Shadow Girl

by Liana Liu

  Some of the guys are dressed up too, in button-downs and nice pants, but not all of them. Henry isn’t out of place in his old shirt and worn jeans.

  I am completely out of place. I stand there alone, feeling that everyone can see how alone and out of place I am, like it’s a smear on my face. My cold hands are still twined behind my back. I unhook my fingers and straighten my arms against my sides. Then I’m afraid I look too stiff. I bend my elbows slightly. I soften my knees. It’s uncomfortable. I stay in that position. I wish I’d changed my clothes. I wish a lot of things.

  “Amber! It’s so good to see you again!” says a girl walking by, and when she stops I realize she is saying it to me.

  “No, um, sorry. I’m not Amber,” I say.

  The girl frowns, as if I’m accusing her of lying to me. Or as if I’m lying to her. “Whatever, Amber. You’re so weird,” she says, and teeters away in her very high heels.

  Henry reappears. “There you are! Where’d you go?”

  “Nowhere,” I say.

  “Come on, I’ll introduce you to some people.” He brings me over to a group standing in a cluster and tells me their names: Franklin and Neal and Kenzie and Daisy and Emma Rose. They are all nice, impeccably nice and polite, smiling their clean, straight white smiles in my direction.

  Emma Rose—glimmering green dress, auburn hair in loose waves, lovely like a mermaid—is next to me, so after the introductions are over and conversation resumes, she is the one who gets the job of talking to me. “How do you know Henry?” she asks.

  “I’m tutoring his sister this summer.” I shouldn’t be embarrassed to admit it; I’m proud of my work, proud of all I’ve accomplished.

  “Cool! I love Ella, though I haven’t seen her in ages. Is she all grown up now?”

  “Not really,” I say. “She’s only eight.”

  Emma Rose giggles. “Yeah, but kids these days. My cousin is nine and she’s already stealing her mother’s lipstick and sneaking it to school.”

  “Ella’s not like that, though. She’s still a little kid.”

  “That’s good, I guess.”

  “How do you know Henry?” I ask.

  “We went to kindergarten together. And grade school. And high school. Henry was my first boyfriend. Can you believe it? Actually, since you know him, you probably can. Henry’s practically every girl’s first boyfriend. He was also Daisy’s first boyfriend. And, oh my god I can’t believe I forgot, Tina Dorsey. All this was in, like, fifth grade. Ridiculous, huh?”

  I nod and laugh on cue. But why does my laughter sting my throat?

  “Emma Rose, I heard my name. What lies are you telling about me?” Henry bumps his way between us. He smiles at me. He smiles at her.

  “Remember when we broke up? Then three seconds later you asked Tina Dorsey out?” She slaps his arm, her palm loudly smacking against his skin.

  “Tina Dorsey. I forgot about her. Poor Tina,” Henry says.

  “Yeah, I wonder what she’s up to now,” Emma Rose says.

  Henry turns to me. “Tina’s father is Mick Dorsey. You know who he is?”

  I shake my head.

  “He was arrested for embezzlement our sophomore year. It was a huge deal. On the front page of the newspaper and everything. He went to jail,” says Emma Rose.

  “Then Tina stopped coming to school. I think she and her mom eventually moved to . . . uh, I can’t remember. Somewhere far away.”

  The two of them grimace. Then they change the subject.

  “Congrats—I heard you convinced Kristoff to let you graduate,” says Emma Rose. “You’re lucky. I hear he’s been super happy lately because he has a new young girlfriend.”

  “What? No way,” he says.

  “She’s a mail-order bride or something. They met on the internet and he flew out to wherever to meet her, then bring her back. She’s like forty years younger than him. Gross, huh?” she says.

  “Hey, if Kristoff is happy, then I’m happy,” he says.

  “Yeah, you’re happy he’s letting you graduate,” she says.

  Henry turns to me. “Kristoff isn’t a bad guy. He’s had a rough couple of years. He and his wife got divorced and his son went to rehab.”

  “Actually, it was his daughter,” says Emma Rose. “She had an eating disorder.”

  “But didn’t his son have that drug problem?” he says.

  “No, no. That was Barker’s son,” she says.

