That night they were in a yard behind an old house on some back road in Malta, just below Saratoga Lake. Mel had no idea whose house it was—it was one of those party places that just seem permanently empty and that no one claims to own. Angry Maxwell had set up on a patch of dead grass close to the house, right by the three coolers that constituted the bar. The party had only been going for an hour, and already the whole lawn smelled like old beer.
Angry Maxwell was basically Gaz and Hareth, Avery’s musician friends, whom she always joked she met “this one time, at band camp.” In reality, they all connected during freshman year in Music 101. Hareth was a self-proclaimed Persian rapper (his family was originally from Tehran) who always wore a knitted hat pulled low over his forehead. Gaz, the drummer, was extremely tall, with long, rubbery arms that flailed around behind the drum kit. He had shaggy golden brown hair and always wore the same pleasant half smile. He reminded Mel of a Muppet. There was also a girl with two long braids playing the bass. Mel didn’t know who she was.
Mel didn’t claim to know a lot about music, but even she knew that Angry Maxwell was not a good band. The girl seemed to be able to play the guitar, Gaz appeared to know what he was doing with his drums, and Hareth was kind of amusing and animated with his rapping—but they weren’t doing any of this stuff together. It was like they were each playing with a totally different band that only existed in their heads. But nobody cared. The crowd was busy drinking up all the good alcohol before it was gone, and the noise that Angry Maxwell made somehow suited this activity.
Mel usually didn’t drink, but tonight she felt like it. It seemed like the only thing to do here. Avery had enthusiastically gone off to the bar to get them something. Now Mel was just stuck in a loud place, backed up against a wall by a crowd of people and with a very drunk-looking guy heading right for her. Mel scanned the yard for Avery, but she was lost in the crowd somewhere.
“What’s your name?”
The guy had made it across the yard and was leaning into Mel’s face.
“Mel.”
“Jill?”
Mel didn’t bother to correct him.
“Want a drink?” the guy screamed.
“My friend is getting me one.”
“What?”
At that moment there was a minor miracle. Avery pushed her way back through the crowd with several small paper cups in her hands. Seeing Mel’s plight, she shot her a “do you want to talk to this guy?” look. Mel widened her eyes to show that she didn’t.
Avery came over and stood next to the guy, fixing him with a hard stare. People didn’t mess with Avery when she had her eyes all smudged up with black liner. She looked very fierce. The guy threw Mel a puzzled look, but Mel was as unable as ever to express her wish to be left alone in actual words. Avery passed some of the cups she had collected over to Mel.
“Hey,” Avery said, using her free hand to take the guy’s empty cup and toss it over toward the bushes. “Go fetch.”
The guy stared at Avery, looking like he was trying to gauge how much of a problem she might present, then walked away.
Mel would never be as cool as Avery. Ever.
“Brought you a lemon drop,” Avery said. “You’ll like it. It’s sweet. And these are Jell-O shots.” She showed Mel a few cups she had pinched between her fingers.
“They’re really good,” Mel said, nodding at the band.
“No, they aren’t,” Avery said, passing Mel one of the Jell-O shots. “It sounds like someone’s screaming bad poetry over a lawn mower.”
“Then why do you watch them play?”
“Sometimes you have to look the other way when it comes to your friends,” Avery said with a shrug. “Even if it makes your ears bleed.”
“You should play with them,” Mel said. “They’d be great then.”
“Yeah, but you’re so good.” Avery had natural talent—perfect pitch and an ability to play almost anything she heard. Years of piano lessons had only sharpened her ability.
Avery shrugged away Mel’s comment. She didn’t like talking about her musical skills, as if admitting her talent would cheapen it or make it go away.
As the crowd shifted past them, Avery and Mel were pressed flat against the outer wall of the basement.
“This is going to be fun,” Avery said, trying to get her arm free enough to get her drink to her lips. “I don’t even know who half of these people are.”
“Hey,” Mel said. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“This afternoon, would you have done it?”
“What? The thing in the pantry?”
Mel was glad Avery hadn’t used the word kiss. It would sound way too weird to say out loud.
“Of course,” Avery said. “Ten bucks? Why not? Guys are ridiculous that way.”
Mel found herself sinking inside a bit at this response.
“Would that have freaked you out?” Avery asked.
“No,” Mel said, trying to smile. “It would have been funny.”
“Right,” Avery said. She suddenly developed an intense curiosity about her Jell-O shot. She stared deeply into the tiny cup, wiggling it a bit.
“What do I do with this?” Mel asked, holding up her cup.
“Just toss it back, like this.” Avery tilted back her cup. Mel did the same. The lump of gelatin was slow moving and seemed to take forever to reach her mouth. It burned with alcohol. She held it on her tongue, trying to absorb as much of the taste as possible.
“You never know,” Avery said, looking over the crowd. “We could probably get more takers here. More cash, too.”
Mel gulped down the Jell-O. It tickled as it slithered down her throat. She balled the tiny paper cup in her hand.
“You always have takers, though,” Avery added.
“What?”
“That guy Parker is going to trail you all summer. I can tell.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re really not interested?” Avery asked. “Did you see the puppy dog look? What’s not to like?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t.”
Avery was looking at her curiously now, trying to figure out what that meant, because Avery always tried to figure out what everything meant.
Avery did another Jell-O shot and said, “Is it because he looks like Strange Mike?”
Strange Mike was a guy from their sophomore-year biology class who used to stick his fingernail in the electric socket of his lab station and watch his arm shake.
“No, he doesn’t.”
“So what is it? Why don’t you like him?”
“I want to do another one of these,” Mel said, holding up the crumpled remnants of her cup.
“Yeah,” Mel said. “We’re here. We might as well drink”
“See? I told Nina I’d take good care of you,” Avery said, obviously pleased.
While Avery made another trip over to the bar, Mel sat down on the coiled hose that was attached to the wall. Avery’s questions made her panic. It would have been nice, after all, if she could have explained why she never went out with guys more than once or why they never made much of an impression on her.
She knew the reason, though she’d never put words to it. It floated up in the back of her consciousness now, buoyed by Jell-O and vodka and the last of the warm evening sun. She found her attention completely focused on the small of Avery’s back, just the little strip between the deep maroon of Ave’s old T-shirt and the low sling of her jeans. The answer seemed to be written there, on that perfect piece of skin.
Avery had a great back—she’d actually won “best back” when they’d passed judgment when they were ten or eleven. Nina had the best hands. Mel had the best hair. Avery had the best back. Ave had balked at this, saying “best back” was a bogus consolation prize, but she was wrong. Her back was strong, not bony like Mel’s. It was flawless. It was the perfect surface.
Stop thinking, Mel told herself, digging around in her crumpled cup for remnants of Jell-O. Just stop.