“Jell-O shots for the ladies?” Mario Anders asks, holding a silver pizza tray of multicolored Dixie cups. “I have cherry, lemon, grape, and I think maybe a couple of strawberries left, but you’re going to have to act fast.”
“Sure!” Neta squeals, taking a lemon. She grabs a strawberry and a grape, and hands the red one to me. “Only if you’re comfortable,” she assures me, and I sniff it tentatively.
We’re all crammed on a fat leather couch on the second floor of a huge mansion up in the hills, and Neta and Kolbie seem like they’re having an amazing time because they’re on their third drinks already. The music is loud enough that the walls seem to be throbbing with it, and I am fairly certain the playlist has been lifted from the seventies or something because I have recognized only one song and that’s because I heard it in a movie.
Kolbie and Neta are laughing and smiling at everyone, our legs are sweating and sticking to the couch, and I’m trying to imitate them and not think about how sweaty my butt is going to look when I stand up, or if I’m actually going to have something to contribute to a conversation at some point, or whether this is what they talk about every Monday in study hall when they talk about fun and what happened over the weekend and how I totally missed out again.
Someone brought in cheesy disco lights, and they’re flashing around at the top of the main staircase in time with the beat, and there is a stocky blond boy in a cutoff T-shirt doing strange dance moves on the marble foyer downstairs.
It’s not going well for him so far.
I try not to look out the window for the eightieth time that evening. The cops are not here. In fact, there are no cops. If the cops were going to come here, they would not even be here to bust anyone. Carlos Rodriguez’s family is wealthy and well regarded, so no one would ever dare call the cops on a party at their house. In fact, if the cops were here, it would probably be to keep people from entering the party. That’s how exclusive these parties are, in fact.
At least, that’s what Kolbie told me. Apparently, Kolbie and Neta have been to a million of Carlos’s parties, and it’s always pretty safe and a lot of fun. And that’s why they decided to ease me in with a fancy Rodriguez party before, like, taking me to a gas station to illegally buy forties or something.
“Do you know how to do a Jell-O shot?” Kolbie yells into my ear, grabbing the purple shot. I can barely hear her, and she’s right next to me.
“I don’t have a spoon!” I yell back. I chance another look out the window, but I don’t see any flashing lights. I glance around. They didn’t hand out any plastic silverware, which seems like common sense, honestly.
“You have to use your finger to loosen it up,” Neta says, running her finger around the edge of the cup. “And then you just tip it back.” She lets all of the Jell-O fall into her mouth and swallows it. “Yum. And you can’t even, like, taste the vodka. It’s so good, Riley.”
Kolbie just squeezes the Dixie cup into her mouth, which looks a little less neat, so I decide to go Neta’s route. It’s actually not bad. It’s fruity and sweet and slides down my throat easily, but leaves just a slight bitter aftertaste on the back of my tongue. It’s better than the wheaty beer I’ve been nursing for the past hour and a half.
“Are you buzzing?” Kolbie asks me. “Do you want anything else?”
“Um, no thanks,” I say. I don’t think I like drinking much, and honestly, I don’t feel a thing.
“The more you drink, the less you’ll worry about getting caught,” Kolbie says. “I know that’s terrible real-world advice, but it’s actually true.” She tosses her cup at some guy walking by with a huge garbage bag, who tries to catch it, but it bounces off onto the wood floor.
Neta pulls on my arm. “It’s too hot on this couch. Let’s go talk to more people! We can see if there are any cute guys here from Bellview, okay? Oh!” She releases me for a second and digs in her wristlet, producing a bright pink tube of lip gloss. “Try this on, okay? I think you need some.”
I stare at it for a second. It’s way too bright for me. I know it. But this whole party isn’t me. The point of the night isn’t me. So I unscrew the top of the lip gloss and dab a little onto my lips to appease her. “Right back, Kolbie!” Neta says, and drags me away to a group of guys that she just dives right into, introducing me to Zayne and Jordan and Benn (with two N’s, he tells us, which is apparently way better than a Ben with just one.).
