by Dalya Moon
“No fair,” I say, trying to not faint. “I was distracted by the overpowering aroma of hummus down here. Did you guys get any normal food?”
He makes the disgusted face again and releases me. “Julie made a cheese and salami tray.” He pronounces salami as though it's made from medical waste.
“Sounds awesome.”
James wanders off to help with the decorating for all of thirty seconds before he moves on to setting up the music while peppering Julie with questions about which girls from school are coming to the party.
“Munch will be here,” Julie says, counting off guests on her fingers. “And Hopscotch, Sadmachine, and her cousin, Tumor Girl.”
“Are any of them hot?” James asks. “No, scratch that. Are any of them desperate?”
“We can dim the lanterns even more,” she says, ruffling his hair and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “If we turn them right off, you could let your personality shine.”
“I do not like what you're implying,” he says. “And I do not appreciate you saying it with mom's voice.”
As they banter away, I finish setting up my photo booth. This starry theme seemed like such a great idea last night when I was putting the foil on the stars, but now it looks stupid, like something off the set of a kids' show.
I put away all my cameras except for two—one digital and one film. I've been rolling my own film reels recently, and developing at home. Gran doesn't like the smell of the chemicals in the bathroom, but she's away now.
Gran. I feel a pang of loneliness for her. I hope she's getting her money's worth out of the cruise ship's buffet—she's been getting a little too thin lately. I don't like the idea of big, cowboy-looking Rudy (her gentleman-friend) on top of her. I was willing to overlook Rudy's bad breath, but recently he's started cracking a few too many Viagra jokes. Too far, Rudy. Too far.
I set up my light stands with some sandbags, as close to the wall as I can get them. They'll probably get knocked over, considering the way things have been going for me lately. I've got the house to myself for weeks, and the only one who's going to be jumping on my bed with me is Mibs, the mildly neurotic, diabetic cat.
I do love Mibs, but I'd really like to have a girlfriend.
* * *
Julie has turned off the ceiling lights and the basement is lit only by candles, a string of white Christmas lights, and star-shaped, colored-glass lanterns. By night, with music and the scent of hummus, a guy can feel transported to a faraway land. That guy might even be moved to yearning by the romantic setting—so moved, in fact, that he might be reconsidering a brief dalliance with Raye-Anne Donovan, despite knowing better.
People have been arriving for the past hour, mostly congregating around the snack table. The kids in retro hats have commandeered the stereo. I scan the room for Raye-Anne, and I'm both disappointed and relieved she isn't here.
Woah. Who's that?
The prettiest girl I've ever seen has just come down the basement stairs, into our party. She's alone, clasping her hands, and alternating between glancing around the room and down at her shoes, which sparkle. She must have been headed to another party in the neighborhood, heard the music here, and came in James and Julie's door by accident. That's the only possible explanation.
She's wearing a dress, and her body language is hesitant, in a cute way. Her toes point slightly together, and as she reaches the bottom step, where she's blocked from view by the other party-goers, I realize she's not very big. I have this urge to pick her up—literally—and twirl her around until she squeals. Why am I standing here with my hand in a bowl of chips? I must talk to her before she discovers she's at a lame high school party and leaves.
I weave through the crowd toward her, and when she meets my gaze and smiles, I adjust my trajectory and hit the snack table instead, grabbing a handful of crackers and salami. I slink back to my photo booth, mentally flagellating myself.
I sneak a glance in her direction as Mystery Girl is engulfed in a crowd of new arrivals. And ... she's gone. Maybe she was never even there, just a product of my overly-hormonal imagination.
* * *
I've taken a number of photos so far, and I'm readjusting my lights when someone puts soft, little hands over my eyes and presses her boobs on my back. “Mom?” I say, like I always do.
“Ew,” she says as she lets go and jumps in front of me. It's Raye-Anne Donovan, and she's wearing something red and possibly illegal. I get a little pulse of terror.
