by Jen Wilde
“I really don’t know enough about alcohol to decide,” I say. “But probably something with a ton of sugar in it.”
Shrupty moves closer to me, her fingers brushing against my hip. “You don’t have to finish that drink if it’s too much for you. I’m, like, a hundred percent sure it’s ninety-nine percent alcohol.”
I immediately recoil and place the glass on the table. “Yeah, I’m not playing with that.”
Shrupty giggles. “Your signature drink would definitely be a virgin.”
I avoid eye contact with her. My skin runs hot enough to melt the whole damn ice bar. Seeing my reaction, Shrupty’s eyes widen, and so does her smile.
She leans in, her lips brushing against my ear, and whispers, “You’re so cute when you’re embarrassed.”
I try to laugh, but it gets caught in my throat and emerges as a weird sputter. “Well,” I say, coughing. “Good thing embarrassment is my default setting.”
Shrupty dips her chin, and when she speaks, her voice is low. “Good thing.”
A high-pitched voice interrupts our flirting.
“Oh my god. Shrup?”
An athletic blonde with an entourage approaches.
“Erica? Hey!” Shrupty seems happy to see her, giving her a quick hug.
“How are you?” Erica asks, tracing her hands down Shrupty’s arms. “It’s been ages.” Erica looks familiar, but I can’t put my finger on where I’ve seen her before. She has to be at least six feet tall, with long wavy hair and pouty lips—perhaps she’s a model.
Her entourage shuffles her away, mumbling about mingling and networking. When Shrupty turns back to me, she puffs her cheeks up and blows out a long sigh, like she’s relieved.
“Sorry,” she says. “I would have introduced you, but she’s always rolling in and out of places like a hurricane.”
“Is she on TV or something?” I ask. “I know her face.”
“She’s done a bit of everything,” she says. “TV, film, music … She’s very versatile like that. Her dad is a huge movie producer.”
“Wow. How do you know her?”
“We went to high school together.” She smiles fondly at a memory. “We actually went to prom together. She was prom queen and I was prom king. That was before they stopped gendering it. After graduation we hung out a couple of times. But we never really got serious.”
“How come?” I ask, then wonder if I’m prying too much. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“It’s fine,” she says. “We just couldn’t make it work. She was always rushing off to the next job or party or whatever. And whenever we did get time alone, Erica just had this wall up. She’d been burned so many times by jerks who used her for her money or connections. She wouldn’t let herself open up to anyone. Which is totally fair—I’ve been burned before, too. It sucks to find out someone you thought cared about you was just using you for their own agenda. But that’s one of the downsides of LA: Everyone is looking out for number one.”
My shoulders slump, and I think of Malcolm. “I’ve noticed that.”
She frowns. “Oh no. I hope you haven’t been screwed over already!”
“Eh,” I say with a shrug. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Did you go to your prom?” she asks.
I gulp down my drink, trying to ignore the taste. “Yeah,” I lie. It’s easier that way. If I say no, she’ll ask why and I’ll have to tell her that Emily Rose threatened to beat me up if I showed my face at prom, and that even if I’d wanted to go, I wouldn’t have been able to afford a suit anyway. And even if I could have afforded a suit, it would’ve just led to a conversation with my mom I wasn’t ready for. She’d ask why I wasn’t wearing a pretty dress; I’d say I feel more comfortable in suits. Then I’d have to avoid divulging anything more—partly out of fear of her realizing I’m gay, partly because I’m still firmly in the questioning category when it comes to my gender identity. And, ugh, that whole scenario is exhausting just to think about.
“What was your prom night like?” she asks.
I swallow hard. “It was great. How about yours?”
She grins. “Same. The whole night was a blast. In fact, high school was a blast for me. I know it wasn’t that long ago, but I miss it. Those were the best days of my life.”
“Wow,” I say, not even trying to hide my surprise. “Really?”
Shrupty chuckles. “Is that weird?”
Yes. “No.” I shrug. “I’ve just never met anyone who actually enjoyed high school before.”