  They keep talking and I have nothing to add, no gossip, no insight, no joke. They keep talking and I stop listening. They keep talking and I take a step backward. Another step. Another and another, until I’ve slipped away.

  The party has expanded to fill the cavernous space. I drift around the edges of the crowd, snagging on bits of chatter about people I don’t know and places I haven’t been to and things I don’t understand: “I can’t believe Patrick John is hooking up with Kerry. . . .” “No, no, this August we’re going to the Riviera. . . .” “I found the Chloé at Barney’s but in peach not cream. . . .”

  “Hey!” Someone grabs my shoulder. It’s a stranger, a skinny white guy with glasses. He’s smiling, but I expect him to ask me what I’m doing here, who invited me here, and why.

  The stranger asks me where the kitchen is.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know,” I say.

  “That’s okay. I haven’t met you yet. I’m Glenn,” he says. “Want to help me find the kitchen? Looks like you need a drink too.”

  “Sure,” I say. It’s something to do.

  Though it’s obvious that he doesn’t need my help. The lights are on in the kitchen, a blazing beacon leading us from the dark living room. On the stone countertop there are bottles of liquor, dozens of bottles lined up and gleaming. My new acquaintance, Glenn, swings open the stainless-steel refrigerator to reveal more bottles, beer and soda and beer and juice and beer.

  “What do you want?” he asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “I can mix you something, anything. Just name it.”

  “No, thanks. I’m not a big drinker.” I’ve only had a total of three alcoholic beverages in my life. The first and most fun was a strawberry wine cooler I drank at Patty’s birthday party our freshman year of high school, before Patty got seriously religious. It was six girls and we all got warm and giggly and talked about how we would be friends forever. The second and most disgusting was a beer I drank because Paul Lim, my then-boyfriend, handed it to me. It tasted bitter and felt bristly; I finished it anyway and immediately got nauseous. The third and most unexceptional was a vodka orange juice I drank at Shirley Yang’s graduation party. There probably wasn’t much vodka in it because it tasted entirely of sugary fake orange and afterward I felt no different at all.

  Glenn pulls something out of the refrigerator. It’s another bottle, this one a deep green with a silver foil wrapper and a red seal. “Champagne,” he says. “Do you like champagne?”

  And I don’t know if it’s because of the handsome bottle, or because I have nothing better to do, or because I feel out of place and I’m tired of feeling out of place, but I say, “Yes. I love champagne.”

  He untwists the wire, and the cork pops out with that heart-thrilling sound I’ve heard so many times in the movies. Except now this is my real life. I laugh and take the glass he offers me, a tall, slender wine glass—I know there’s a specific name for it, and I remind myself to look it up later—and study the glittering gold inside. It smells sweet. I bring the glass to my lips.

  “Wait,” says Glenn. “We have to toast.”

  “Right.” I’ve half forgotten he’s there. I lift my arm obligingly and Glenn says something about new friends as I watch the tiny bubbles in my glass sparkle to the surface. We clink. Then we drink.

  It tastes as sweet as it smells. Not too sweet. Perfectly sweet. And I’m pleased to discover that I haven’t lied: I do love champagne. I drink the whole slender glass in five easy gulps. Glenn pours me a refill teetering to the brim.

&nbs
p; “Are you Japanese?” he asks.

  “Are you Korean?” he asks.

  “Are you Filipino?” he asks. “I mean Filipina?”

  I shake my head as I drink, drink, drink. Then I tell myself to slow down. Too late; it’s all gone. Glenn raises the green bottle again, but I shake my head and cover my glass. “I think I’ve had enough,” I say.

  “You think?” he says, tilting the bottle over my hand over my glass.

  “I’ve had enough.” I try to say it firmly, but my voice is much too soft.

  He tilts the bottle higher and splashes my hand. I recoil from the cold wet. I dash to the sink to wash off the sticky sweetness. I come back to find that Glenn has refilled my glass. And I’m furious. But when I open my mouth to shout, someone else shouts:

  “Who opened that? We were saving the champagne for midnight!”

  A group of girls comes tumbling into the kitchen, and one of them grabs the bottle from Glenn’s hand. “Oh, Glenn. Of course it’s you,” she says, rolling her eyes. She slings the bottle to her lips and drinks deeply.

