I appear to be a member of the Cross-Eyed Zombie Invasion. There is a strand of my own hair stuck in the corner of my mouth, and my arm is thrown around Stacey Stallard’s shoulders like she’s my best friend.
We’re both holding tiny glasses upside down, and there’s a strange green stripe, which I can only hope is a lime, peeking out from between my lips where my teeth should be. Stacey’s eyes are wild and her cheeks are flushed, but a big smile is plastered across her face. If it weren’t for the bottle of Cabo Wabo tequila on the Doones’ kitchen island, she might be standing at the top of a mountain after a brisk hike, a cold wind in her face.
I just look trashed.
The phone buzzes in my hand. Rachel again:
DEF your new profile pic.
DELETE THAT NOW.
#NOW
LOL. OMG. Ok ok #DONE
Dunno. You look pretty hot.
Ugh. What. Just. Happened?
My phone rings the moment I press send.
“Good morning, sunshine!” Rachel’s voice is so perky I wince.
“What the hell are you doing up so early?” I croak.
“Those preschoolers don’t teach themselves Sunday school.”
“Will you be teaching them to make the margaritas you mixed last night?”
Rachel giggles. “You’re the one who switched to shots.”
“Which I would not have done if that margarita hadn’t gotten me hammered. I can’t believe they let you step foot in that church.”
“Please. Even Jesus turned water into wine. If I can find a guy who performs that miracle, I’ll never let him leave.”
A guy.
Leaving.
My truck.
Jumping out of bed, I pause only briefly to adjust myself to the fresh hell of standing upright. “Shit.”
Rachel scolds me for my language on the Lord’s day. I would usually retort that he is her Lord, not mine, but right now I need all potential deities on my team.
Running down the hall to Will’s room, I blow past our family Wall of Fame. Fifth-grade me leers back from a gallery frame: braces, shin guards, rubbery sports glasses strapped across the wavy hair bursting from my braid in all directions. Over the past few years, my exterior has been transformed by contact lenses and a flat iron, but most days I’m still surprised not to see that little mess in the mirror.
Will’s bed is empty, and I scale a mountain range of high-tops and basketball jerseys like the Von Trapps escaping over the Alps. The window in his room faces the driveway, and as I pull back the curtain, I take in the glorious vision of my truck parked at the curb.
“Yes!” I hiss this at the phone while performing an unplanned fist pump that sends an electric shock through my forehead, as my stomach reels in a hoedown of misery.
“What?” Rachel is confused.
I take a deep breath and grasp the back of the chair at Will’s desk, trying to persuade my insides not to rebel. “I wasn’t sure how I got home. I guess Ben drove me back here in my truck?”
“Uh, yeah. He was gone from the party for like an hour. Must’ve walked back.”
“Wait, he went back to the party?”
“The night was still young. You were toast by ten forty-five.”
“Again, your fault.”
“Whatever. I left a little before midnight. Ran into Ben coming up the Doones’ driveway. Oh—” She pauses.
“What?” I ask.
“Just a tweet. Looks like we aren’t the only ones who had fun last night.” She giggles. “And there are some Instagram pictures to prove it.”
“Who is it?”
“Crap. Gotta go. I have to get there a few minutes early so I can make copies of the coloring sheets. Text you later.” Rachel yells down the hall for her mom to hurry, and my phone beeps that the call has ended.
“How you feeling, rock star?”
Will is standing in the doorway. He’s wearing the shiny gray basketball shorts he sleeps in and stretching, his fingers hooked onto the top of the doorframe. I am briefly dumbfounded. When did he get that tall? His hair is doing its own electromagnetic experiment, and as I take a step toward him, I trip on a pair of Nikes and collapse onto his bed with a groan.
He laughs. “That good, huh?”
Will slips into the room and closes the door behind him, gingerly sitting next to me so as not to bounce my head. A blurred memory of slipping past him in the hallway last night flashes before my eyes.
“You’re not gonna tell Mom and Dad, are you?”
“Depends . . .” There’s a smirk in his voice. I squint at him through my headache.
“On what?” I try to affect my imperial Katherine the Great voice. He’s not buying it.
“On whether you take me with you next time.”
It takes every ounce of strength I can muster to sit up, grab a pillow, and swing it at Will. He catches it easily with one hand and tosses it back at me. We both laugh, me grasping at my head and begging him to make it stop.
“You were pretty wrecked last night,” he says. “I think I should chaperone next time.” Ignoring him, I gingerly pick my way across the mounds of stuff between me and the door. He jumps up and clears a path. “Please?”