Eleanor & Grey(3)

Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

“Oh, man, that’s today?” I asked. “Didn’t that just happen last year?”

Dad smirked. “It’s insane—you can remember book release dates, but not your own parents’ anniversary.”

“You would understand if you ever read these books, Dad.”

“It’s on my to-do list,” he joked. He’d been saying that since the first Harry Potter book had come out. I wasn’t holding my breath.

“I’m just saying, Ellie, it would be great for your father and me to have the house to ourselves tonight. Plus, you know how hard it is for us to find alone time to…well, you know,” Mom commented.

“Have sex,” Dad said, making it clear as day. “Honestly, you’re welcome to stay here, but you do know how thin these walls are. So, if you want to go from hearing horror movie characters’ scream to hearing your mother’s screams, by all means, stay.”

“For the love of… I just wish you’d stop talking now.”

My parents’ favorite pastime was making me as uncomfortable as possible. They were ridiculously good at it, too. They always got such pleasure from my pain.

Dad couldn’t stop himself from teasing me more. “If you want, you can just get earplugs while we are—”

I leaped up from my bed and shouted. “Okay! Okay! You win. I’m going to the party with Shay.”

They smiled, pleased.

“Though I do think it’s rude that you use sex talk to make me uncomfortable enough to get your way.”

“Oh honey.” Mom smiled and rested her head on Dad’s shoulder as he tightened his arms around her. They were so grossly in love. “The best part of parenthood is making your teenager uncomfortable. Remember that.”

“I’ll keep it in my back pocket. I’ll be back by ten, so wrap it up by then.”

“Okay, but make your curfew midnight for tonight! You’re young! Now go, be free! Be wild!” Dad shouted. “And keep an eye on Shay, will you?”

“Will do.”

“Oh, and do you want some condoms?” Mom asked, making me cringe. She loved every second of it.

“No, Mother Dearest. I’m good.”





“Are you good?” Shay asked, looking into her handheld mirror and applying her tenth coat of lip gloss as we stood on the front porch of some random kid’s house. My cousin Shay was beautiful. She was the kind of beautiful that didn’t seem fair for a high schooler, and she’d been that way her whole life. My aunt Camila was a gorgeous Hispanic woman, and Shay took after her more than she did my uncle Kurt, which was a blessing, since Kurt was an asshole. The less connection Shay had with her father, the better, really.

But man, had she gotten her mother’s looks. I was sure the day Shay had been born, she’d rolled out on a red carpet with paparazzi asking her what she was wearing, and I could just see her replying, “Onesie by JC Penney.”

Her hair was Snow White–black, and her eyes were deep chocolate with lashes every girl dreamed of. She had curves in places where I had flat tires, but the best thing about Shay was that she didn’t rely on her beauty. She was one of the most down-to-earth and funniest people you’d ever meet. Plus, she was all about girl power thanks to her piece-of-crap father.

We didn’t really talk about Kurt a lot since Shay’s parents had gone their separate ways, and I thought it was best that way. Whenever Shay used to mention her father, she’d just call him the shitty shithead who shit on her and her mother’s lives.

Dad still called Kurt his brother, though he wasn’t proud to do it. It was just like how Mufasa still claimed Scar, even though Mufasa knew his brother was an evil prick.

Though, maybe things would’ve been different if Mufasa had blacklisted Scar.

Hakuna matata, I suppose.

Shay didn’t call herself a man-hater, but she did tag herself as a woman-lover.

I liked that about her, because way too many girls our age despised one another in order to get guys to like them. What a waste of energy. It truly felt as if high school had made them completely forget all of their Spice Girls training from elementary school.

Shay stood tall in her high heels, and boy, could she wear high heels.

My calves hurt at the thought of even trying them on.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I replied, looking down at my yellow cardigan with dragonflies Mom made me. Beneath it was an old-school Metallica T-shirt that I stole from my dad because it hadn’t fit over his gut since 1988. My favorite ripped blue jeans and yellow Chucks completed the outfit.

My cocoa-colored hair was brushed back in a ponytail, and the closest thing to makeup on my face were lingering microscopic remnants of the bar soap I’d used to wash it that morning. At least my braces were nice and shiny.

I should’ve worn a push-up bra. Not that it would’ve helped any. Push-up bras only really worked if there was something to actually push up.

My handwoven crossbody bag—also made by my mom—was tossed over my shoulder, and I was already counting down the hours until the party would be over.

“It’s pretty much just guys from the basketball team and their friends,” Shay commented, as if that would make a difference in my mind about the party I was about to hate.