“Yep,” I answer.
“Customers.”
Dammit. I manage not to say that aloud, but I do, however, spin around on my stool too fast and bang my skinned-up knee —which still hasn’t completely healed—and yelp. ?e pain helps to break whatever crazy hoodoo spell Porter’s got over me. Until something warm touches my hand.
I glance down. Porter’s trying to hand me a folded-up tissue. My knee’s bleeding again. I mutter, “?anks,” and press it against the newly opened scab while juggling the ticket window one-handed.
“You going to the bon re tonight?” Porter says. He’s talking to Grace, not me.
“Yep. I’m taking Bailey, if she doesn’t lose her leg before the end of our shift. You never know in the Hotbox. It’s a war zone in here. Better get out while you can.”
“I’m getting, I’m getting,” he says, pretending to be grumpy. Do I detect a jovial tone in his voice? Is he happy I’m going to the bon re, or is that just my imagination? “Guess I’ll see you both tonight, unless someone needs an ambulance rst.”
• • •
Grace shows up at my house promptly at eight. I’ve barely had enough time to change out of my work clothes into what I’m assuming is appropriate for a bon re party on the beach, which for me means I’m dressed like Annette Funicello in one of the Beach Party movies from the 1960s: ruched red-and-white polka-dot top that ts me like a glove, scalloped white shorts, wedge espadrilles. When Grace sees what I’m wearing, she looks me over and says, “Cutest thing I’ve ever seen, truly, but you’re going to freeze to death and then fall and break your neck. Ditch the shoes and nd a proper jacket.”
Crud. I trade the espadrilles for red sneakers. Meanwhile, my dad has fallen hard for Grace’s charm and is trying to convince her to stay awhile and order pizza, play a game of ?e Settlers of Catan. She has no idea what that is, and he’s doing a terrible job explaining. He’s a long-winded talker when he’s excited about stuff he likes, and I need to get us out the door, but now he’s breaking out the ancient board game box. God help us all.
“Dad,” I nally say. “We’re meeting Grace’s friends. No time for sheep trading.”
He raises both hands in surrender. “Understood. You girls have fun. But, Grace, please bring her home at midnight. ?at’s her curfew.”
“It is?” I ask. We’ve never discussed such a thing.
“Does that work for you?” he asks. Now he’s unsure too.
“Well, it doesn’t work for me, Mr. Rydell,” Grace says, “because that’s my curfew too. So I’ll have her home by a quarter of, because it takes me fteen minutes to drive to my house from here. How’s that, yeah?”
“Perfect!” Dad says, beaming. He’s made the right parenting choice that syncs up with the choices of other normal parents. Life is good. And it’s good for me, too, because now I can sneak out of here like some horrible juvenile delinquent daughter and go do something he wouldn’t want me to do, while I’ve lied and told him we’re going to the boardwalk. Before I lose my nerve, I grab a hoodie, tell him good-bye, and rush Grace out the door.
Grace drives a cute two-seater with a sunroof. All the way to the beach, she tries to give me the lowdown on who will be there and what the party could be like, but I’m still unprepared. ?e setting sun is turning the sky magenta as we pull off the road, well north of the cove, and park with a hundred other cars every which way alongside the highway, half in the scrabbly sand. Rocky cliffs rise up from the ocean, turning into mountainous coastal foothills in the distance. And the surf slams so hard here, it almost sounds like ominous music—only, there’s that, too, pumped in from someone’s car speakers. It echoes around a crescent-shaped bowl of jagged rock, a couple hundred yards or so below the road. And inside this crescent is a hollow sandy pit, where several dozen teens are congregated around a massive bon re that throws wildly ickering light around the craggy walls.
?e Bone Garden.
Grace and I make the downhill trek on a well-worn path through coastal grass. As we do, we’re greeted by a motley array of scent and sound. Roasted marshmallows and skunky beer. Laughing and shouting and roughhousing. A boy crying in the shadows and another boy telling him he’s sorry and please don’t leave. Me too, dude, I think, because I’m having the same panic attack.
“Too late now,” Grace says, sensing my need to ee. “It’s a long walk back to civilization, anyway.”
Like this calms me down?
Before I know it, we’re leveling out, and she’s seeing people she knows. And Grace knows everyone. She’s hugging necks and waving at people. If there were any babies out here, she’d probably be kissing them. She’s a natural-born politician, this girl. And she’s introducing me to so many people, I can’t keep up. Casey is a cheerleader. Sharonda is president of drama club. Ezgar was in juvie, but it wasn’t his fault (I’m not sure what, but it wasn’t). Anya is dating Casey, but no one’s supposed to know that. And in the middle of all this, here’s a surfer, there’s a surfer, everywhere there’s a surfer. Oh, a few skaters and bikers. One paddleboarder, because “that’s where it’s at,” apparently.
?ere are just so many people. Most of them don’t seem to be doing anything wrong, so as we wind through the crowd, I feel a smidge less guilty about lying to my dad tonight. Sure, I see a few people drinking beer and smoking, and I smell the same sweet scent that clings to Pangborn’s clothes, so someone’s passing around weed. But for such a big group, nothing crazy is going down. I mean, no sign of Davy and his bunch so far,
ngers crossed. No sign of anyone else, either …
At some point during all this meeting and greeting, I lose Grace. I don’t even know when it happens. One minute I’m listening to a confusing story about a fender bender involving an ice cream truck and an electrical pole, and the next thing I know, I’m surrounded by people whose names I only half remember. I try not to panic. I just quietly slip away and pretend like I know where I’m going while I search for Grace’s cropped hair, turning on my dazzling Artful Dodger charm: look casual and bored, but not too bored. Keep moving. ?at’s the key to no one taking pity on you, the strange new girl. Because there are certain gregarious types who always will try to take you under their wing—the drama kids, for sure—and I can spot them circling like vultures. Must avoid.
But there’s only so much pretend mingling you can do before people realize that you’re just walking around doing nothing— not talking to anyone, not lining up at the keg that’s sticking out from a pit in the sand, from which people are constantly pumping red plastic cups of nasty-smelling beer. So I nally make myself scarce and nd an empty spot on a piece of driftwood in the shadows. ?e seating situation is a mishmash of rusting lawn chairs, wooden crates, at rocks, and a couple of ratty blankets. It looks more haphazard than organized, like maybe some of this stuff just washed up on the beach earlier in the day, and I’m regretting I wore white shorts. It’s probably cleaner sitting in the sand.
“Are you: (A) mad, (B) sad, or (C) lost?”
My stomach ips several times in quick succession.
Porter, or the silhouette of Porter, because he’s standing in front of the bon re, hands in the pockets of his jeans.
“C, lost,” I tell him. “I had no idea Grace was so popular. She’s also compact, so it’s possible she’s in the middle of one of these groups and I just don’t see her. I was going to give her ve more minutes to surface before I texted.” I wasn’t really, but I didn’t want him to think I was going to sit here for hours alone.