“Maybe I’m weird. I mean, yeah, there were jerks. This one girl refused to say my name right for the whole of freshman year—she kept calling me Shifty.”
I make a face. “That’s horrible.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I hated her. But I still loved going to school, hanging with friends, being on the cheer squad. I miss it a little.” She pouts, her bottom lip sticking out in the most adorable way. “You don’t miss hanging out with your friends at lunch?”
My stomach flips nervously. I need to change the subject. “Yeah, I guess. Ready to hit the ice again?”
She nods, and a minute later we’re stepping back onto the ice. Please, O mighty ice-skating gods, don’t let me fall again. I take two awkward, slippery steps before I lose my footing and fall backward. Luckily, Shrupty is right behind me and catches me before I hit the ground. Somehow, I manage to spin around so I’m facing her, and she takes my hands to steady me.
“Is this okay?” she asks, squeezing my fingers between hers.
I nod. “Don’t let go.”
She smiles. “I won’t.”
She starts skating backward like she’s Adam freaking Rippon, gently guiding me around the edge of the rink. The DJ starts playing Janelle Monáe’s “Make Me Feel,” and Shrupty starts singing along. And because she wasn’t already incredible enough, her voice sounds amazing. Smooth as velvet, just like her hands as they hold mine. Our eyes meet as she sings the words, and I don’t let myself look away. Warmth spreads through my whole body; the heat between us is enough to turn the ice into a lake. She strokes the back of my hand with her thumb and it sends goose bumps rippling over my skin.
I swallow my nerves and tell her something I’ve wanted to say since the day we met. “You’re so pretty.”
The corner of her mouth lifts into an adorable half smile. “Thank you. So are you.”
My heart sprouts wings and flutters around in my chest. Our skating slows to a halt, and we’re standing so close now that I can feel her chest rise against mine with every breath.
“Come a little closer,” she says. I inch forward, our bodies pressed against each other.
She touches her hand to her neck absentmindedly but then gasps. “Oh no. No, no, no, no, no.” She backs away, her head darting around like she’s looking for something.
“Are you okay?” I ask. I try to follow her as she skates away, but there’s only so far I can go without losing my balance.
“No,” she says, her voice high. “I lost my necklace! Do you see it?”
I scan the area, but it’s impossible to see much in the dim lighting and with so many people darting around us. “We’ll find it.”
But we don’t. We skate around for fifteen minutes. Well, she skates; I struggle along the railed edge. Charlie and Alyssa even join the hunt, using the flashlights on their phones to help. With each second that passes, Shrupty grows more and more upset. She skates over to me with tears in her eyes and her hand clutching her chest.
“It’s gone,” she says. “My grandmother’s necklace is gone. My mom is going to murder me.” She speeds away again in a panic.
I mentally retrace our steps and glance over to the place where we fell earlier, squinting at the ice through the swirling lights. Something sparkly catches the light for a split second, and I know I’ve found it.
“Shrupty!” I call, but she’s too far away and the music is too loud for her to hear me. Taking matters into my own hands, I slowly skate ov
er to it. The silver chain and emerald pendant are almost invisible against the ice, but when the reflections of the disco ball hit it just right, it glows like it’s calling her name. I bend down to pick it up, and once again I fall onto my butt. But I have the necklace, safe in my hand, and that’s all that matters.
“Shrupty!” I call again, waving my arm frantically to get her attention. Finally, she sees me, and I let the necklace hang from my fingers. Her face lights up, and she skates over so fast I worry she’s going to ride right over me.
“You found it!” she gasps as she falls to her knees at my side. “Oh my god.” She takes it from my hands and inspects it, then smiles as tears run down her cheeks. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
She clasps the necklace back around her neck, then leans closer and pulls me into a hug. I run my hand through her soft hair, suddenly feeling like we’re the only people on the rink. Shrupty leans back just enough to look at me, our noses almost touching. I want so desperately to kiss her, but I’m frozen.
Her gaze flickers to my mouth and then back to my eyes, and I know she’s thinking the same thing.