  It’s the girl who called me Amber. She is drunk, drunker than before, and she seemed rather drunk before. Though her blond hair is still perfectly curled, her floaty floral dress now has a dark blotch on the chest and her red lipstick is a crooked smear with a faded center. And her dishevelment makes something inside me relax. Because she looks the way I feel.

  Maybe that’s why, when the girl glances up and sees me and smiles and bounces over to give me a hug and cries, “Amber! There you are!” I don’t resist and I don’t correct her. I hug her back.

  She whispers, “We have to get away from Glenn. He’s disgusting.”

  I whisper back, “Agreed. Don’t forget the champagne, though.”

  She laughs uproariously and declares, “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

  Then she instructs her friends to grab more champagne from the refrigerator, links her arm through mine, and pulls me out the door. Glenn trails after us, speaking in a plaintive tone, but his words are trampled over by the girls rushing to catch up with us, cradling green bottles in their bare arms.

  The first girl, the drunk girl, introduces me to the others. “Vera, Molly, and Deidre, this is my amazing friend Amber. Amazing Amber,” she says.

  “Nice to meet you!” I say, and suddenly find a green bottle in my hand, uncorked, so I lift it to my lips and swallow fizzy mouthful after fizzy mouthful as we skip down the long hallway.

  We don’t return to the living room. We dash up a flight of stairs. A door opens and we burst out into the warm night. The rooftop is covered in greenery, thick grass and curling vines and small trees, and in the center is an oval-shaped swimming pool. The only reminders that we are high off the ground are the tops of the tall buildings surrounding us, lighting the real sky with thousands of artificial stars.

  Next to the swimming pool, there’s a group of guys lounging on some cushioned chairs and the girls run to them, so I do too. Deidre slides in next to one of the boys, her head leaning into his neck, his arm dropping around her waist. Vera and Molly sit on an empty chair, kick off their heeled sandals, and lean together, talking quietly.

  The drunk girl, my friend whose name I still don’t know, pops open all the unpopped champagne and passes the bottles around. She introduces me to the guys as Amber, and I tell everyone how happy I am to meet them. I’m so happy. A cute boy thanks me for wearing such a casual outfit because it makes him feel better about being underdressed (he’s also in a shirt with shorts), and I tell him that’s why I did it—just so he’d feel comfortable. He laughs and holds up the green bottle in his hand. There’s a green bottle in my hand, so I lift it up and tap it to his. The sound rings clear as a bell and then we both laugh and then we both drink.

  “How do you know Annelise?” asks the cute boy.

  I realize he is talking about my drunk friend, and I say, “Oh, Annelise and I have known each other for years and years, practically forever.”

  “I’ve known her for years too. Why haven’t met before now?”

  “It wasn’t the right time yet.” I wink. I can’t believe I just winked. I am, I notice, drunk, very drunk, extremely drunk, wonderfully drunk. I didn’t know it could be like this, so easy and confident and comfortable and free. I didn’t know I could be like this.

  How strange to think that less than a mile away, my brother and Doris Chang are sitting on the lumpy plaid couch in our small living room, watching some ridiculous romantic comedy on our old TV, while my mother dozes in the corner. I feel so far away from them, from home, from everything and everyone I know, as if I’m in some glorious foreign city.

  Except I’m not.

  Then all at once I’m crushed by sadness. Because I realize none of this is actually me or permanent or real. I don’t belong here; I can’t belong. It was only the alcohol that made me believe—for a brief moment—that I could.

  “Are you all right?” The cute boy looks alarmed.

  “I don’t know.” I scrub at my eyes.

  “Okay.” He quickly gets up and goes and I’m ashamed to have scared him away, why do I scare everyone away? I’m so ashamed and sad and my father, I can’t believe my fucking father, and I’m so angry and mortified and hopelessly and uselessly drunk. I want to go home. I never want to go home.

  “Amber, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” Annelise comes to sit next to me. She wraps her arm around my shoulder. She sways slightly, and she sways me along with her.

  “I’m not crying,” I say. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s obviously not nothing,” she says.

