by Emery Lord
And oddly, I did, a little. The montage played in my mind: walking into a big, anonymous party, disappearing into Hunter’s friend group, where no one knew me. I could be a Chill Girl, someone with a trilling, head-thrown-back laugh. Sit on the arm of a couch with a drink in one hand. I could set aside writing portfolios and worries about money. Do something a little wrong, even, just to prove I could. “My mom’s expecting me home.”
Hunter nodded, used to this by now. “All right. But next time.”
“Next time,” I said, and for once, I meant it. I certainly meant it when I bumped his hip with mine and said, “Thanks, Chen.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
My dad moved back in during Thanksgiving break, and I told myself it felt like a natural progression, no big deal—until our final Sunday dinner at his apartment. The last bastion of the divorce arrangements, the last glimpse at this part of my life.
We ordered Chinese since his cooking supplies were mostly boxed up, labeled HOUSE or DONATION. The cynical part of me—the girl who spent every third-grade library trip searching for books about parents who fought—worried that there wasn’t a box labeled STORAGE.
“You okay, kid?” my dad asked.
“Yeah,” I said, fast and guilty. “End of an era.”
My sister whistled like a North Pole elf, closing up box after fully packed box. I’d never seen her do manual labor with any measure of cheerfulness. But then, Cameron had wanted this to happen for years now. To me, it was never a broken home, now repaired. Each three-person unit had been whole, and I belonged in both.
Max was always calling me a realist, but how could I not be? I’d seen love go both ways with the same two people. My parents loved each other so much they married in the first place—so much that they found their way back to each other. And that love still wasn’t enough to keep them from years of discord and separation.
I was beginning to think that half of growing up was figuring out when to let go and when to hold on. The radio implored me to say yes; one of my favorite TV show creators wrote a whole book about the practice of saying yes; improv class at NYU taught me yes, and. But saying yes meant saying no to other things, didn’t it? A yes to Mythos had meant a no to QuizBowl. A yes to one college would mean a no to all the others. A yes to film school felt like a no to Max, my family, my friends nearby.
“Hey,” my dad said. “You wanna tell me what’s going on in the old thinkbox?”
“Thinking about Shonda’s book.” He’d read it, too, of course, in his tireless pursuit of supporting my dreams.
“As you do.” He seemed appeased by this, enough that he didn’t notice me rubbing at my chest, annoyed by the tightness. All the lost sleep was adding up, and I felt dizzy, wishing the food would get here. Maybe low blood sugar. Or maybe I was coming down with something—the movie theater was a hotbed for germs, after all. I couldn’t think about that too much or I’d walk out on my break and never come back.
Stepping into the near-empty bedroom I’d shared with Cameron all these years, I stretched my neck, rolled my shoulders, breathed. The hallway light illuminated a strip of carpet, up to a nightstand where a picture of my dad, Cam, and me had always been. She’d wrapped it up already, packed in next to my books and the lamp. How many nights had I stretched out in the bottom bunk that first post-divorce year, breathing easy? The knots between my parents finally detangled. I missed my mom here; I missed my dad there. But it was good.
My hands cramped, heat flooding down my arms. Stop, I told my body. I knew from experience: This was not a cardiac event. It was a panic attack. But that was almost impossible to believe as my heartbeat hiccuped, both arms gone tingly. I eased to the ground, stabilizing myself. If I’d had the air for it, I might have called for my dad. Instead, the wave crested, and I managed to inhale. Again. Again.
“Paiger!” my dad called. “Food’s here!”
I wiped my lower lids, my mascara surely gray watercolor by now. The last thing I needed was for my dad to worry, so I cleared my throat and called, steadily as I could, “Coming!”
That Saturday, I allowed myself to truly lounge with my friends. We were marathoning reality TV before Tessa left to meet Laurel for a concert downtown—tickets they’d had for months now.
“I can’t believe you let us watch this in your presence,” Kayleigh told me, gesturing to a talking-head shot of someone explaining her side of the story.
“Well,” I said, “it may not be scripted, but the narrative is certainly sculpted by producers, you know? And the nature of that is so dynamic, because—”
Kayleigh held up a hand to stop me, or so I thought. But she nodded toward Morgan, who was scrolling her phone with a darkened expression.
