We set up camp, complete with the paper bag dinners Whelan made us. Chicken salad sandwiches, cheese cubes, fresh fruit.
Everyone else sits down while I scan the crowd for Henry. He’s lined up in front of the gazebo, standing beside another trumpeter. Like the rest of them, he’s wearing suspenders and a flat straw hat with a red-and-navy ribbon. The outfits should be costumey—meant for old-fashioned soda shoppes—but on Henry Jones it looks . . . I don’t know, classic. He leans down as the mustachioed trumpeter whispers something that makes them both laugh. The setting sun catches on the tubas and the saxophones and Henry’s grin.
Beside me, Mohan is busy picking flecks of feta off a watermelon square.
“You’re ruining it!” Anna says. “The mint and feta are the best part.”
“Poison,” Mohan declares.
The band breaks into a cover of “Livin’ on a Prayer,” distracting them from their argument.
“C’mon,” Anna says, reaching out a hand to pull me up.
Anna leads me into the crowd, her hand warm in mine. We find an open spot near swaying drunk people as a trombone blurts out the first verse. The trumpets come in for the chorus. Anna sings the words to me, laughing as we take turns spinning each other. Keely and Mohan appear by the third verse. We’re grabbing at the air above us, pulling it down in passionate interpretations of the lyrics. These are my people. I am so in love with them I can barely contain it in my skin.
I’m not Pastor Dave’s daughter right now, and I’m certainly not Lukas’s girlfriend. Not Bird or Swim Team Captain or even LucyEsMakeup. But I don’t have a name for who I am. Lucy, of course, but a Lucy that I’m only starting to figure out. Maybe I’m a little in love with her too.
“This is his solo,” Anna calls to us. Henry has stepped to center, rocking a little to the beat. He takes a deep breath and squares his feet for the last chorus. The notes are sharp, precise. When the key change comes, I wince instinctively, hoping he hits it. He nails the note and slides up a third, wailing in a tone too clear to come from a brass instrument.
The whole crowd claps, and someone whistles near my ear. Jones puts up one hand, modestly acknowledging them as he folds back into the lineup. I grin like the foolish, got-kissed-last-night girl that I am.
“Thanks, folks,” the bandleader says into the mic. “We’re gonna take a quick break.”
Something possesses me, draws me forward. Because I miss Henry Morris Jones. How can that be? It’s only been a few hours.
I move through the crowd, dodging little kids playing tag and men sipping drinks. The grass, cool and spiky, tickles the sides of my feet between my sandal straps. I sidestep a group of guys my age huddled around a cell phone. The world blurs over with color and movement, yet I see forward with perfect clarity.
I lean my back against a pillar at the edge of the park shelter, waiting as Jones chats with a trombonist.
When he spots me, his mouth stops midsentence to grin. He touches the guy’s arm, excusing himself from the conversation. “Hey!”
“Hey. You sounded great.”
“Well, thanks. Wish I could hang with you guys, though.” He adjusts the daisy nearest my ear and smiles. “Anna’s doing?”
I nod, and his fingers stay in my hair, the heel of his hand light against my cheekbone. Now? I asked frantically last night. Now. My blood pumps out the message. Now, now.
“Look,” he says. “About last night. I know you just broke up with someone. I know I shouldn’t have—”
Before he can finish, I stretch up to kiss him. To say: Yes, you should have. Or I would have. In fact, I will.
Someone from the band whoops, and Jones’s hand moves away from my cheek. At first, I think he’s backing away. But no. He’s taking off his hat, using it to shield our faces from his bandmates. But it’s too late. The tambourine is shaking with joyous metal clangs, and we’re laughing too hard to keep kissing. I press into his shoulder, somehow both embarrassed and delighted.
“Jonesy-boy got a GIRL,” one hollers.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, still smiling as he waves them off.
“I should let you get back to it. You’ll meet us at the party later?”
“If you’re still there after fireworks and cleanup and all that.”
“Good.” When I back away from him, our fingers stay linked until the last possible second, and we both laugh at how dorky we are.
I float back to the picnic blanket. Keely looks up from stabbing a fat strawberry with a plastic fork. She glances at me, then narrows her eyes in closer examination. “Man. You’re so far gone. Look at your face.”
I wrinkle my nose at her, but the smile still doesn’t drop. “I can’t look at my own face.”
“You’re an idiot,” she says, laughing. The strawberry bulges out the side of her cheek.
“Wait. Here.” I grab the whipped cream from the cooler and toss it to her. She sprays the whipped cream straight into her mouth.
She chews with her eyes closed, like this moment of zen in the middle of a crowded park. A happy sigh makes her look delicate. Soft. “I really love summer.”
I settle myself onto the picnic blanket, and the twilight clouds shift above me. “Yeah. Me too.”
Never quite as much as this one, though. Later, as we walk to the party, the breeze lifts my hair off my shoulders, puffs the curls into the air. I wear them like fireworks.
I’ve only ever been to two other high school movie–type parties. That’s how I think of them, at least. Parties with my friends at home are, like, board games with the swim team, movie marathons, and church stuff. Anything that has a keg feels like I’m watching it from a distance, not really a part of it.
But here I am, standing next to Anna and a big silver barrel of beer. I wonder if all parties are like this, if they just bleed together. Obscenities yelled as Ping-Pong balls whiff over red plastic cups. Sloppy kissing under bad lighting, sticky linoleum in overcrowded kitchens.
No one but me seems to wonder where the host’s parents are.
“So we’re staying? You sure?” Keely asks.
I assume the question is for me, but Anna answers sternly, “I said I’ve got this.”
Anna’s anxiety has clearly eased a good deal since this morning, but Keely still frowns as she hands us drinks.
A half hour in, we squeeze together on a high-rise deck to watch the fireworks.
“These are my favorites. The drippy golden ones.” Anna sighs, tracing one finger against the black sky.
“Yeah,” Keely says. “Like a glittery weeping willow.”
The grand finale starts, burst after burst—white and green, red and purple circles expanding over each other like a kaleidoscope view.
“I wish Jones was here,” Anna whispers. “All five of us.”
All five of us.
Mohan presses a kiss against her temple, and I feel like I’m intruding on a personal moment.
“Simmons, Tambe!” a voice yells from the kitchen. “Game time! Defend your title or forfeit it.”
“So,” Anna says once they’ve left. “You and Jones?”