“Can I kiss you?” I ask. My voice is so quiet, there’s no way she could hear it over the music, but she must know what I’m asking, because she smiles. And then she leans in, and my eyes close naturally. Her lips meet mine, and she cups my face in her hands, her fingers cold against my cheeks. All I want to do is drag her away from the party and take her somewhere private and warm, somewhere we can stay like this all night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Later, Shrupty and I walk out of the party and into what looks like the aftermath of a fight.
One of the bouncers holds ice up to his cheekbone, and an ambulance is backing into the alleyway, red lights flashing silently.
We walk through the gap in the fence to find Archer on the other side of the alley, stretched out on the ground next to a puddle of vomit. Two paramedics climb out of the ambulance and hurry over to him. Shrupty and I stand out of their way as they kneel beside Archer.
“How you feeling, buddy?” one of the medics asks.
Archer doesn’t respond. More people filter out of the party to see what’s going on. The medics take Archer’s arms, trying to lift him up into a seated position. Suddenly, Archer starts thrashing around like a toddler who doesn’t want to be disciplined and falls back to the ground with a thud.
“Fuck off!” he yells. “I said fuck off!”
A girl standing next to me takes her phone out and starts filming. I glance around the growing crowd and see another five or six phones held in the air. This is not good.
Archer groans and pushes a hand through his hair, and I notice red marks on his knuckles. He must have punched that bouncer. What a dick.
One of the paramedics crouches down again and puts a hand on Archer’s shoulder. “Listen, bro,” he says. “We’re just trying to help you out. Let’s get you to sit up, okay?”
He reaches down to try to help Archer up one more time, but Archer just swats his hands away.
“What are you, gay?” Archer spits, staring at the paramedic with his nose scrunched up. “Quit touching me.”
And suddenly, a party that was supposed to be a safe space feels the exact opposite. I feel a pit form in my gut. My skin starts to prickle and I break into a sweat. Shrupty stiffens beside me, her jaw clenched and gaze glued to Archer like she’s cussing him out in her mind. I look around and see dozens of horrified faces. But everyone here who’s queer? They just look tired. Tired of that kind of shit. Done.
The paramedic stops moving, like he’s shocked. “What did you just say to me?”
Archer waves his hands in front of him wildly. “Fuck, everyone is gay now. This whole party is the gayest fucking thing I’ve ever seen!” He finally notices the people loitering in the alley, watching him, then turns his anger on all of us. “What about me? Huh? What about straight people?” He raises a fist in the air. “Straight pride!”
My jaw drops. Scoffs and groans rumble through the crowd. Someone behind me mutters, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
But Archer isn’t deterred, and goes on like that for longer than anyone wants him to. His lightly veiled homophobia is peeking out from behind the curtains. With every word he says, I deflate a little more. It’s just another reminder that oh, right, I’m different. Oh, right. There are some places where I’m not welcome. Oh, right. Even people I think I can trust would prefer it if I just didn’t exist.
I catch sight of Will and Ryan standing on the other side of the fence, apologizing to the bouncers. They must be able to hear Archer’s ranting, because Will stops and turns to listen. Then his head falls in disappointment, and I feel terrible for him. Archer is supposed to be his friend, his castmate of six years. I can’t stay quiet.
“Hey,” I call to Archer, trying to sound as angry as I feel. “That’s enough.”
He searches the crowd for whoever is yelling at him, and I freeze up. What if he outs me to everyone here? What if he starts throwing insults—or punches—in my direction? But to my relief, he’s much too drunk to figure out it was me. Phew.
Ryan, Will’s boyfriend and host of the party, comes to the rescue. “Arch, man. We get it. Everyone’s gay, this party is gay, and you’re wasted. Now let the nice paramedics do their jobs so you can go home and sleep it off, yeah?”
Archer looks up at Ryan, and I hold my breath. My hand finds Shrupty’s beside me, and I squeeze it tight. My anxious brain goes into danger mode. I locate the nearest exits. Take note of how far the bouncers are from Ryan. If something happened, it would only take a couple of seconds for them to step in. The medics are already here, so if anyone gets hurt they’ll be assisted right away. My mind is on high alert and my body is braced and ready to run. I’ve seen how these things play out too many times before.