“Morgan?” I asked. “Is it a college e-mail?”
She held up one finger, silencing us as she finished reading. I truly feared she might launch her phone into the McMahon family fireplace.
“Well,” she said, sitting up. “The school board e-mailed me back, just completely dismissive. Do you know how long Gabby and I spent laying out the argument for more effective health education? There’s not even a mention of us being a topic at a future meeting. This is egregious.”
“Those a-holes,” Kayleigh said.
“Listen to this.” Morgan’s eyes scanned the screen, filling with fire as she reread. “ ‘It was very sweet of you to compile resources relevant to Indiana’s policy, but …’ I’m sorry, very sweet of me?”
Tessa retracted her chin, offended. “What a condescending dick.”
“Right?” Morgan said. “Sweet? Like I’m some sugary little cake?”
Kayleigh considered this. “I could make that happen. A simple round buttercream with some petal-tip florals. And, in bright pink letters, REVOLUTION.”
“I couldn’t even eat it! I’m supposed to ‘watch my blood sugar’ now,” Morgan said in a mimicky, nasal voice. Her doctor appointments continued to be a frustration, to say the least.
Tessa pointed to the kitchen. “Wanna get into my dark chocolate supply?”
Morgan didn’t seem to hear her, irises wild. “They’re elected officials; they have a responsibility to the district. This e-mail is insulting. I sing in freakin’ church choir with one of them!”
Tessa looked startled by the fervor, but I understood. If Morgan could pry community change out of her diagnosis, it would be okay. It would have meaning—a story with a good ending.
“Ugh,” Morgan said. “What do I do now?”
“Be mad,” I said. “Vent to us. Take a breather. You’ll come up with something.”
“I guess. Because this is just …” She looked around, like Jesus himself would materialize in her room with soap for her mouth. “Horseshit. This is horseshit. Right?”
“This is a giant pile of horseshit,” Kayleigh said. I nodded, as high and low as my neck would allow.
“Do you want to punch this pillow?” I asked, offering one.
“No, thanks.” She sighed, though, prolonged and heavy. “I need to, like … go out or something. Burn off some energy.”
Truthfully, my own instinct, after that night at my dad’s apartment, was to let loose a little. All year, I’d been trying to manage my schedule, to multitask, to out-effort my problems. It wasn’t working, so why not try Hunter’s method? “Do you want to stop by a party, maybe?”
My friends turned to me, seemingly in slow motion.
“Who are you?” Kayleigh deadpanned. “If you’re truly Paige Hancock, say your identifying phrase.”
I rolled my eyes. “What would my identifying phrase even be? Probably ‘I’m uncomfortable’?”
“Ha!” Tessa clapped, a little too delighted, in my opinion. “Is someone we know having a party?”
“Hunter will probably know someone.”
“I’m going to drink,” Morgan announced to no one in particular.
“I’ll drink with you,” Kayleigh said. “Paige, you okay to drive?”
“Oh, um—” Technically yes
, but I’d just have to go through that damn intersection outside the movie theater. Which. Well. I could probably do, if I had to.
“I’ll drop you off,” Tessa said. “Linwood’s on the way to the venue. And I can swing by and pick you up after the show.”
Good enough for me. I pulled out my phone.
“Well, well, well,” Hunter said, standing on the porch with his arms crossed. A couple of guys were on the porch swing, smoking cigarettes and laughing at a phone video. “You showed.”
I’d only ever seen him in the cinema tux, so the red half-zipped hoodie made him look bright cheeked, his hair more jet. It was like seeing a cartoon character—almost always in the same outfit—dressed up for a special-event episode.
“I said I would!” I gestured back to Morgan and Kayleigh. “You remember my friends?”
I braced for a line, something flirtatious. But he simply held up one hand. “Hey, ladies. Thanks for nudging Hancock out of the ol’ Alcott’s social scene.”
“Can you believe we didn’t even drag her?” Morgan asked him. “It was her idea!”
“Well,” he said, pressing the door open, “she loves me. Come meet people.”
