I say it with a certainty that I wish I could feel, but as I speak the words, they make sense. So I hold the rose’s thornless stem tightly. We climb into the Jeep and I set it on my lap because I am a cautious driver who keeps both hands on the wheel, but I want to keep this flower close to me. To part with it feels like bad luck.
And now we are on the on-ramp and officially leaving the city. Unlike our drive here, nothing about being on the bridge fills me with awe. There is nothing beautiful about it. We’re on the lower deck, surrounded by no one because it is only midnight and no respectable party would be even remotely close to over. I keep thinking, How could we have missed her?
“But how did we end up at this party?” Mark asks, bringing me back to our plan. “Maybe some painting connection of yours? Like, have you ever had any cool art teachers or something?”
I shake my head. It’s true—how would Mark and I ever end up at a party like that? This was a bad idea. No one will believe us, and the more we plan, the more distance we cover, the farther we get from the city, from Ryan, from Violet, from all my friends who might not even be my friends anymore, from the electric current of the night and the possibility that my life might change.
“Actually,” Mark says. “I totally know how we could have ended up at a party like that.”
And then he pulls a business card out of his wallet and tells me about this world-famous photographer who just happened to ask him if he modeled and also took his picture and gave him his card.
“How on earth was this not the first thing you told me tonight?”
“Everything was such a blur,” he says. “And, you know, I’ve been kind of preoccupied. But I should text this guy and find out if he really is at a party, because it would suck if we used him as an excuse and it turned out Ryan saw him somewhere else.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Good call.”
Mark sends him the world’s longest text, reintroducing himself, providing some distinguishing characteristics to remind the guy in case he’s taken pictures of quite a few could-be models tonight, saying that the night has stalled out, and asking if there’s anything cool going on.
“If he writes back I’ll just say that we’ll try to make it. And then I can tell him that it didn’t work out.”
“Good plan,” I say, but as I say it I glide over two lanes and slow to take the narrow, curving exit onto Treasure Island.
“Where are we going?” Mark asks me, and the truth is that I don’t know. But it isn’t home. Not yet. As I pull onto the side of the road, the awe is officially back. The city glows so close in front of us. I can almost hear the voices of hundreds of thousands of celebrating people.
“Hand me the phone,” I say.
He doesn’t ask me why; he just does it.
I find his recent calls and tap Home.
“What’s your mom’s name?”
“Becca,” he says. “But, to be honest, I don’t think—”
“Becca!” I say to the voice that answers. “This is Kate Cleary. I’m a senior in Mark’s Calc class, and I also happen to be his chaperone this evening. I’m calling to touch base with you about our plans.”
“Are you the person who is supposed to be driving him home right now?” Becca asks me. Her voice is so familiar even though I’ve never heard it. It’s the stern but kind voice of a TV mom. I don’t yet know her, but I know her. And so I carry on.
“Yes,” I say. “And, in fact, we are in the car now, and we will absolutely keep driving home if that’s what you need. But I have to say that the night is young, Becca, and we are, too.”
“Is this on speaker?”
“Just a second. Now it is.”
“Hey, Mom.”
“Mark?”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“You remember your SAT workshop starts tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“I want you to get the most out of it.”
“Yeah, I will.”
“Kate, how did you do on your SATs?”
“All right.”
“Where are you going for college?”
“UCLA.”
“Oh,” she says. “Wow. And what class are you in with Mark?”
“Calculus. I got into their art program. There was a portfolio review, so the SAT scores matter less. But they were fine; they were decent.”
“Maybe you could help Mark this summer.”
“Mom.”
“Vocabulary drills, maybe?”
“I’d love to,” I say.
“Mom,” Mark says.
Becca sighs.
“So what do you think?” I ask. “We don’t even have any plans. We’re just enjoying the energy. It’s extra celebratory this year. Any chance we could get an extension on the evening? Just a few hours?”
“Normally I would say no to this. It’s already so late and you snuck out, Mark.”
“You snuck out?” I shake my head at him in mock disappointment.
“Sorry,” he says into the phone. “You know. Desperate times? Or something?”
“Wait,” she says. “Where’s Ryan?”
“He, um…” Mark is searching for an answer and I don’t want him to get himself into even more trouble by covering for his sometimes-secret-boyfriend, other times heartbreaker-of-a-best-friend. But it’s his call, not mine.
“He’s asleep in the back,” he finally says. “It’s just Katie and me awake now.”