“There’s this party tonight, out in the woods. And Blair andher friends are giving me a ride.”
Now that I’m almost eighteen, I don’t have to ask their permission to go out. But I do have to be home by midnight.
Mom stirs the pot of potatoes, thwacks the side of it with a wooden spoon. “Well,” she starts, running her eyes up and down me, “you look like a whore. All that makeup on.”
“Abigail, please!” Pa barks at her. “She’s had a hard enough time today already.”
Mom rolls her eyes. But she doesn’t argue with Pa. That never happens.
Julia’s bouncing baby Molly on her knee, fingers twined through Molly’s hair, but she’s listening, pressing her lips together like she’s saying,I better keep my trap shut; I might say something funny, something mean.
“Julia, wanna come with me?” I ask. Of course I don’t want her to. Not after she was so nasty to me earlier. And if I’m being honest, she always makes things awkward because she basically has no social skills—except around adults, that is. I ask only to make a good show in front of Mom and Pa. Plus, what if shecouldactually meet a guy? I’ve never seen Denny hanging around this crew, but what if there’s someone else? It would be such a massive relief.
Julia tsk-tsks. “Um, no thanks. I’ll pass.”
“Who is this Blair girl?” Pa asks warmly.
“Blair Chambers. She’s only, like, the most popular girl in school.” My face flushes from boasting. But I wanna give it back to Mom, to Julia. And I know Pa will like hearing this. He likesit when I make new friends.
“That’s good, honey,” Pa says, then winks at me. “Just be careful out there, okay?”
“Always.” I wink back. “I’m just gonna wait outside—”
“You arenot,” Mom says. “I wanna meet this girl. You ashamed of us or something?”
Um, yes. I’m ashamed of Mom in her dowdy dress, looking like some housemaid. And if I’m honest, I’m embarrassed of our simple home. A cabin with one big open room downstairs, Mom and Pa’s bedroom down a shallow hall. My and Julia’s loft upstairs, reachable by a ladder. Baby Molly’s crib in the corner, five steps from the kitchen table.
“’Course not. Just nervous,” I lie, “and wanted to go sit out on the porch in the rocker.”
Blair’s headlights shine through the window. My stomach feels like a fist is squeezing it. I hear her car door open, then slam shut. Then her feet drum the steps up to our porch. She knocks.
I make sure I’m the one to answer. “Heeey! Thanks for giving me a lift.”
“Of course!” She smells like heaven—she’s wearing real perfume, not that crap Mom makes—and her blond hair has so much Aqua Net in it, it practically glistens. “Can I come in? Jesus, what happened to your leg?”
“Horse accident. Tell you about it later.” I step aside, let her through. “Everyone, this is Blair! Blair, this is my mom and dad, my sister Julia, and my baby sister, Molly.”
“Oh my god, she’s socute!” Blair practically sings, and Irealize she’s tipsy. I can smell the alcohol on her breath. “And this place, it’s so…” Her bloodshot blue eyes scan the room as she tries to find the right word… “Well, it’ssocute, too!”
Julia gives her a weak half wave, but Pa steps forward, shakes her hand. “Mr. Swift. Ethan. Pleasure to meet you.” He beams at her.
Blair beams back, and I know what she’s thinking:He’s cute, too.
Everyonealwayshas the hots for Pa. Doesn’t hurt that he looks ten years younger than he actually is.
Mom wipes her hands on her apron. “And I’m Mrs. Swift. Please, call meAbigail.” Mom’s voice is bright, cheery. Like she’s about to present us with a tray of freshly baked cookies. Like she wasn’t just cutting me down two seconds ago.
She can turn on the charm when she needs to.
But I see her looking at Blair, judging her. Mom hates anything that smacks of material wealth. Or, at least, outwardly showing it.
I loop my arm through Blair’s, guide her out the door. “Bye!” I say, trying to sound to Blair as if my family annoys me, trying to sound cool. When we’re on the porch, I even close the door harder than normal, a middle finger to Mom.
17
Jackson
Jackson picks at the label of his icy Michelob, wads the gummy paper into a tight ball. A compulsive habit of his. Some folks smoke, while Jackson fidgets with paper: napkins, beer-bottle labels, receipts.
