I’ll watch a Hallmark Christmas movie with my sister (not a bad way to spend the evening but we did that last weekend. And the weekend before that. So…)
I’ll try to clean my room but will end up making piles of stuff, moving it around, and really getting nowhere.
I’ll take a nap.
I pick up my phone and text Sam. U still going to that party?
* * *
• • •
Joe Shiffley’s house is a split-level on a curved block, and judging by how many cars are parked on the street, there are a lot of people here. I drive past the house to make sure it’s the right address and park a few houses away. Then I turn off the lights and text Sam.
I’m here!
I take a quick look at myself in the sun visor mirror. Okay, not bad. I run my fingers through my hair and swipe on some lip gloss, and flip the mirror up fast to make sure no one saw me. I can’t deny it: I’m feeling excited. What if I meet a cute guy tonight and we talk or dance…or kiss? It could happen. Sam’s friends with an entirely different group of people than I am. Maybe my holiday romance is waiting for me behind the wreath-covered door at 317 Willow Tree Lane.
Sam sends me a Snap of her wearing crazy purple sunglasses and a cat sticker that says AWWW YEAH. Then a text: I’m in the basement.
I take a deep, steadying breath and get out of the car. I hate having to walk into the house by myself, but knowing Sam is already inside and waiting for me gives me the courage I need. When I get to the front door, I debate ringing the bell and then decide against it and just walk inside. I can hear music and muffled loud talking, but I don’t see any people and I pray that I haven’t walked into the wrong house. A woman with dark curly black hair waves to me from the dining room, where she’s typing away on her laptop, a coffee mug beside her. “Basement door is straight ahead,” she calls out.
“Thanks,” I say to the woman, who I assume is Joe’s mom, giving her a half-wave.
Dance music is playing downstairs, and it’s more crowded than I expected. A couple guys I recognize from school are standing around a foosball table debating something foos-related, and there’s a group of people sprawled on a massive sectional in front of a wall-mounted TV playing a video game that looks complicated and violent. A couple of pizza boxes sit on a fancy-looking built-in bar, where Abby Holmes and Lauren Albanese sit on stools, filming themselves doing a goofy dance and laughing. I stand there for what feels like an hour but is probably ten seconds, trying to decide my next move.
Thankfully it’s decided for me.
“Bails!” Sam shouts, coming up and giving me a hug. “I didn’t think you were gonna come.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think so either,” I say, relieved to see her and thankful that she seems happy to see me. Her hair is in short braided pigtails and she’s wearing a low-cut striped top that is definitely cuter than what she wears at school and the bookstore. She even has on eye shadow, which is very un-Samlike. “So, um, which one is Joe?”
Sam points to a guy wearing a black sweatshirt and baggy red shorts, sitting on the couch holding a PlayStation controller.
“Oh,” I say, nodding. “Cool.”
“Check out the guy in the gray flannel shirt,” she says under her breath, tilting her head toward a kid next to a large speaker that’s flashing with strobe lights.
“Isn’t that Karl Bartlett?” I ask, squinting at him. He was in my freshman English class. Very quiet, very smart, very into jazz. I’m surprised he’s even here.
“Mmmm-hmmm,” Sam says. “I wanna go talk to him. Come with me.”
We amble over. “Hey, Karl,” I say, raising my voice over the music. He smiles back.
“Did you bring that?” Sam asks.
“No, it’s Joe’s. He asked me to be on aux tonight,” Karl says as a deep punchy bass groove thrums out of the speaker.
“Oh, cool!” Sam says. “Show me your playlist.”
Karl pulls out his phone and the two of them bend their heads over it. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but it’s not long before Karl’s normally pasty white skin is turning pink and Sam keeps snorting and socking him on the arm.
I decide to give them some space. Trying not to draw attention to myself, I drift over to a large pillar and lean against it, watching a group of guys having a sword fight with what appear to be curtain rods. The duelers are laughing like maniacs as—whack!—curtain swords slam into each other. One of the duelers is Jacob Marley. He spins around holding the curtain rod, which looks longer than he is tall. Then he leaps onto an ottoman, twirling and thrusting the “sword” back and forth.
“Bruh!” One of the guys, a beefy-looking kid in a Tufts sweatshirt, runs up the basement stairs and then jumps off, sailing through the air with his sword. “You’re going to wish you’d never been born,” he says to a kid who isn’t Jacob. The kid grins back. Then the two of them drop their swords and begin wrestling around on the floor.
I’m observing all this with fascination and horror. This is why I’ve never hosted a party at my house—people do things they’d never do in their own homes. The thought of having a group of sweaty rude teenage boys rolling around on our carpet, spilling drinks, sliding down banisters, touching my dad’s antique train collection—no thank you. Not to mention, my parents would probably kill me.
Jacob can’t stop laughing, but he tries to pull it together when Joe Shiffley comes over, looking annoyed. “Idiots, my mom just got those at Pottery Barn. She’s gonna freak if you break them.”
“Sorry, man,” says the Tufts kid, panting. His face is redder than a boiled beet.
“Yeah, sorry,” says his opponent, dropping the curtain rod and holding up his hands as if he’s being arrested. Jacob just shrugs.
“No harm, no foul,” Joe says, fist-bumping Jacob, who suddenly seems to notice for the first time that I’m here. Jacob seems unsure what to do—say hello? Avoid me? Challenge me to a duel?
“Ain’t no laws when drinking White Claws,” someone yells, holding up a koozie-covered can.
Jacob walks over to me, slightly flushed from battle. “Did you see that?”
“It was hard to miss,” I say. “My brother and I used to have lightsaber duels in our kitchen.”
“Let me guess—you were the dark side?”