“I’ve heard about you,” Zayne says, taking my hand and holding it for just a second too long. “You’re the one who never comes out.”
Wow. Even other schools know I’m a shut-in goody-goody. Still, I rather like Zayne. He has a wide smile with even teeth. His hair is dark and curly and he’s just tall enough.
“Don’t I?” I ask Zayne. “Then what am I doing here?”
Zayne smiles. “Surprising me. That means something.”
“Enlighten me, Zayne. What does it all mean?”
“You’re about to be my . . . beer pong partner. Right?”
“Sure, but there are conditions. Two, to be exact.”
“Anything.” Zayne grins, anticipating my response.
I hold up one finger. “Only if you teach me how to play.” I smile at him as I take another drink of my warm beer. What am I getting myself into? I pop up a second finger. “And only if we play against Neta and her partner of choice.”
Neta slides her arm around Benn with two N’s. “You better be good at beer pong.”
He finishes his beer. “I’ve never lost . . . tonight.”
“You haven’t played tonight!” she accuses, and they’re laughing together and he’s looking down at her like she’s everything and she’s looking up at him like . . . well, like he’s a beer pong partner she’s going to have to peel off later.
Zayne leads us downstairs, to a room near the pool where a Ping-Pong table has been set up with several Solo cups filled halfway with beer. He explains the rules—if the other team gets a Ping-Pong ball in your set of cups, you have to drink. It’s basically a game that would be super lame if beer weren’t involved. I turn to Zayne. “We have a problem,” I whisper.
“What?” He looks at me, alarmed.
I grin at him and pull at the neck of his shirt. “I hate beer. So if we lose—”
“I’m stuck drinking most of it,” he finishes, and laughs. “Some partnership this is!”
“You chose me!” I accuse. “So this is totally on you.”
“I don’t regret it yet.”
Neta winks at me from across the table, and I resist rolling my eyes. It’s like they think I don’t know how to flirt. It’s not like it’s hard. You just have to appeal to the three basic drunken categories for party boys:
1. Beer
2. Sports (of some kind)
3. Sex
Boom. Flirting. Done.
It’s not rocket science. It’s not even a challenge. And honestly . . . it’s a little boring. Is this how all parties are? Slightly bitter shots with Ping-Pong balls in skunky beer?
Is this what Ethan wanted me to throw everything away for? Was this a domino even worth knocking over?
“Your throw,” Zayne says, handing me a beer-soaked Ping-Pong ball. This is definitely not sanitary. “Make it count, Stone.”
“Give me space, Zayne.” I move him out of the way with my hip, which he seems to like, and line up my shot. I close one eye, and across the table, Benn and Neta jeer at me. Neta sticks out her tongue, and I laugh, but I don’t lose my focus. This is Riley time. This is Zen and the Art of Beer Pong.
I toss the Ping-Pong ball.
It bounces off the first cup and lands in the second.
“Does that count?” I ask Zayne.
Zayne grabs my hand and forces a high five on me. “Hell yeah, it counts. Chug it, B team!” he shouts across the table.
Neta makes a pouty face and pulls the Ping-Pong ball out of the cup. She winks at me, takes a tiny sip, and then hands the rest of the cup to her partner, who downs it, two rivulets of beer leaking out over both of his stubbly cheeks. “Woo!” he says, wiping off his face with the back of his hand. “I feel good!”
“We get to shoot again!” Zayne says, grabbing another ball. “Go, Stone!”
I line up again, and this time the ball goes long, hitting Benn in the shirt. “Damn!” I say, but Zayne pats me on the small of my back. His hand lingers for a millisecond.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “We got ’em the next time. Now we have to distract them.” He shouts across the table, and I join him, feeling stupid. Suddenly, I want to leave.
But this is a party. This is what I’ve gotten myself into.
They miss.
Our go.
This is what people my age do. Right?
I sigh. I watch Zayne toss the ball. It makes it into one of their cups, and I cheer and we high-five again, and then I miss and so the ball goes to the other team. This time Zayne tells me I have to drink, and so I down as much as I can from the Solo cup and then hand the beer off to him to finish, feeling a little queasy and strange, like maybe my vision isn’t following quite right when I turn my head and my smile isn’t matching up on my mouth the way it should be.
