“No, it’s fine.” I stand up and give her a hug, and the smile returns to her face. I nod toward the white plastic chair next to mine. “You wanna hang out?”
“Yeah. Cool.” She sits and kicks her feet up on the wooden railing of the deck. Lindsay looks like a stereotypical lake girl… deeply tanned skin, long hair down the middle of her back that looks like she just spent a day at the beach, and shorts that look like she lives in them. There’s a light outline in the denim where her phone is stuck into her pocket.
We sit and talk about my senior year and her first year of college. I tell her about going to Oakwood in the fall, and she tells me about the sorority she pledged. How she’s moving into the house in the fall. She’s soft and sweet, and the longer we talk, the harder it is to think of a single thing that could make Sidney dislike her. But when she leaves—giving me another hug before she hops off of the deck, and promising to see me around—Sidney is most definitely watching her walk away. I want to ask her what the deal is, but we aren’t those people. We aren’t friends.
DAY 6
Sidney
After dinner Friday night I immediately launch into get-ready mode. In the shower, I linger longer than I do in the mornings, letting the water run hot and relax me. I scrub at my knees and elbows, until they’re red from the friction and not Kool-Aid. I mentally run through my wardrobe as I feel my muscles go soft and limp. Caleb has already seen my hair in all of its wild, summer glory, so I don’t bother straightening it. But I do put three different products in it, and silently applaud myself for giving it plenty of time to air-dry into smooth, shiny curls. It’s possible I won’t be at the party long enough for my hair to rebel. Fingers crossed.
In movies there’s always a long montage of a girl putting on outfit after outfit, flinging things onto the floor and frantically pulling items off of hangers before finding the perfect outfit. That’s what I look like, except for that last part. I never find the perfect outfit, but I settle on a short white skirt with a rough hem and a sheer, soft pink shirt that flutters just above my waist. It’s the most flattering outfit I own—it shows off my long, toned legs and softens my broad shoulders. The dip of the neckline makes my chest look like there’s more there.
But it’s dressier than I’d like. Probably too dressy for drinking with people like Kara or Lindsay. Kara, who is alwayscasual—she’s T-shirts and shorts and nondescript tank tops. And Lindsay, who is Lindsay. There’s a chance I stick out like the out-of-place tourist that I am. Which is basically my personal nightmare.
Maybe it only feels dressy because I’ve been living in my swimsuit for a week straight now. That can definitely warp your sense of style. When I get home in August it usually feels weird to wear clothes every day. Pants are like a straightjacket for my legs. I wonder if I should put a swimsuit on under my outfit, but tell myself that Kara would have warned me if I should have. Most locals don’t live on the water, so it’s more likely we’ll be in a house or a backyard than on the lake.
When I walk into the kitchen, Mom is sitting at the table running her little metal scoring wheel across a piece of red glass. During the year she teaches middle school English, but in the summer she makes stained glass pieces to sell at craft shows and online. She tries to get as much work done in the evening or sitting outside as possible, so she can enjoy the days on the lake. Days on the lake that she likes to remind us are partially funded by her summer glass business. There’s a crack of glass just as I pass through the dining room into the kitchen.
“Are you and Ash going to the same place?” Mom asks. She doesn’t saypartybecause I didn’t say it. I told her I was going to hang out with Kara and some of her friends, which is the truth. She can fill in the blanks, but I’m not voluntarily serving up motherly anxiety on a silver platter for her. I already know where this line of questioning is going, though.
“He’ll probably want to stay longer than me,” I answer, trying to route her brain away from gas savings. “And I’m not drinking.”
“But what if Ash needs a ride home?” She’s using her mom-voice now. “I’d feel better about it if you rode together, just in case.”
“Mom… in a few months I’m going to be going to parties and you won’t even know it. Asher, too.”
“Maybe you can drive each other to those parties, too?” she says in a teasing tone.
“Maybe not,” I say, my level of disgust matching her tease.
“For now, Idoknow about it, and it would make me feel better if you’d just—”
“Fine.” I give in, because there’s no winning with her. Another five minutes, and she’d be googling drunk driving statistics and making me watch some video narrated by a sobbing mother who wishes she could see her daughter just one more time. My mom has a knack for finding that stuff in record time. I’m not entirely sure she doesn’t have it sitting on her computer and phone in little folders neatly labeled with each cautionary activity.DRUNK DRIVING, DRUGS, SEX.When I turned sixteen there was a whole texting-while-driving marathon presented to me, and to this day I barely even text when I’m apassenger.I’m thoroughly traumatized. She should teach classes, because she has this whole mom thing down.
With a quick kiss on my head she walks past me, toward her bedroom. “You look nice.”
“Thanks.” Her words help unwind the little ball of tension still spooled in my stomach, but also, she’s my mom, so it hardly counts. She’s genetically programmed to love me and think I’m beautiful.
I text Asher to let him know we’re riding together and tell him I’ll be ready in five minutes. The party starts in fifteen. I’ve had Asher’s number for years, but I’m not sure I’ve ever used it before. I’ve only seen it on my screen once. An obvious one-ring pocket dial earlier this year.
Alone in the kitchen, I lean against the counter, nervously eating a trail bar. I pull at the hem of my skirt and consider for the nine hundredth time if I’m overdressed. Or underdressed. Either way, I’m 100 percent positive I’m overthinking it, and there’s zero chance I’m going to stop until I get there. I tip my head back, my neck hanging loose, and take a deep breath.
The screen door slams and my head snaps down. Asher is in the doorway, in the same shorts he was in earlier, and a dark graySWIMMERS DO IT BETTERT-shirt that looks so soft I’d want to touch it, if it wasn’t on Asher.Casual.The word buzzes over his head like an old neon sign. He looks so much more casual than me. Even more casual than what he usually wears. Is hetryingto torture me?
He looks at me a second too long, and I take another quick glance at my white skirt and pink gossamer shirt before pushing off of the counter. “I’m going to change really quick.” I’m about to cross into the living room when Asher grabs my wrist. Something sparks across my skin, reminding me of his hand on my foot, my leg. I pull my arm free to make it stop.
“You look—fine.”Fine.He looks pained to have said the word. It hurts worse to hear it.
“A ringing endorsement,” I say. I’m not sure what I expected from him, butfinedoesn’t make me feel great about my go-to outfit. Have I lookedfineevery time I’ve gone outthinkingI was absolutely killing it? Even though it’s Asher—who lives to torment me—it still leaves a little dent in my self-confidence.
He shoves his hands down into the pockets of his shorts. “I wouldn’t lie—I have to walk in with you.”
“And I have to walk in withyou,” I say, glancing down at his T-shirt and raising my brows dramatically.
“Oh, come on, this is hilarious.” He looks down at the shirt again, as if he forgot what was there. “And think how good you’ll look next tothis.” He waves a hand across his shirt, top to bottom.
That makes me smile against my will.Stupid, traitorous smile.I wish he really did look bad; that he wasn’t the kind of guy who looks good in everything.
