Mostly—more than anything—Lucas Fuller was my person. I’m shy, painfully so, but never around him. We had a pact that we would never lie, and there would be zero secrets.
Now, that’s all that’s left.
The summer after our freshman year, it all just stopped. Everything—no rides, no glances in my direction, no acknowledgement of my existence. I called and texted and left so many unanswered messages. When I went to his house, nobody opened the door, even when I knew they all were home. My parents divorced around then, and my grandmother moved in because she got too sick to live on her own. My mom worked and took care of her, and when she couldn’t, I did. Hospice came and went, my grandmother’s belongings were set out in our driveway for people to pick through so we could collect quarters and dimes to piece together enough to cover her last few expenses. My world was falling apart, and my best friend, the one person who swore we would never keep secrets from each other, was both right next door and a million miles away. That’s when Abby and I got closer. She’d been through a lot of the same things I was going through, and she’s the kind of person who insists on helping.
Dragging me out to this party, though? It doesn’t feel much like help. It’s more of the torture variety.
“And would you look at that. It’s a black Nissan pickup truck with . . . oh! FULLER1 license plates!” Abby points in the direction of an oversized tire as if I don’t know it’s Lucas’s truck she’s talking about.
“He’s at every party, Abs. And no, I’m not going to talk to him. It’s not like he doesn’t know where to find me. If he wanted to talk, we would have by now.” I look down at my feet while I push my fists into my pockets and shuffle along the blacktop. After a few steps, I run into my friend’s waiting palms as she grips me by the shoulders and shakes me until I meet her gaze.
“Maybe you should just finally move on and spend tonight talking to someone—hell, anyone—else.” Abby’s eyes plead with mine for a non-verbal agreement that I’ll try to be a normal high school senior for just one night.
“You’re someone else. I talk to you,” I quip. I’m only partly teasing.
Abby shoves off me and walks backward a few steps, giving me a challenging stare before spinning on her heel.
“I meant someone with a penis. And no, before you make another joke, I do not have a secret dick tucked away in my pants.” Her pace picks up, bringing us closer to the front door of the party house. I laugh a little, silently, because her penis joke was funny, but by the time her hand is firmly on the D’Angelos’ doorknob, my amusement has shifted to a need to vomit.
“Ready?” she asks.
“No.” Her mouth twists to say “tough shit,” and with one push, we’re inside.
Competing music blasts from two separate rooms, the hard thump of indie punk trying to drown out rib-shaking hip hop beats. Faces I don’t really recognize nod at Abby then me as we walk through the crowded living room toward the kitchen area. Two girls face each other over a coffee table littered with beer cans and vape pens, yelling about who is disrespecting whom. The overwhelming cacophony ratchets up my urge to run. Abby must sense it because she grabs my hand and tugs me close, keeping me right at her side until we get to the open doorway that leads to the back yard.
“Why is this fun again?” I say close to her ear. I’m still not sure she can hear me.
She bends down and flips open a red cooler filled with freezing water and melting ice. She fishes her hand around, coming up with two beers.
“Here. You’re drinking one,” she says, pulling back the tab then pressing the lip of the can to my mouth as if I’m a baby needing to be fed. I shake my head and step back, taking the can from her hand.
“I don’t like beer.”
“You’ve never tried beer,” she retorts.
Our mini staring competition lasts about two seconds before I give in and take a small sip. Her mouth ticks up with satisfaction, but when she tips her head back to take a drink from her own beer, I spill a little of mine on the rocks and let my mouth sour. Beer is gross.
“Oh, my God, is that—? No. It couldn’t be!” I recognize Tory D’Angelo’s voice without having to turn and face him. His presence motivates me to take another drink of my beer; I suddenly regret pouring so much out.
“June Mabee!” He snakes his hands around my hips as he steps in behind me. I spit out what’s left in my mouth and move away from him with a jerk of my elbow. We aren’t close. In fact, the only real interaction he and I have had was when I let him copy my science quiz answers during freshman science. I hate myself for letting peer pressure work on me. I should have let the asshole fail.
“Aww, maybe Mabee, what’s wrong?” He’s drunk, which amps up his assholeness a little. He’s been teasing me about my last name since junior high. So clever, saying it twice.
“You were right, Abby. Everyone’s grown up so much,” I say, giving my friend an icy glare. Her dry smile puckers on one side but she doesn’t argue with my reasoning. Kinda hard with Tory still hovering around us, breaking all kinds of personal space rules. Most girls let him get away with it because, in terms of good looks? He’s damn near perfection. While he’s smug about it, his twin brother Hayden is nearly oblivious to the power he could have at his fingertips. Bronzed skin, chiseled jawlines, light brown hair that somehow makes them both look like they just got in from a jog along the beach—the D’Angelo boys are Calvin Klein models in the making.
“Don’t you have some freshman to hit on?” Bless Abby’s confidence. One of the best perks of our friendship is her ability to say those things I wish I could.
“Still sore that I wouldn’t let you suck my dick this summer, Abs?” He actually pushes his tongue in his cheek to accentuate his crass reply. What a fool. She’s going to burn him to the ground.
“Isn’t it more like . . .” My friend takes a thin pretzel stick from a bowl on the patio table nearby and pinches it between her thumb and finger, holding it a few inches away from Tory’s face. His eyes haze and his jaw twitches. Even though it’s only the three of us here to witness her rip on him, the joke breaks through and embarrasses him. I wish I could trade her my green eyes for that skill right there.
“Come on, June. Looks like the cool kids are all over there,” my friend says. She purposely ignores the raging bull she leaves standing alone and weaves our hands together to drag me along the deck.
“He’s probably going to remember tonight all wrong and think I’m the one who said all that, you know.” I step on a wooden beam and lift myself to sit on the deck’s guardrail. Abby does the same, but swings one leg over so she straddles it facing me.
“Good. Then you’ll have a reputation of not putting up with shit from douchebags,” she says, pulling her phone from the small purse she’s wearing across her body. She holds it up before I can protest and snaps my photo.
“Why? Why do you always do that? You must have an endless collection of me making dumb-as-hell faces,” I protest. I start to laugh a little, too.
“If it didn’t work on your foul moods so well, I wouldn’t do it.” She takes one more shot before tucking the phone into the zipper pouch of her bag.