The scene was quieter than I had imagined, not the pulsing, pressed-to-the-walls crowd I’d feared. Hunter guided us into the living room, where I spotted Lane on the arm of the couch.
“Whose house is this?” I asked.
“My buddy Gabe’s. You’ve met him—tall guy? Super skinny?”
Lane leaped up from her seat, blue cup dangling from one hand. “Paige! You came!”
Hunter gestured to the group Lane had been sitting with. “Morgan, Kayleigh, and Paige, from the Cin House.”
“The cinema,” I said, smacking Hunter’s arm. “Don’t make it sound like I work somewhere seedy!”
“Well, I’m sorry to say that you sort of do. Drinks?”
“Sure.” I slipped on the casualness like a velvet dress—how did I know it wasn’t my style if I never tried it on?
“Chen!” a voice called from nearby. “Next game?”
“Yeah, man,” Hunter called back. Then to us, “You in? Beer pong?”
Morgan and Kayleigh glanced at each other and nodded—their duo cemented.
“Cool. Hancock, you’re with me?” Hunter asked.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“I can drink the beer, if you want. Have you ever played before?” He said it without a trace of mocking. Some guys, I thought, would crow with delight over someone else’s inexperience. Hunter seemed genuinely interested.
Still, a part of me wanted to scoff—of course. “Nope! Never.”
“Well, that just means you’ll have beginner’s luck.”
“Do I strike you as an athlete?”
He gave me a once-over. “The National Spelling Bee airs on ESPN.”
“Jerk.” I laughed, despite myself, and punched his arm. I’d never been the type of person to play-hit someone before, but Hunter acted like an annoying brother sometimes, and he deserved to be treated as such.
“See? Slugger!”
I did like the idea that next year, if someone asked whether I’d played beer pong before, I could honestly say: Of course.
Beer pong, as it turned out, had its merits. Sure, the spectators were intimidating, but they didn’t seem to pick sides. They cheered for anyone drinking, in any scenario. After a few embarrassing whiffs, I got the hang of the Ping-Pong ball’s hollow, plasticky weight. The first time I sank one, I stood stunned for a moment. Hunter high-fived me, and the group of strangers clapped, appeased.
Beer, however, remained disgusting, somehow both bitter and watery.
“Shots?” Hunter offered, when we’d finished. He cast himself as the host even at someone else’s house. “We do have supplies for Lane’s signature drink, the Redheaded Feminist. Her twist on another recipe.”
“Redheaded Woman with Sexual Agency was too long,” Lane said.
“Well,” Morgan said. “That, I’ve gotta do.”
“I like you,” Kayleigh announced to Lane. “Your friends should be friends with my friends.”
“Done,” Lane said, laughing. “Consider yourself invited to my birthday party, which is going to be major.”
Shots eventually devolved to a kitchen dance party, someone’s phone hooked up to a wireless speaker. Hunter danced with goofy confidence, offering a hand to spin me. My friends bounced, hands raised, and we probably looked like total fools to any sober person. At that moment, though, I didn’t care a bit.
“Paige!” Morgan said, mid-hop. “Guess what! My stomach feels sloshy. Ha-ha! Like a dishwasher inside of me. Swish-swoosh.”
My feet pressed into the ground, and I took her by both arms. “Hey, let’s maybe stop jumping.”
“Okay!”
I guided her to the hallway, as she stared around, looking woozy. Executive decision: time to go. Morgan needed water and quiet and to sleep this off. And hopefully to not puke at my friend’s friend’s house.
“Hey,” Kayleigh called, “I’m gonna text Tessa and get her here, okay?”
I gave a thumbs-up as I steered Morgan toward Gabe’s mother’s powder room, with its embroidered hand towels.
“Stupid school board,” Morgan muttered, sinking to the tile. “Stupid Morgan. Stupid alcohol.”
And with this litany, she laid her head down on the toilet seat. I found a stack of mouthwash cups and got her to sip some water slowly.
“Better?” I asked, after a few minutes.
“I maybe can’t have kids bio-log-ickly,” Morgan said, slurring. She licked her lips. “Biologic-all-ee.”
