We called the GPS Lady in Kendall’s station wagon “Gwendolyn” because she sounded judgy and fake-British. When she took us some way that didn’t feel right, Kendall would often snap something like, “Where the hell are you taking us, bitch?”
Tonight, though, we needed to trust Gwendolyn. The address from Eliza’s cardboard looked completely unfamiliar. It was possibly something made up. Who lives on Chokecherry Road? And what kind of person names a place Chokecherry Road?
We drove in silence, no radio, for a while. That comfortable quiet again. The windows down and the air streaking past as if we were the ones staying in place. I ran my fingers along the embroidered red tree that stretched down the side of my brown long-sleeved shirt. With the shirt, my most-faded jeans, and a hopeful amount of eyeliner, I felt like myself but also a little bit not, which was a good night-out combo for me.
“We’re going to a Dashwood party at some barn,” said Kendall finally, as if saying it out loud made it officially happening.
“Remind me to take a photo of something at some point, so we have proof.”
“I’m proud of you. A year ago, you never would have.”
It was true. Sometimes you need a visible marker to remind yourself how far you’ve come.
“So if it’s horrible,” I said, “we leave, right? Should we have a secret signal if one of us wants to bail?”
“We say, ‘I need to grab my copy of George W. Bush’s autobiography from the car,’” proposed Kendall. “And then they’ll be glad to get rid of us.”
Gwendolyn led us down several winding roads and eventually told us to turn onto a dirt path with no sign. Kendall flashed me a face like, Shit’s getting real. We passed a field of grazing horses. Then a small white outbuilding that had likely been a storage barn but now gleamed with skylights and sliding glass doors. A few hundred feet past that was an enormous barn.
“It’s just red,” said Kendall as she slowed the car. “I thought it was lavender.”
“Or turquoise.”
“How terribly disappointing.”
I laughed. “Should we turn around?”
“Well,” said Kendall, “this does change everything, but I think we should forge on.”
We heard voices and music now. Kendall parked the car on the edge of a gravel driveway behind a Prius covered with bumper stickers. One said: Do not meddle in the affairs of Dragons, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup!
Kendall read it and asked, “Who the hell are these people?”
“I’m nervous,” I said.
“Don’t be,” she said, but then undid and redid her ponytail for no reason.
“On three?” I suggested.
Kendall counted, and together we opened our doors and climbed out of the car, walking toward the lights and the sounds.
A covered porch stretched along one side of the Barn. On the porch steps, two pretty girls sat smoking. They wore gauzy sundresses and reminded me of fairies without wings.
“Hi,” said one when she saw us.
“Hi,” said Kendall. “This is Camden’s house, right?”
“Welcome,” said the other, and for some reason this made me even more nervous. She waved us inside.
We went. Forward motion, not thinking about the alternative. Through the door and into a space that was a little bit of everything and also a lot of everything.
The floor, the walls, and the ceiling were all exposed wood, weathered yet shiny. A set of evenly spaced beams tracked up both sides of the cavernous room and met in a point at the top, making it look like the house had ribs. A spiral staircase led to a second floor, which took up about half the space as the first. There was a kitchen area with a huge island, a dining area with an outrageously long farmhouse table. Beyond that, a living room zone and a set of sliding doors, open to a patio with couches and an outdoor fireplace.
The house was filled with unfamiliar faces. Some looked seventeen. Some looked twenty-seven. Some looked older and younger and in between. Out on the patio, I spotted Camden’s mom sitting with a few other adults.
I wasn’t even sure where to start. Kendall looked just as baffled. What had we done?
Then I heard a voice behind me.
“Satina!”
I turned to see someone in a pixie-cut brown wig, gray tank top, gray cargo pants, and a black armband on her left arm. It took me a few seconds to figure out who it was. And then I laughed, and it was a real laugh.
“Satina!” I said back.
When Eliza hugged me, I could smell the chemical scent of the wig. She wore fake silver eyelashes that felt like butterfly kisses against my cheek. The surprise of her being dressed like this, the way this recognition washed over me. I laughed again, then caught Kendall’s confused expression.