  “It’s just life. Life is so sad,” I say.

  “Oh, yeah. I know.” Annelise hums a soft tune, pausing occasionally to swig from her green bottle. She offers it to me and I take one small, careful sip. For some reason I’m expecting it to suddenly taste bad, sour, harsh. But the champagne is as sweet as ever.

  “You know what will cheer you up? Let’s go for a swim.” She puts the bottle down and swivels around so her back is facing me. “Unzip, please?”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Unzip!”

  As soon as I do, she cannonballs in. The splash is enormous. Everyone stands up, first squealing because of the splatter, then cheering because Annelise is swimming a smooth stroke through the blue. Everyone begins unbuttoning and untying and unzipping their own clothes. Everyone leaps into the water. Except for me. Annelise’s dress is a floral puddle on the ground. I pick it up, shake it out, and hang it on the chair.

  “Amber! Get in here!” shouts Annelise.

  I smile at her but shake my head.

  “Amber!” someone else shouts from the pool. Then there are more voices. “Amber!” they shout. “Amber! Amber!” they all shout. “Amber, get in here! Now!”

  Then I can’t help laughing at the sight of their wet faces and soaked hair and the slurp of the water and the fervor of their voices as they shout my name, which isn’t even my name, but it doesn’t matter. They’re calling for me. I take off my shirt; I step out of my shorts. For a moment I’m self-conscious about my cotton underwear, but I tell myself that the shadows hide its plainness. I step to the edge of the pool. I take a deep breath. I jump. It’s what Amber would do.

  The water is as warm as a bath, a sunny day, a mug of cooled hot chocolate. It’s warm as my champagne-warmed skin and my sadness dissolves, most of my sadness, as I slosh in the shallow end with everyone else, just one more wet-faced, soaked-hair body among bodies in this oval of ocean. We dip and lunge and play games with no apparent rules and no apparent object, other than to splash and be splashed. We tease and stagger and scream.

  Annelise climbs out of the pool and cannonballs back in, water flies and shrieks echo and limbs flail perilously close to heads and a voice in my head is babbling about safety and caution and danger, but I can hardly hear it over the sound of laughter, my laughter. The boy grabs my ankle under the water. I send a wave into his face when he surfaces.
>
  Then suddenly the pool gets crowded.

  I no longer recognize everyone I’m splashing, or who’s splashing me. I lose track of Annelise. I lose track of Vera and Molly. I lose track of the cute boy. I get trapped behind a couple who are either making out or wrestling or both. I try edging around them and get elbowed in the shoulder. I try edging again and get kneed in the hip.

  Finally I try paddling right into them and it works—they untangle themselves, cursing, to allow me through. It works until I’ve thrashed past them and then I start sinking, and when I set down my leg to steady myself on the floor my foot stretches and searches and finds nothing because I have somehow thrashed my way to the deep end of the pool where I cannot reach the floor to steady myself, and so I sink.

  I panic. I struggle against the water, clawing, punching, kicking, and the water fights back, burning my nose, stinging my eyes, choking down my throat and into my lungs. I struggle harder, but what chance do I have against an opponent that is so much bigger and stronger and doesn’t care about winning or losing? I sink.

  Then I feel a sudden pressure behind me. A person. I twist around to try to grab hold of them, but they have their arms anchored under my arms and are pulling me up, pulling me through the pool, back to the shallow end. With their assistance, I prop myself up on the steps.

  I cough out water. It runs out of my mouth, out of my nose. It drips from my ears. I inhale. I can’t remember it ever feeling so good to inhale air. I exhale just so I can inhale again. I rub my stinging eyes.

  “I’d have thought you would know better than to drink and swim. Especially since you can’t swim and refuse to learn how,” says my rescuer.

  My vision is blurry. I have an excruciating headache. My heart is wild. My stomach churning. I’m worried I might throw up. And I feel amazing. I feel so alive. I grin at Henry Morison, throw my arms around his neck, and kiss him right on the mouth.

  5

  WHEN I STUMBLE INTO THE LIVING ROOM THE NEXT MORNING, my brother takes one look at me, snickers, and says: “You’re so hungover.”

  “For your information, I almost drowned last night.”