“What?” My voice came out a whisper.
“Or it might be hard for me. Is what the doctor said. Don’t tell anyone, okay?” She patted my knee.
I gripped her hands, trying to get her to look at me. “Of course I won’t. Does anyone else know, though?”
“My mom. She had a hard time getting pregnant with me, so she gets that I am sad and mad and confused. I’m seventeen! I shouldn’t have to think about fertilly. Fertality. FERTILITY.”
There were a lot of other things I could say—that she could become a parent any number of ways, that medicine and treatment would likely make strides. That maybe the doctor shouldn’t have introduced such an unknown hypothetical to a seventeen-year-old. But as someone who confronted all negative possibilities as a coping mechanism, I knew better than to downplay the complicated feelings here. “That really, really sucks.”
“It does.” Morgan nodded. She stretched her neck, then rolled her shoulders. “Okay. I’m fine. Can you please forget I blathered?”
“No,” I said. “But I can promise not to bring it up again until you’re ready.”
“Okay. Thank you for sitting on the bathroom floor with me.”
“You’re welcome. Let’s go home, okay?”
Kayleigh couldn’t get through to Tessa or Laurel, who were surely on the dance floor near thumping speakers. So she did what I would have done: texted Max.
When I’d imagined the moment of him picking us up, Max strode from his car in his jaunty way, smiling at me like Oh, you. Pretending to be inconvenienced, but not-so-secretly amused by my tipsiness.
I stood up, waving as I saw Max’s car pull onto the street. He rolled down the window. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I said, surprised. I stood up straighter. His worry was sobering, if not literally. “Thanks for coming to get us.”
“Sure.” The muscle in his jaw worked so hard that I watched closer, wondering if he was chewing gum. He was not.
On the ride home, Morgan sang loudly, the nausea left behind now. Almost loud enough to cover the annoyance pulsating from Max Watson’s entire being.
We pulled into Tessa’s driveway, and Morgan jumped out of the car. “We are home, and I am so happy!”
“Thanks, Max-O,” Kayleigh said. She kissed her palm and reached up to the front seat, pressing it against his cheek. He smiled a bit, to my relief, as
she climbed out. I put my hand on the door.
“Stay for a sec?” Max said quietly.
Kayleigh made an eek face and scurried toward the house.
“Hope he doesn’t ground you!” Morgan called back to me, and laughed at her own joke.
Drunk Morgan was kind of a turd, actually.
“I’m sorry,” I said, before Max could get a word in. “We shouldn’t have called.”
“I’m not mad that you guys called me.”
I crossed my arms, bracing for impact. “No?”
He thought for a while, his eyes looking straight up the driveway. “I’m just trying to understand. You were staying in for girls’ night. Then I’m picking you up, drunk, from a Linwood party?”
“Morgan was having a bad night. She needed to get out of the house.”
“I take it Hunter was there?”
“Yeah,” I said. Oh. This … looked bad, didn’t it? Like I told my boyfriend I was staying in and then went to some guy’s party. “I snapped into crisis mode with Morgan—total tunnel vision. I should have texted you.”
Max nodded slowly, but he didn’t turn to face me. “What’s goin’ on with you, Janie?”
Part of me wanted to let every spiraling thought spring out of my head like Medusa’s snakes. The unknowns of my own future, the doubled panic that Max might make his choices around mine, that my dad moving back in could be a complete disaster, that my damn nightmares were back, and that even the daily, lower-level anxiety gave me a too-fast heartbeat, my mind always scrabbling for somewhere safe to rest.
But he’d recoil—who wouldn’t? It’d be like removing the mask of smiling, summer Paige to reveal the hideous drama below. Some dream girl.
“I’m really freaked out about hearing from colleges,” I admitted. That seemed like the safest one, a tiptoe.
“I am, too,” Max said. “I guess I’m just surprised your reaction was to go out and get drunk. That’s not like you.”
At this, I huffed. The past few years were decided for me, my life swerved into grief. Who would I have been without it? I had no idea.
Max must have heard the indignation because he added, “You’ve always said drinking isn’t worth it to you. That all you’d do is worry about getting in trouble.”