The Ping-Pong ball changes hands again.
How lame would it be if I used hand sanitizer on it? Would that make the beer taste better, or worse? Or would anyone even notice?
Maybe Kolbie has it right with her college boyfriend. College parties have to be better than this, right? They have to be more fun. More . . . sophisticated. More substantial.
Maybe there’s talking. Like real talking, not just lame flirting over beer-soaked balls.
Or maybe it’s just more of the same.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I turn. It’s Kolbie. “How’s it going, Ri? How much beer have you downed?”
I smile at her. “A cup. Or something.”
She frowns at me. “Are you buzzing? You don’t seem like you’re buzzing.”
I think I am, if this counts as buzzing. Beyond the eye thing, I have this strange warmth inside me, and I feel like I’m underwater, but just under the surface, where things are just a touch slower. But I’m just a little drunk, and somehow it’s not the happy, fun place where everyone else seems to be.
“I’m good,” I tell her, and she slings an arm around my shoulder.
“I think maybe I should take my friend’s place here,” she tells them. “So she can run to the bathroom. She’ll be right back. Won’t you, Ri?” She puts her hands on my shoulders and looks in my eyes, telling me in friend code to take as much time away from the stupid game as I need.
I tell her back in friend language that I’m grateful, and turn to Zayne. “Be right back. Don’t screw it up, okay? We have a lot riding on this game.”
It’s strange how it all comes so easily to me. The words, with no feeling to back them up.
He fist-bumps me. “We’ve got this in the cup.”
I smile widely at his lame joke and escape in the general direction of a bathroom. The first two I find are locked, but I finally find a small one, just off the pool, that’s more of a changing room than anything else. I flick on the light, but then after I’ve closed the door, I flick it off and slide down to the floor and savor being alone, just for a second.
I want to go home. I want to be at home, in my room, on my bed. Alone. These people who are like me on the outside are not my people. It’s not like there’s anything wrong with them. Tonight I know the truth: there is something wrong with me.
I lean my head back against the door and close my eyes, but someone knocks.
“Ri? You in there?”
Kolbie.
I reach up and turn the lock on the door.
“What are you doing in here in the dark?” She walks in and flicks on the light. “Are you okay?”
I try to smile. “Yeah. Sorry. I just needed a minute. These guys—I don’t know.” I flutter my hand.
Kolbie looks at me. “Yeah. I get it. I feel that way too. I told your boy Zayne to take my turn and came to find you.”
I sigh, and she sinks down on the floor next to me, and I lean my head on her chest. “These are not my people.”
“No, they aren’t. But that’s okay.” She pauses, and pretend silence fills the room, but outside, the music from the party pounds, the bass so thick and heavy I can feel it through the floor. “Maybe we shouldn’t be pushing you to be with someone. Or maybe you just need someone older. I’m just . . . I’m sorry if we put too much pressure on you. We didn’t mean anything, you know?”
I nod. “I know.”
She gets me.
But then I wonder . . . is she talking about someone in particular?
Someone we both know?
No.
That’s impossible.
“Do you want to go home?” she asks.
I nod. My head is starting to spin in a fuzzy, strange way, and my stomach feels odd and too full. I don’t feel sick, but I am starting to feel a little out of control.
And what if the cops really did show up?
All my dominoes would really be knocked down then. That would sure show Ethan for trying to make me an actual teenager.
“Come on, Ri.” She pushes herself off the floor, then reaches down and grabs my hand to help me up. “I think this is enough party for one night.”
“You’re a good friend,” I tell her, leaning on her shoulder a little bit. She stumbles, then rights herself, slinging my arm around her waist.
She pauses. “Don’t forget all the nights you’ve picked me up off the floor and held my hair and let me sneak into your house when I’m late for my curfew.” She winces. “Actually, do forget them, please.”
I smile and squeeze her a little. “I’m here for you, Kolbs.” The words are slippery in my mouth.
She smiles back. “I know you are, Riley.”