But it's just Raye-Anne, I tell myself, with her cute little rosebud mouth, and if I'm reading things right, she's into me. Maybe I can get past the vision I had of her and enjoy the year or so leading up to it. I don't know how the causality works—if I know something's going to happen, can I somehow prevent future events?
“I hear your folks are out of town,” Raye-Anne says.
“My grandma, yeah. She's on a cruise,” I say. Raye-Anne nods, inviting me to say more—to invite her over, I guess, but I don't want to, so I let the silence stand between us. Seconds pass. I fail to make the gesture she's waiting for.
A reggae song comes on and Raye-Anne makes a big motion of noticing someone she recognizes over my shoulder, complete with a mimed, “Oh, hey,” on her tiny lips. I blink, and she's off, weaving into the growing crowd, under the blue and green star-shaped lanterns.
Someone else has entered my photo booth. The hair on my arms raises.
It's her. The beautiful girl who can't possibly belong here.
CHAPTER 3
The beautiful girl has the longest, palest hair I've ever seen, almost silver.
Mystery Girl circles the stool in my photo booth. The fabric of her dress contains tiny moons and stars, just like the navy curtains of my photo booth setup. “The girl you were talking to,” she says, referring to Raye-Anne. “She's attractive.”
“Oh, her? She's a friend from school,” I say. The words tumble out of my mouth without much forethought.
I have the sensation of falling—of the ground disappearing beneath my feet.
“I'm Zan,” I say, sticking out my hand. “Zan, like Sam, but with different consonants.”
“Short for Zaniel,” she says with certainty. I tell her she's actually correct, and she responds with, “Lucky guess. I'm a good guesser.”
“I'll say. Most people assume it's Xan with an X, for Xander or Alexander.” Actually, most people wrinkle their foreheads and wonder if my parents were crazy or hippies or cult members. My parents, rest their souls, were all of the above.
“I'm Austin. I'm at the opposite end of the alphabet.”
Julie turns on the blender for margaritas and I'm drowned out in the crushing of ice.
Austin perches on the photo booth stool and bats her eyelashes. “Are you going to steal my soul or what?” she asks, nodding at the camera I'm dumbly fondling with my other idiot hand.
In answer to her question, I push the button that synchronizes the external flashbulbs with the camera. Everything's white-hot, and the room is filled with the sound of every word being spoken at once. Then, black. Silence. Absence of light and words.
Through the blackness, Julie yells, “James! Breaker!”
James yells, “Zan! You blew the breaker.”
“You think?” I reply. Some people laugh. “Sorry,” I say to the dark shapes around me. Someone bumps into me from behind, and I stumble into some people, causing them to complain about food and drinks being spilled on them. The room is all elbows and knees and irritation. “Sorry, sorry,” I say. I'm all turned around, worrying about tiny Austin being knocked down in the dark. I need to protect her.
The basement's hot, the air moist and lacking in oxygen. There must be seventy people crammed down here, and it's not bright here at the best of times, let alone in the evening. Within seconds, blue squares float everywhere as people turn on their phones, faces lit in crisp, unearthly blue.
“I'll go flip the breaker switch, that'll fix it,” James calls out from a few feet away. “Everybo
dy STAY CALM.” More laughter, and at that, people begin their conversations again in the thin blue light.
I pivot around, searching for Austin.
“So, tell me about yourself,” I say to her in the darkness.
“I work at The Bean,” she says, glints of light reflecting off her teeth. “Full time. I graduated last year, and I haven't gotten around to college just yet.”
“College?” That makes her at least two years older than me.
The lights come on and everyone applauds. Someone resets the stereo, and the music comes on, mid-song. Julie's pouring margaritas now, so the blender's off for the moment.
I seize my opportunity and take two photos in rapid succession, while Austin is still distracted.
“Get my good side,” she says, pointing to her right cheek.
“If everyone has a good side, does that mean they have an evil side too?”
