“Of course I do,” Doug says. He thinks that we think he’s confident because he always wears mismatched socks with weird things like avocados on them, but socks only tell you one thing about a person: They have feet.
“Come give us a demo,” Helga says to Doug, “if you’re so certain you know what you’re doing.”
“I can’t just demo on the air. That’d look stupid.”
“Here,” Craig says, opening the snack closet next to the spare fridge and tossing him a pack of hot dog rolls. “Try with this.”
The room erupts with laughter as Doug takes one out. “Go on,” Helga encourages him. “Let’s see how it’s done.”
“Do it, do it, do it,” Abigail chants, and the room follows her lead.
“I obviously know how to eat a girl out,” Doug says, his face flushing as he stares down the hot dog roll. It’s quite the face-off. Seventeen-year-old boy versus a hunk of white bread.
“Gimme it,” Helga says finally, taking the roll out of Doug’s hands and sitting cross-legged in the middle of the circle. Everyone leans closer to her; even their cups and beer bottles are drawn toward her. “It goes something like this.”
All the breathing in the room stops as Helga holds the hot dog roll up. It’s a pretty generic one as far as cookout supplies go—spongy white on the bottom and cooked a little darker on top, where the bread parts and the meat of the situation lies. “Kiss it first,” she says, planting her lips on the roll. “Then lick it.” Her tongue is a pretty pink as it traces what could be any number of designs on the bread. “If you get confused, go through the alphabet or spell your favorite words. Like this, right there, keep going.”
At least two guys in the circle have to fiddle with their jeans. One gives up and puts his beer over his crotch and goes to the bathroom. “Did she seriously just start making out with a piece of food?” Hilary whispers.
“Yep,” I breathe, but the thing is, I don’t think there’s a single person in the room who wouldn’t trade places with that hot dog roll.
“Girls, ask for what you want,” Helga says, taking a bow and throwing the soggy hot dog roll in the trash. “And, guys, act like you were raised halfway decently and offer, ’cause hookups are for both people, not just little boys in their cars dreaming of some internet porn they don’t even pay for.”
Everyone laughs, and I’m pretty sure at least all the sex parts in the room are turned on. Why else would we be smiling goofily and semi-clinging to each other? Beer? Hormones? A combination of the two?
Doug passes me a can of Budweiser, and as I hold it in my hands, the red-and-black label takes me out of the stupid fun of this moment. Budweiser was my dad’s favorite before he couldn’t really drink anymore. After he’d finished his mail route, he would sit in the backyard with a beer and listen to Elvis. I’d bring out letters I’d written to my imaginary friends all over the world, and he’d promise to take them to work the next day and send them off. I can smell the inside of his carrying bag now. It smelled like stamps and letters, and anytime I get a whiff of either, I’m filled with the sense that everything will end up where it belongs.
“I’m gonna get some air, be right back,” I say to no one in particular. It takes all my focus to keep my balance as I go up the stairs, but it’s a relief when I get outside—no muggy beer, no sweaty beer breath, no Helga needing all kinds of attention.
“Taking a breather?” someone behind me asks. I hear footsteps on the walkway, and I recognize the voice. Turning around while groaning internally, I say, “Oh, hey, Brendan.”
“Are you okay?” he asks, opening the fence and letting himself into the yard. Tonight his tutu is yellow. “You’re crying.”
“I’m not crying, my eyes just water in the cold.” I wipe my face and turn toward the house, which is framed by two symmetrical trees, because some people’s lives are just tidy like that. Please let this be a quick and painless exit.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he calls, walking after me. I do not turn around.
“I’m sure. Just some family stuff, but all good.” I lean down to, what, befriend the gnome in Gene’s garden? This is not the escape I had in mind.
Brendan shuffles over to me, his sneakers crunching in the cold grass. “You’re totally crying,” he says, and I eye the shed a few hundred feet away. I’ll hide out in there if I have to. “Listen, Cham, I know we don’t really know each other, but if you ever want to talk about something—”
He drifts off and I let a few tears fall, but just a few. He pats me on the back awkwardly, like three staccato pats that make me really regret coming outside.
“Well, thanks,” I say, “but I gotta get back to the party. Wouldn’t want these garden gnomes to hear about my boring family life.”
He clears his throat and starts singing. “I only mentioned it becaaaaaauseeee…” He hits a note that reaches the moon.
“Can you please just talk in a normal voice,” I say, slurring a little. “If life were a musical, I would have killed myself by now.”
“Sometimes I don’t have words.” He shrugs. “Just songs.”
I kick at the grass with my combat boots, feeling like quite the asshole. He hardly seems fazed. “Well, if you change your mind, or if all of this starts to feel empty…” He trails off, looking sideways into the window, where Doug is streaking the basement. Way too many things are bouncing around.
“There are too many people down there to feel empty,” I joke as I head for the house.
“Loneliness isn’t about numbers, it’s about worlds,” he calls. “And how many people are in yours.” I stop and think about turning around, but suddenly it feels more claustrophobic outside than it did in the basement. “Well, have a good night, Cham,” he says.
“I am,” I say quickly. “I mean, you too.”
As I hurry back toward the house, the music gets louder. All I want to do is find Gene and disappear with him. As soon as I get inside, it smells like beer and I begin to feel nauseous. Luckily, I’m a pro at overriding feelings.
Gene is in the corner of his basement, playing beer pong. “Hey, come here,” I whisper in his ear as he prepares to throw the ball. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“Right now?” he asks, surprised, with his arm perched for the throw.
“Get it, you guys,” Doug says, stepping toward us and grabbing the ball out of Gene’s hand. “Do like bunnies do. I’ll take over for you.”
“Okay, this just got mortifying,” I say, burying my face in Gene’s chest. I help myself to his beer, which strongly reminds me of pee. Gene kisses my forehead.
“Thanks for being such a team player, Doug,” he says, slipping his fingers through my belt loops as he pulls me toward the stairs. “You’re a real pal.”
Doug laughs and throws the ball at the pyramid of cups, where it sinks under a layer of foam. “See you kids soon,” Doug calls. Suddenly it feels like the whole basement is looking at us.
“Yeah, girl,” Abigail calls as she dances with the empty bottle of Fireball.