Afterparty(26)

I am staring at this bucket list of bad high school behavior, starting with baby steps and working up to an assortment of sex acts in settings other than a bed.

“Complete joke,” Siobhan says. “Look at the easy column. Check mark for passing a joint. You don’t even have to take a hit.”

“I’m supposed to find Ecstasy, is that what this x is supposed to be?”

We head down the massive hallway into a rec room where maybe thirty kids are sprawled on big, low couches. A couple of kids are playing pool in slow motion.

The weird thing is, I knew Siobhan partied. My phone is full of little video reminders of how much fun she was having and I wasn’t. But her in Roy Warner’s rec room is not what I’d visualized. Not thirty glazed-over kids passing a joint around, too far gone to even hook up effectively.

Siobhan leaves me sitting on the arm of a sofa and disappears into a knot of kids who might or might not be dancing. She comes back with a red cup in one hand and a joint in the other. She is completely gleeful.

“Worst party ever. Even if you get très wasted and throw up on one of these kids, tant pis! You could get your freak on here, and no one would look up.”

“I don’t have a freak to get on. Can we go home now?”

I wait thirty minutes with a frozen smile, holding a red cup of warm beer. Occasionally, I pass a joint to the guy next to me. In slow motion, he tries to nuzzle the left side of my face. I flick him away. It doesn’t even seem sexual. He just seems to have an unnatural interest in the taste of human skin. I wait until he tries to stick his tongue in my ear, not getting a single check mark except for passing the joint.

Sib says, “All right. This one sucks. I just wanted to ease you into it, you know, kind of gradually.”

“Thanks anyway.”

“It’s going to work, all right?” Sib says. “We have a pact.”

“You want to share my cab?”

She says, “I’m giving it another hour. It can’t get worse.”

I make the taxi drop me off at the Chateau and I climb the hill to home. Everything happens in reverse: the barking dogs, the stalking cats, the security lights triggered by me walking past, Mutt and Jeff going doggie-berserk.

My house is dark and quiet, with no sign of the FBI or a canine search-and-rescue team or the entire juvenile division of the LAPD camped out in front. I push the window open, quietly, quietly, trying not to squash any more impatiens blooms than absolutely necessary to climb back into my room.

I strip down as fast as I can, and put on the big tee I left under one of the many pillows lined up in the shape of me under the covers. When I pull out my phone to recharge it, Megan (who, when I told her the plan, was surprisingly entranced) is texting.

Megan: Are you having fun yet?

Me: Why are you up?

Megan: Are you?

Me: Parties suck. You have no idea how not fun. So not worth it.

Me: Bunch of stoners too wasted to move.

Megan: Cheer up. It can only get better.

Maybe.

And it was so easy. I’m not even close to being in extra trouble.

Then there’s Siobhan’s text: Next week. On Mulholland.

The time stamp says 3:00 a.m.

Five hours later, I text back: Maybe.

Siobhan: What took u so long?





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


I STUDY ALL DAY SUNDAY and I am completely good.

But inside the good girl, sitting at the desk poring over excessively detailed history notes, is the kernel of a slightly different girl. The thing is, I can’t tell if the different girl is the bold fairy-tale princess who sneaks out and dances all night in diamond shoes (all right, didn’t dance, sat in a room full of comatose stoners), or if she’s Little Red Riding Hood, recklessly skipping through the woods (okay, Beverly Hills) just before the wolf eats her.

I creep down the hall with the pot-scented laundry basket. I dump the entire contents of a bottle of Febreze into the wash with everything I wore to Roy’s in case my clothes reek. When the contraband phone vibrates with a text message, I dive back into my room.

Siobhan: Say yes.

Me: Busy being grounded.

Siobhan: Unground yourself. U know you want to. Only this time we have to pregame together.

Me:????

Siobhan: Don’t panic. Not substances, hair. Nails. We’ll pick out your outfit.

Siobhan: Not that same jacket.

Me: Jacket just fell apart. I put it in the washer.

Siobhan: Come on. I’ll put pink streaks in your hair.

So, all right, I want pink streaks.

I study some more. I outline two chapters of the truly awful AP European History book and email the fruits of my industrious guiltfest to Dylan.

My dad is eating on the patio. Mutt and Jeff are circling the table, having figured out that we have better food at our house than they get at their house.

I say, “May I come outside?”

My dad pulls out the other chair. I am actually choked up. It would probably be better if I’d felt some shred of guilt last night so I wouldn’t be hit with it so hard right now.

My dad is playing an ancient, scratchy recording of guys from Nova Scotia singing sad, monotonous folk songs. I do not complain. Instead, I get him more coffee.

I plow through the most incomprehensible unit of French poetry I’ve ever seen, which is pretty damned incomprehensible given that I speak French. I take even more notes. For hours. I think, How reckless can I be, sitting at my desk making insanely perfect notes?