Yes. That’s the truth, but it’s not what I start to type. Because even though Sidney’s known Lindsay even longer than I have, she’s always sort of weird when she comes around. Lindsay is Nadine’s daughter, but I haven’t seen her around much the last few years. The first summer I was here, Lindsay seemed to be an almost permanent fixture on the beach. Her mom or dad would drop her off and she’d spend the day lying on the dock or on a towel spread across the grass on the hill. But after that first summer she didn’t come around as much. And last summer I didn’t see her once, despite the fact that her family built a house right behind ours. But still, radio silence. I’m debating what to say when I hear footsteps behind me, and turn to find Lindsay standing on my deck.
“Hey.” I try not to sound startled, but I’m pretty sure I do. Because I am.
“I’m sorry, is it totally weird that I just showed up?” She looks embarrassed. “I was in the house and I saw you right after I texted, so I just…”
“No, it’s fine.” I stand up and give her a hug, and the smile returns to her face. I nod toward the white plastic chair next to mine. “You wanna hang out?”
“Yeah. Cool.” She sits and kicks her feet up on the wooden railing of the deck. Lindsay looks like a stereotypical lake girl … deeply tanned skin, long hair down the middle of her back that looks like she just spent a day at the beach, and shorts that look like she lives in them. There’s a light outline in the denim where her phone is stuck into her pocket.
We sit and talk about my senior year and her first year of college. I tell her about going to Oakwood in the fall, and she tells me about the sorority she pledged. How she’s moving into the house in the fall. She’s soft and sweet, and the longer we talk, the harder it is to think of a single thing that could make Sidney dislike her. But when she leaves—giving me another hug before she hops off of the deck, and promising to see me around—Sidney is most definitely watching her walk away. I want to ask her what the deal is, but we aren’t those people. We aren’t friends.
DAY 6
Sidney
After dinner Friday night I immediately launch into get-ready mode. In the shower, I linger longer than I do in the mornings, letting the water run hot and relax me. I scrub at my knees and elbows, until they’re red from the friction and not Kool-Aid. I mentally run through my wardrobe as I feel my muscles go soft and limp. Caleb has already seen my hair in all of its wild, summer glory, so I don’t bother straightening it. But I do put three different products in it, and silently applaud myself for giving it plenty of time to air-dry into smooth, shiny curls. It’s possible I won’t be at the party long enough for my hair to rebel. Fingers crossed.
In movies there’s always a long montage of a girl putting on outfit after outfit, flinging things onto the floor and frantically pulling items off of hangers before finding the perfect outfit. That’s what I look like, except for that last part. I never find the perfect outfit, but I settle on a short white skirt with a rough hem and a sheer, soft pink shirt that flutters just above my waist. It’s the most flattering outfit I own—it shows off my long, toned legs and softens my broad shoulders. The dip of the neckline makes my chest look like there’s more there.
But it’s dressier than I’d like. Probably too dressy for drinking with people like Kara or Lindsay. Kara, who is always casual—she’s T-shirts and shorts and nondescript tank tops. And Lindsay, who is Lindsay. There’s a chance I stick out like the out-of-place tourist that I am. Which is basically my personal nightmare.
Maybe it only feels dressy because I’ve been living in my swimsuit for a week straight now. That can definitely warp your sense of style. When I get home in August it usually feels weird to wear clothes every day. Pants are like a straightjacket for my legs. I wonder if I should put a swimsuit on under my outfit, but tell myself that Kara would have warned me if I should have. Most locals don’t live on the water, so it’s more likely we’ll be in a house or a backyard than on the lake.
When I walk into the kitchen, Mom is sitting at the table running her little metal scoring wheel across a piece of red glass. During the year she teaches middle school English, but in the summer she makes stained glass pieces to sell at craft shows and online. She tries to get as much work done in the evening or sitting outside as possible, so she can enjoy the days on the lake. Days on the lake that she likes to remind us are partially funded by her summer glass business. There’s a crack of glass just as I pass through the dining room into the kitchen.
“Are you and Ash going to the same place?” Mom asks. She doesn’t say party because I didn’t say it. I told her I was going to hang out with Kara and some of her friends, which is the truth. She can fill in the blanks, but I’m not voluntarily serving up motherly anxiety on a silver platter for her. I already know where this line of questioning is going, though.
“He’ll probably want to stay longer than me,” I answer, trying to route her brain away from gas savings. “And I’m not drinking.”
“But what if Ash needs a ride home?” She’s using her mom-voice now. “I’d feel better about it if you rode together, just in case.”
“Mom … in a few months I’m going to be going to parties and you won’t even know it. Asher, too.”
“Maybe you can drive each other to those parties, too?” she says in a teasing tone.
“Maybe not,” I say, my level of disgust matching her tease.
