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I start to head out of the house and realize that, on my mission to the kitchen, I failed to notice the cardboard boxes lining one wall in the living room.

“What’s with all these?”

Henry whips around to stare at the Tetris of boxes, then turns back to me. “I’m shipping stuff back to New York.” He gives a single shake of his head, then tilts his chin toward me. “The latkes are for the reunion?”

I nod.

“In that case, I might have to go after all.”

I roll my eyes, saluting him with the bottle of oil. “Hope I don’t see you there.”

As I stomp out of Henry’s house, I see a man next door, wheeling my beloved purple suitcase back to his car. I chase after him. I can barely believe that Henry made me so distracted I almost missed this delivery. I thank the driver profusely and head back inside, ecstatic to finally be reunited with a piece of myself and my real life.

I remain focused and only burn myself twice while frying the latkes.

Then I take a long shower and prepare myself for the night.

I would have been completely fine never seeing the bulk of my classmates ever again. If not for Frankie, I would probably be able to accomplish that. I’d been doing a great job of avoiding them for this long, with my rare trips home and refusal to follow through on the occasional “OMG let’s get drinks!” from someone who never said two words to me back then. I’m doing this entirely for Frankie, and she knows it.

After spending the last two days feeling gross and inferior, I can’t wait to feel like myself. I put on makeup, which I absolutely never wore in high school but have since figured out. Learning how to steadily apply liquid eyeliner on the train has been an accomplishment that made me feel like a true New Yorker. I select the oversized teal sweater that Frankie told me to bring, the jeans I know hug all the right places, and, double-checking that I won’t be encountering ice, black heeled boots. I confirm in the mirror that my curls are bouncy and defined now that I’ve finally learned what to do with them, instead of the frizzy halo of my youth. I’m not always confident, but I know I look great tonight.

As I lock up the house, juggling the tray of latkes in my arms, Henry appears on his own porch. “Look who’s out of her fourth-grade gym shorts,” he calls.

I roll my eyes. He’s pulling a scarf around his neck, looking like a poster for J.Crew.

“No thanks to you. I almost missed the drop-off while you were quizzing me on the history of my people.”

He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t say anything. I can’t believe that for once, he’s actually quiet. He almost looks lost in thought.

“Do you want to share a car?” he suggests for the second time this week. “We’re going to the same place.”

I shake my head. It’s the last thing I want.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Right,” he says, some of the animosity gone from his tone.

I almost feel bad, but the sentiment is fleeting. “Frankie is picking me up. There’s no space for you in her car. Sorry!”

As if she heard my siren call to hurry the fuck up and get me out of this awkward conversation, Frankie pulls up in her red convertible.

I’m almost relieved that Henry can see I wasn’t lying—that there really was no space for him. As I open the passenger seat and slip in, I swear I hear him muttering, “Who has a fucking convertible in Illinois?”

“Wow. Twenty-six really agrees with Henry Cole, huh” are the first words out of my best friend’s crimson-stained lips when I get in the car. Thank God I slammed the door closed quickly behind me so he didn’t hear that.

I disregard her statement and throw my arms around her. “I missed you, Frankie Marie, but kindly shut the fuck up,” I tell her lovingly.

“Oh my God,” Frankie says, nudging the tray of latkes, then throwing the car into drive, “my mouth is already watering. I am ready.”

Chapter 6

Frankie and I have been best friends since fourth grade, when she arrived at Laketon and I was assigned to be her new student buddy. We haven’t seen each other in person in about two years, which is why it was all the more necessary for me to see her tonight, before she ships off to spend Christmas on a cruise to Alaska with her parents and brother.

“They said the cruise is all-inclusive—and all you can drink,” she informs me. “So I figured I’d pace myself tonight. You know I don’t usually drink much anyway, but if I’m trapped on a ship with my family, I’m going to need it. Plus, I’m on the clock.”

Technically true. Frankie is, in fact, being paid by the alumni committee for her event planning services. I think they are gunning for more alcohol-fueled donations so they can build a new science center. Otherwise, there’s no way they would be putting any effort into gouging our pockets when it’s not even a reunion year for us. We’re far enough out from eighteen that we might be mildly successful, but most of us don’t have families yet. We are perfect targets. These wintertime reunion drinks happen every year, but as far as I’ve heard, they’ve never gone all out like this. Not that I would know from personal experience, having managed to avoid the last eight of these nostalgia-filled shit shows. Before I agreed to attend, I’d asked Frankie why they even do these reunions every year. Shouldn’t they space them out, give us time to miss each other at least? But she just laughed and replied, “You’ve never been, so how would you know?”

“I missed you so much,” I say, squeezing my best friend’s hand. We text constantly, and we try to do long phone catch-up sessions or FaceTimes at least once a month, but it’s nothing compared to the feeling of sitting next to her as we pass through our hometown. Frankie is driving the exact route I used to take every day to school. It’s almost eerie how things still look the same, until we pull up to a stoplight at the strip mall where we used to walk for off-campus lunches, which has been entirely redone, leaving no remnants of the tiny Chinese restaurant with the $7.99 lunch specials we loved so very much.

“Capitalism,” Frankie mutters.