TWENTY-EIGHT

Of course Jenny does get sick on the ride back to Danville, somewhere near the base of the mountain before we get back to town. I pull over and help her. I hold her hair. She cries a little bit, which makes me sad, but I can’t make her feel better. She has to learn her limits the hard way. I don’t hold it against her. It’s how I learned, after all.

The first time I drank, I was fourteen and Scooter stole a bottle of Jose Cuervo from one of his dad’s pool parties. We mixed it up with red Gatorade and took turns doing shots in his bedroom while watching Iron Man. At some point during the night we decided it would be a good idea to wrap Scooter in aluminum foil and crash a Sayrebrook party down the street. The only thing I remember is walking into a house packed wall to wall with people I didn’t know, and getting separated from Scooter. Next thing I knew, I was lying in my own bed with the morning light trying to burn holes through whatever brain cells I had left and Cate was standing over me with a funny smirk on her lips.

“You are so busted,” she told me.

I groaned and pulled the covers over my head. “Go away. I feel awful.”

“How much did you drink last night?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Yeah, well, Angie’s pissed. Nice going. Now you can deal with her shit instead of me.”

I peeked out from under the blanket. The sunlight hit my eyes like daggers. “Angie knows?”

“Yup.”

“How?”

“Mmm, I think the fact that someone puked red stuff all over the entryway when they got home last night might’ve tipped her off. And by someone, I mean you.”

“I did that? Are you serious?” The thought made me want to puke red stuff right then and there. All over my bed. “Oh, God.”

“Completely serious. Like I said, nice going. I’m probably supposed to give you a lecture on the dangers of underage drinking, but why bother? She’s going to kill you. That rug’s an heirloom, by the way.”

“I’m dead. So dead.” I flopped back. “And what happened to you last night?”

“What do you mean? I was at the Young Equestrian awards ceremony with Angie last night. I was on my best behavior, too. Snoozefest, but whatever. I got a new dress out of it. Shoes, too.”

I shook my head, then quickly regretted the motion. “No. I saw you. Last night. I could’ve sworn I did, at a party down on Donegal Way.”

“Wasn’t me,” she said.

“Yes it was.”

“You’re wrong.”

We stared at each other.

“So how’re things going with Dr. Waverly?” I asked weakly.

“Things are going swell, Jamie, love. Really, really swell.”

“She’s helping you?”

“Hmm. I don’t know if I’m supposed to say that. It’s not empowering, right? I’m supposed to say that I’m helping myself. That’s the correct way to phrase it, isn’t it?”

I swallowed. She was right. That was exactly what Dr. Waverly would say.

“Did she end up giving you any medication?” I asked, thinking about the pills I’d found in her bathroom. I’d looked them up online. They were for treating bipolar disorder. And psychosis.

“What would I need medication for?”

“For whatever you’re, uh, seeing her for.”

“I’m seeing her because of Angie’s insecurity that I won’t turn out like her perfect little Madison. That I might want to be my own person someday. That I might want you to be your own person, too.”

“Oh,” I said.

Cate stared at me. “What kind of medication do you think I should be taking for all that?”

I shook my head. I didn’t say anything.

“What’re you reading there?” she pointed to a magazine lying beside my bed. “Graduated to Playboy yet?”

I squirmed. “It’s The Believer.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve found religion.”

“It’s a literary magazine.”

“A what?”

“Never mind.”

She frowned. “You know what your problem is?”

“What?”

“You care about things that don’t even matter. Like, you really, really care. But none of it matters. Nothing you know means anything, Jamie. Remember that.”

The weight of her gaze was too much. I looked away.

“So wh-what’s up with you and those girls from the barn?” I stammered.

“What girls?”

“I just heard that you’ve been doing things. In the woods.”

“Doing things?”

“You know, teaching your, uh, friends, how to do … stuff. And other stuff.”

Something dark came over her. “Who told you this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was it that stick-up-her-ass Sarah?”

I said nothing, but a bloom of dread was already working its way through my veins. I didn’t have to answer or nod or admit anything. Cate could read my mind. Always.

She swept her hair into a ponytail with a huff. “I gotta get down to the barn. Dressage this morning.”

“You really weren’t at the party?”

“I really wasn’t. Now sleep it off. I think you’re still drunk. And Jamie—”

“Yeah?”

She headed for the door. “Let this hangover be a lesson to you. You’re too fucking young to be this stupid.”

I collapsed with a wince. All the muscles in my body felt stiff and sore like I’d been run over by a truck. I closed my eyes and slept for another six hours. When I finally got up and hobbled downstairs, I didn’t get the expected Angie lecture on “being a responsible member of this household.” I didn’t get anything. That’s because Angie was on the phone trying to calm down Penny Parker. Penny was hysterical because someone had slashed the tires on Dane’s precious Porsche Boxster overnight and pried the hood open to pour sand into the engine. Later there was talk, of course, that Cate had done it. But no one could ever prove that she hadn’t been exactly where she said she was that night.

Least of all, me.