“For now, I do know about it, and it would make me feel better if you’d just—”
“Fine.” I give in, because there’s no winning with her. Another five minutes, and she’d be googling drunk driving statistics and making me watch some video narrated by a sobbing mother who wishes she could see her daughter just one more time. My mom has a knack for finding that stuff in record time. I’m not entirely sure she doesn’t have it sitting on her computer and phone in little folders neatly labeled with each cautionary activity. DRUNK DRIVING, DRUGS, SEX. When I turned sixteen there was a whole texting-while-driving marathon presented to me, and to this day I barely even text when I’m a passenger. I’m thoroughly traumatized. She should teach classes, because she has this whole mom thing down.
With a quick kiss on my head she walks past me, toward her bedroom. “You look nice.”
“Thanks.” Her words help unwind the little ball of tension still spooled in my stomach, but also, she’s my mom, so it hardly counts. She’s genetically programmed to love me and think I’m beautiful.
I text Asher to let him know we’re riding together and tell him I’ll be ready in five minutes. The party starts in fifteen. I’ve had Asher’s number for years, but I’m not sure I’ve ever used it before. I’ve only seen it on my screen once. An obvious one-ring pocket dial earlier this year.
Alone in the kitchen, I lean against the counter, nervously eating a trail bar. I pull at the hem of my skirt and consider for the nine hundredth time if I’m overdressed. Or underdressed. Either way, I’m 100 percent positive I’m overthinking it, and there’s zero chance I’m going to stop until I get there. I tip my head back, my neck hanging loose, and take a deep breath.
The screen door slams and my head snaps down. Asher is in the doorway, in the same shorts he was in earlier, and a dark gray SWIMMERS DO IT BETTER T-shirt that looks so soft I’d want to touch it, if it wasn’t on Asher. Casual. The word buzzes over his head like an old neon sign. He looks so much more casual than me. Even more casual than what he usually wears. Is he trying to torture me?
He looks at me a second too long, and I take another quick glance at my white skirt and pink gossamer shirt before pushing off of the counter. “I’m going to change really quick.” I’m about to cross into the living room when Asher grabs my wrist. Something sparks across my skin, reminding me of his hand on my foot, my leg. I pull my arm free to make it stop.
“You look—fine.” Fine. He looks pained to have said the word. It hurts worse to hear it.
“A ringing endorsement,” I say. I’m not sure what I expected from him,
but fine doesn’t make me feel great about my go-to outfit. Have I looked fine every time I’ve gone out thinking I was absolutely killing it? Even though it’s Asher—who lives to torment me—it still leaves a little dent in my self-confidence.
He shoves his hands down into the pockets of his shorts. “I wouldn’t lie—I have to walk in with you.”
“And I have to walk in with you,” I say, glancing down at his T-shirt and raising my brows dramatically.
“Oh, come on, this is hilarious.” He looks down at the shirt again, as if he forgot what was there. “And think how good you’ll look next to this.” He waves a hand across his shirt, top to bottom.
That makes me smile against my will. Stupid, traitorous smile. I wish he really did look bad; that he wasn’t the kind of guy who looks good in everything.
“Do you want me to change? Because that would be quicker. If you go in that room”—he glances down the hallway that leads to my bedroom—“we might never get out of here.” He crosses his arms over his chest and his face is smug. “I bet you started getting ready right after dinner.”
I hate these freaking co-family dinners. “Stalker,” I mutter, because I hate how predictable I am even if he’s not. “Fine,” I say.
“Fine, you’re not going to change?”
“Fine, I won’t change … if you do.” I give him a take that look.
Asher rolls his eyes.
“You offered,” I point out, my voice innocent and sweet.
“I’ll meet you at the car in five,” he says over his shoulder as he walks out the door.
I’m sitting in Dad’s car, blasting the AC, when Asher comes out of his house. It’s dusk, almost dark, but I can still make him out in the light cast from the porch light. And suddenly, my clothes offer a whole new kind of problem. I mutter his name like a curse.
Asher
The entire drive is a struggle to keep my smile in check. Sidney’s face is a mask of simmering, barely concealed rage. Like maybe she’ll run us off the road just to take me out.
Because we match.
I didn’t plan to do it. Well, okay, I did. But not until I was in my room, looking at the pink shirt in my drawer. It was meant to be.
As we walk up to the house I can’t control myself any longer. “How much do you hate me right now?”
Sidney jabs her elbow into my side and her mouth twists into a scowl while mine breaks into a grin.
“You asked me to change,” I say, pushing the rolled-up sleeves of the shirt to above my elbow. “Demanded it, really.” My voice is laced with mock annoyance.
She grunts. Only Sidney could make a grunt sound dainty.
“I was just being helpful.”
“You’re never being helpful,” she counters, and when we get to the door she pauses, like she’s not sure what to do. Maybe she’s going to bolt.
“You’re overthinking this. It’s just a party. With people you’ll probably never see again.” I push the door open so she can go ahead of me. “And I was helpful just yesterday, when I picked up your tampons.”