Fights broke out at school or in the parking lot at Sonic every week, and they got vicious fast. One minute two guys are getting up in each other’s business, the next there’s twenty dudes throwing punches and people lying bleeding on the ground. If this goes south, my only priority is to get Shrupty and myself out of here as fast and as safely as possible.
But all my worry is over nothing. Archer hangs his head in shame, then finally lets the paramedics help him to his feet. As they lead him to the back of the open ambulance, he looks around the crowd of people watching him and frowns.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean it. Just ignore me. Everyone else does.”
Exasperated sighs echo around me.
“No one feels sorry for you, Mr. Straight White TV Star,” someone calls out. People laugh. I’m still trying to breathe through my brief moment of panic.
The crowd starts to disperse, and Shrupty and I walk around the ambulance and toward the street. Some girls behind us talk about how their videos of Archer are going to go viral. Someone I don’t know suggests selling it to TMZ.
“This is going to cause some trouble on Monday,” I say to Shrupty.
She nods. “I know. As if I wasn’t nervous enough about my first day. Now I gotta work with a homophobe.” She sighs and rests her head on my shoulder while we wait for our Uber. Having her next to me melts away some of my anxiety. I kiss the top of her head, hoping it will comfort her like she’s comforting me.
“Are you cold?” she asks randomly. It’s summer in LA, and I’m practically sweating through my shirt.
“Nope. Why?”
She runs a hand down my arm. “You’re shaking.”
I look down at my arms. They’re covered in goose bumps where she just touched me. “I’m just shaken up from the fight.” I close my eyes because I’m just so exhausted by myself sometimes. “I thought Archer was about to take a shot at Ryan. And then Ryan would have fought back and others would have jumped in and before we knew what was happening we would have been stuck in the middle of a rumble.”
Shrupty giggles. “A rumble? Are you from, like, West Side Story or somethi
ng?”
I laugh with her. “Something like that.”
“We were fine,” she adds. “Guys like Archer and Ryan don’t fight. At least, not like that. Besides, Arch couldn’t even stand up by himself. No way would he have tried it, especially not with Ry. His muscles have muscles.”
“Are you all right?” I ask.
She gives me a sideways glance and says, “Please, I saw through that dude’s performative allyship years ago, before I even met him. I have zero fucks to give about what he thinks.”
Our car pulls up, and we climb inside. She holds my hand as the car rolls out of the neighborhood and back toward the city.
“Wanna come to my place tomorrow?” she asks, her head resting on the seat. “Help me rehearse my lines?”
I smile at her. “Definitely.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The next morning, I’m on the bus to Shrupty’s house, giddy with excitement that I get to see her again. But as we roll through the gates of her neighborhood, that excitement turns to nervousness. My face is practically pressed up to the window as I see one mansion after another, each bigger than the next. There are sprawling compounds, protected by tall steel gates. Three- and four-story homes adorned with Roman-style pillars and elaborate fountains and surrounded by palm trees. With every multimillion-dollar house I see, the voice in my head whispering you don’t belong here grows louder and louder. I glance down at my ripped jeans, scuffed sneakers, and faded white tee that used to be my mom’s. Am I underdressed to even set foot in this suburb? I wanted to ask Parker for a quick makeup and hair session, but he stayed at Dante’s last night, and I’d never touch his brushes without supervision.
I step off the bus and use Google Maps on my phone to guide me to Shrupty’s house. Then I stare up at it for a minute in awe, like I’m staring at a painting in an art gallery. It’s a wide, two-story mansion, with a dozen windows, two chimneys, and an arched driveway surrounded by a manicured rose garden, all behind a white gate with the house number on it in cursive.
“It’s a goddamn palace,” I whisper. I look up at the gate, trying to figure out how to get inside. Then I notice an intercom on the left-side wall and press the button with the symbol of a bell on it.
