need you, my one piece of sanity—
you know i do.)
no. what i need is some goddamn self-control.
stand. wipe. breathe. exit.
the smile on my lips tastes like blood and dry lipstick.
where the hell did the blood come from? stomach? throat? heart?
the solution to drunkenness, obviously, is drink more!
god, help, it burns.
all i know is this: it has felt like a dark age, an ice age since you left me.
when you said good-bye, i heard good luck.
i’ve found no good in anything since.
· · · · · · ·
now—minutes, hours, god knows—it’s all the same.
stumbling around . . . where am i? hard to tell from the floorboards (juniper, don’t embarrass yourself, stay on your feet)
(make bubbling greetings; share a laugh with girls you’d recognize were you the slightest bit sober but)
the door opens.
valentine?—word’s out before it’s a conscious decision.
two years i’ve known him and never seen him outside a school building.
you’d think he was grown there, cultivated in a test tube, carefully, carefully cultured, and now there he stands, as unnatural as anything.
he says, may we please talk? i tried to find you all week, but i never caught you after school, and lunch got . . . complicated, so may we speak? in private?
me: why
him: it’s a sensitive topic
my throat chokes on itself. (i’m still swaying, world’s still swaying) i stagger.
my palm slaps the wall—
my stomach twirls inside my torso— my brain’s got its grip on its favorite subject again.