Without hesitation, she points to her left cheek. “Get my evil side too.”
“Nah, I'm sure you don't have an evil side.” I take a few more photos, just in case. What else can I say to keep her talking? Definitely nothing about school, as I don't want to draw more attention to the age gap. “Got any summer plans? Some of us are going to the lake tomorrow.”
“I don't plan that far ahead,” she says.
“You don't plan for tomorrow?”
“I like you,” she says. “Will you walk me home after the party? Unless your girlfriend minds.”
“Seriously, I don't have a girlfriend.”
“Then why's she over there mentally stripping off my skin to wear as a hat?”
I turn to catch Raye-Anne glaring our way. She quickly looks away, sipping her margarita.
Austin walks past me, leaving my photo booth, leaving me. “Find me when things wind down.”
As I watch her walk away, I notice her hair is surprisingly long—almost down to her waist, and neither straight nor curly. I love her, says the idiot voice in my head. How ridiculous! I just met her. I guess I'd like to love her. That's more accurate and reasonable. I wish the party were over, but it's barely ten.
Julie puts a glass of margarita in my hand. “Check this out. Salted rim, and spiked with a bit of tequila. Dad let us have a small bottle, and I'm stretching it out. Taste. Not bad whatsoever, huh?”
She's shoving the glass at my mouth, and since the best way to deal with Julie is to do as she commands, I take a sip. It's salty and sweet, bitter and cold. The chilly liquid draws a line down my throat and into my stomach. “Wow.”
Her eyes are big with delight. “I know, right?”
She steps a little closer, and I back away. I say, “You'd better take that pitcher around before it melts.”
She bites her lip, then walks away.
Some guys from the photography club start poking through my equipment and I don't even care if they get fingerprints on the lenses. Austin said I could walk her home. Unless I'm overreacting, I may be falling in love. I bet it feels just like this.
* * *
I've taken a hundred more photos, and when James comes over, I confess I've got a new crush.
“You have to go in blind,” James says, fixing me with his gaze. “No magic, no poking in the belly button,” he says. “No poking except the mutual kind.”
“Hey now, it's always mutual.”
“You know what I mean,” he says. “You have to stop looking for flaws, or you'll always find them. Nobody is perfect.”
James grabs the empty chip bowl and disappears up the stairs, presumably to get more.
I check the time on my phone. More people have arrived, the music is louder, and this party may never end. This party might continue, day and night, through the whole summer, and I'll never get to walk Austin home.
Some more girls and a few guys have lined up to get their photos taken. It takes me a moment to remember what I'm supposed to be doing. Usually, when I have a photo booth set up, it's my primary focus, and I don't even stop long enough to eat. Tonight my head's all muddled.
I take a more few photos, then bend over my equipment bag to pack up.
Two little blue shoes appear in my line of sight, coming to a halt with one pointing in to the other one. I look up at Austin, her face framed by wispy hair. “It's almost midnight,” she says.
The zipper finally lets go, and I fall on my butt in a graceless manner. I continue the roll with a somersault, then jump up quickly. “Just practicing my Olympic routine,” I say. “It has more impact with the ribbons.”
She laughs, and I want to wrap myself in her laugh and wear it as a scarf.
“I should leave before midnight,” she says.
“What happens at midnight? Do you turn into a pumpkin?”
“Even better, a werewolf.”
“But it's not a full moon,” I say, which is a total bluff, because how would I know what cycle the moon is in?
“I don't want to tear you away from your photography,” she says.
“Nah, I'm done. Come on,” I say nodding toward the stairs, and without even being asked, Austin picks up two light stands.
“I'm stronger than I look,” she says.
“We don't have to lug these far, I'm just going to chuck them in James' closet. I'll warn you, though, his room smells like hummus.”
“It'll make the night air all the sweeter when we get outside,” she says.
