I refuse to dignify that with a response and dig my teeth into another pod to scrape its insides.
“Ah. If it helps, it was a pretty last-minute decision, from what I gather. Declan didn’t even enlist my help. Ionly found out today, when he told me to order flowers to his house to welcome her home from her first day.”
I am slightly mollified by this, but still irritated overall. “Can I go to Shannon’s for dinner?”
She sighs. “It’s your first day of senior year, Larotchka. Possibly your last first day of school ever while living at home. Can you please humor your mother and tell her about it over frozen pizza?”
Now I feel like an asshole. It’s not my mother’s fault Jasmine is a jerk. “What kind of toppings do we have?”
“Only half a jar of olives, but they’ll be delicious because they were added with love.” She kisses the top of my head. “Go do your homework and I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
I go to my room, but I don’t start my homework. Instead, I head into my closet and stand on the lowest shelf to reach the scrapbook hiding on the highest one. Shannon would laugh her ass off if she knew I’d made something so sentimental. For that matter, so would Jasmine. But I’m relieved to have it, to have evidence this summer was real and not some wild delusion.
And there they are: ticket stubs from the movie theater in Kill Devil Hills, the Elizabethan Gardens, the Lost Colony show, and the ferry to Knotts Island. Photographs taken hugging lighthouses and pretending to fly in front of the Wright Brothers memorial. Papers from ice-cream cone wrappings, smooth shells from the beach, a joker from a well-used deck of cards, and even a cherry stem Jasmine tied into a knot with her tongue ata house party. There’s no shortage of memories in these pages.
Truth is, I don’t need snapshots or wrappers or stubs to remember this summer, despite some of it being hazy even while it was happening. Hell, even though I came back from that first party drunk as balls, I still remember every minute through at least the first three shots.
That was when I knew the summer might not suck.
THEN
I don’t know what to wear to Jasmine’s friend’s party, not because I don’t know how to dress, but because my summer nights were gonna consist of being a slug on the couch and binge-watching Netflix with my mom. I’d packed tons of bathing suits, shorts, and tanks, but for nighttime, all I have are a couple pairs of jeans and some cozy sleep pants in case I wanted to sit out near the water during chillier hours. Party clothes hadn’t entered the equation.
Boring jeans and a polka dot tank top will have to do. Shannon would cringe if she saw me wearing flip-flops to a party, but Shannon is in Paris wearing heels and little scarves around her neck, so.
With nothing else to do, I’m ready embarrassingly on time, and, afraid to look overeager, I trap myself in my room, texting with Kiki and watching stupid YouTube videos. Finally, I hear movement outside, followed by “Tinkerbell, where are you?” hollered like a banshee.
I grab my bag and jolt off my bed to meet Jasmine, who looks a hundred times more stylish in a white tank top and pink capris, a row of bangles jangling on her arm. White is a color I avoid until we’re at least two weeks into summer, but it pops enviably against Jasmine’s naturally tan skin and dark, glossy hair.
I wait for a once-over, part of the pre-party ritual with Shannon, Gia, and Kiki, but all Jasmine says is, “Ready?”
I nod. It isn’t until we’re getting into her car that I ask, “Tinkerbell?”
“Tiny, blond, and could probably fit in my pocket. Plus, I still haven’t perfected your mom’s ‘Larotchka.’”
I burst out laughing at her attempt at the wide-open A and the Russian roll of the R. For the most part, my mom’s accent is only lightly traceable; she’s been in the US since college. But when she says my nickname, it comes out in full force, and it’s one of my favorite sounds in the world. It’s weird to have someone so comfortably pick it up in a single day. Clearly, Jasmine has some powers of observation.
She grins and we hop in her Jeep, roll the windows all the way down, and turn the music all the way up. It’s a band I’ve never heard before, all angry vocals and girlish whispers curling into screams, and it feels like writing my name in the sky with a stub of red lipstick. The salt air and the stilted houses are so wholly un–New York, not at all what I’d expected to experience this summer, and though none of it was my choice and all of it made me angry, tonight it’s a kind of freedom.
I don’t check Shannon’s Instagram once. Or even Chase’s.
The party house isn’t as impressive as the Killarys’, but it’s decked out by someone who seriously knows how to host. We go right around to the beach, where flames from a fire pit lick the sky, dance music fills the air, and coolers of ice, soda, and beer dot the grass. There’s a table full of little dishes of shrimp cocktail and crackers with speckled, cheesy spreads, and though every single chaise and beach chair in the entire Outer Banks seem to be in this one yard, every single one has a butt in it—in some cases, two butts attached to intertwined couples.
“Whose house is this?” I ask as we pick our way over to the drinks and I dutifully take a can of Diet Dr Pepper in adherence to my designated driver promise.
“Carter Thomas,” she says, plucking the can from my hand and pressing a bottle of Corona into it instead. “I’ve thought about it and have come to the conclusion that making you DD on the night of your very first OBX party is too cruel, sojust this once, I got it.” She cracks open the can and takes a long, defiant drink, as if that ends the matter. And I suppose it does, because next thing I know I’m sipping from my beer and Jasmine is introducing me around.
It takes a while to find Carter, but until we do, I meet Owen, a red-faced white kid with a shock of carrot-colored hair and an easygoing, slightly gap-toothed smile; Keisha, Carter’s cousin, whose dark skin shimmers with coconut-scented body glitter, a pleasant smell I pick up when she throws her arms around me in a warm hug that envelops me in her Minecraft T-shirt; Brea, who’s maybewhite or maybe Latina or maybe both and has long blond braids that whip in the wind and the kind of laugh that occasionally devolves into snorting, a.k.a. the best kind of laugh; and Derek, who’s hot, East Asian, and would definitely be an interesting summer prospect if he weren’t immediately joined by Jack, a dead ringer for Dax Shepard, who intertwines his fingers with Derek’s and doesn’t let go the entire night.
The funny thing about being in the Outer Banks only for the summer is that they’reallonly in the Outer Banks for the summer. The rest of the year they’re scattered throughout the mid-Atlantic and the South, but they’ve all been coming here summer after summer since they were in swimmy diapers. It’s clear this party is the traditional catch-up night, when Keisha tells everyone about her first year at Georgetown and Brea shares the latest about her hippie mother and Jack and Derek (Jerek?) show everyone pictures from their junior prom. On the one hand, I’m the obvious outsider. On the other hand, it’s a perfect opportunity to slide right into the group—made distinctly easier when Owen brings us a platter of Jell-O shots.
“So, where are you from, new summer girl?” he asks as I help myself to a cup of cherry.
“New York. I live in a suburb outside the city.”
He tosses back a cup of bright green. “And you’re staying with Jas? How do you two know each other?”
An inevitable question, but ugh. It sounds so sad to say “We’re staying in her house like indentured servants because my mom is her dad’s secretary.” I’m not ashamed of my mom’s job or the fact that we don’t havea lot of money, but I don’t need people here treating me like I’m the hired help or whatever.