I gesture for Austin to go up ahead of me on the stairs. It's the chivalrous thing to do, plus I can look at her nice legs. I glance back down to say goodbye to the hosts, but all I see is Raye-Anne, with her little mouth scrunched into a thorny ring of hate.
CHAPTER 4
We're out in the cool night air, and Austin's right—it does smell sweet. I point to the moon. “See, I was right. Not a werewolf night after all.”
Back inside, the party is still throbbing with bass notes.
Austin gazes up at the sky, her face soft with moonlight.
“What's that strange noise?” she asks.
I listen. The sound goes, “Arp-arp. Arp-arp.”
“Is that a hurt animal?” she asks. “Should we do something? It's coming from the other side of this fence.”
“He's fine. It's a he, and he's a Rottweiler, but super friendly. He had a growth removed and his bark isn't so scary now.”
“Cancer?” she asks.
“I guess.”
She shivers and looks around while rubbing her arms. I take off my jacket and hand it to her. Our hands nearly touch, but don't. She smiles, letting me know I'm doing well so far.
We walk north for five blocks in silence. Absolute silence. I don't think I've ever known a girl who could walk five blocks in silence.
My arms are all covered in goosebumps, and I can't tell if it's the cold or my nerves. I've read that goosebumps are a defensive trait. All mammals in uncomfortable situations get them, and on the furry ones, it makes them look bigger—like my cat Mibs, when the vacuum cleaner turns on.
Finally, as we're waiting for the light to change so we can cross one of the busier streets, she says, “You know, I don't live anywhere near here.” She laughs, which makes me want to kiss her so bad.
“Oh no, where do you live?”
“Tonight's such a lovely chance for a walk,” she says. “A night like this shouldn't be wasted.”
“I've got some cash for a cab, though. Oh no. You didn't think I had a car, did you?”
“Where do you live?” she counters. The light changes and she looks both ways before stepping out on the crosswalk. I follow.
“Five blocks east of here,” I say. “I was on autopilot when we left the party. I've known James for years, and I know this route like the back of my hand.”
We're across the street when she abruptly stops in front of me, turns around, and grabs both my hands. “Don't look,” she says.
I close my eyes. “Don't look at what? Are you mugging me?” I joke. “Witnesses saw us leave the party together. You'll never get away with it.”
> She squeezes my hands, causing the traffic noise and everything else in the world to fade away. “Quick, think of what the backs of your hands look like,” she says. “Everybody says that expression, like the back of my hand, but would you really know? Would you be able to pick your hands out of a police lineup?”
“What would my hands be doing in a police lineup? Have they wandered off and committed some sort of crime?”
“Describe,” she says. “You can open your eyes, but no peeking at your hands.”
We walk along the sidewalk with her holding both my hands across us, promenade-style, as though we're square dancing.
My hands. The backs of them. Think. I take my time so she won't let go. One of my fingernails is still black from an accidental door slam ages ago. I've got a mole on the right hand, from which a very large, wiry hair grows. She checks and confirms they're my hands and I can have them back. I reluctantly accept them into my pockets just as we reach my house.
I stop and unlatch the front gate, which is attached to a wood trellis, upon which Gran's wisteria grows but refuses to flower. Pink and white roses grow along the front edge of the lawn.
“Looks like a perfect house,” she says. “You just need a picket fence, and it'd be like a scene off a jigsaw puzzle.”
“Do you want to come in?” I ask.
“Do you want me to come in?” she asks.
“Of course I do.”
“You're not just taking pity on me?”
“No, why would I?”
She smells the rose again and looks at me sideways. “The lights are all off. Wouldn't your parents mind if we woke them up?”
“Nobody home but me. Besides, I don't have any parents.” Before she can make the face everyone does when they hear this, I tell her that the circumstances by which I became an orphan happened a long time ago and I'm quite happy living with my grandmother, who is presently on a cruise, enjoying the company of a man who smells like pepperoni and laughs at dirty jokes but doesn't make them.