Her head snaps toward me, her eyes narrowing into slits. Sidney’s going to punch me one of these days, I’m sure of it. I’m not entirely convinced I won’t have it coming. Good thing I have that box of tampons she refused to pay me back for, so I’ll be able to stop the bleeding. It’s also a good thing Mom isn’t the type to ask for a receipt and change, or I’d have some explaining to do. As it is, I just have a giant box of tampons under my bed. My summers are so freaking weird.
“You mean your tampons?” she says as we step into a living room filled with people. This house isn’t like the rental houses right on the lake. It’s a normal house that people live in all year, with family pictures on the walls and furniture that matches. And it doesn’t smell like it’s closed up for six months out of the year as the Michigan winters blow through. But it doesn’t have the lake or the river. It’s on a side street in the country, outside of Riverton’s little downtown area.
We’re only two feet into the house before Kara is on us. “Wow,” she says, and I’m already regretting that I didn’t run on sight. “You guys look like a matching pair.”
Sidney puts her hands on her hips and makes a little strangled noise.
“Like prom dates or something,” Kara continues, giving my pink button-up a once-over from top to bottom.
I roll my eyes.
“Why are you so dressed up?” Kara looks from me to Sidney, a can of Diet Coke in her hand. She’s in a Riverton Football T-shirt that’s tied tight at her back, and a pair of worn jean shorts. She looks like she just threw clothes on, but she has about ten times more makeup on than Sidney.
“Am I?” Sidney says with a groan, running her hands down her skirt again. “I should have texted you.”
Kara’s voice is soft and soothing. “No, you look great.” She glances over at me with a smile. “You, too, Ash.”
“Thanks, Kara.” I give her a one-arm hug and walk toward the kitchen, looking back to see Sidney’s bewildered eyes fixed on me. She’s looking at me like I’m standing in the middle of the room naked, not like I just hugged someone I’ve known for five years. Someone who does go to parties. “Getting drinks, you want anything?”
Kara pouts. “Not me. I have to get up ridiculously early tomorrow.”
Sidney just shakes her head.
Sidney
I scan the room, letting my eyes wander over all of the people I don’t recognize.
“He’s not here yet,” Kara offers with a smile that tells me she knows who I’m looking for. “He mentioned at work he might be late. They moved him from the The Grill to livery crew.”
“Livery crew?”
“The guys who pick up all of the canoes at the end of the line. They had some equipment to track down from people who got out at the wrong spot and just abandoned their canoes.”
“Ah.”
Kara tips her head toward the kitchen. “You wanna go see what’s up over there?”
“Sure, I’m up for whatever.”
Kara laughs. “Yeah, that sounds like you.”
I pull on the little nubbin of fabric at the back of her shirt and she squeaks out a little hey. In the kitchen, the countertops are covered in plastic glasses and various partially empty bottles of alcohol. There’s a giant case of cheap beer at one end of the counter, and a clear glass bottle filled with a greenish-brown liquid that just says NOT YOURS on it, in black marker. Beyond the kitchen, there’s a little dining room area where a long wooden table fills most of the space. A big blue tarp is spread under it, and the top is littered with more red cups.
Near the table, Asher is throwing back a shot of something with two guys. I’ve never seen them before, and I wonder if he even knows them, or if he’s just being Asher: friend to all. He tips the glass back, and when his head comes down, his eyes meet mine.
“You wanna play?” Kara says, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the table.
Asher is at one end, standing with another guy. Kara and I take our places at the opposite end.
“Can we play?” Kara says. “Wilson, you think you can handle double-fisting? I’m not drinking tonight.”
The guy smiles and snorts, like Kara’s being ridiculous. “For sure,” he says, leaving his side of the table to join ours.
“All three of us?” I say.
Asher laughs. “You’re with me, Chipmunk.”
I growl and Asher laughs again. Is this an alternate dimension I’ve fallen into? Does Party Asher have no self-control? “Why can’t Kara and I be a team?”
“Because neither of us is drinking.” She shoves a hand against my back. “Get over there.”
Asher hands me the Ping-Pong ball. “Try not to suck, okay?”
I stick my tongue out at him and he pretends to grab at it. “What the hell?” I can’t help but laugh, because it’s such a goofy, un-Asher-like thing to do. “Get a grip on yourself, Marin.”
Asher smiles and waves a hand toward the t
able as if to say it’s all yours.
Unfortunately for Asher, I really do suck at this game. It takes me three shots to not over-throw and even make contact with the cups.
Asher doesn’t tease me again. He shouts “so close” and “next time” whenever I miss, and high-fives me like I just won the Olympics when I finally sink my first shot. He’s dramatic about each glass of beer he has to drink, throwing his head back and chugging loudly, even though the glasses are only half-filled since the guys are doubling up. It’s utterly surreal to hang out with Asher like this—maybe it’s all the beer he’s had to drink because of my horrible hand-eye coordination.
When we finish—not win, because Kara and Wilson absolutely annihilate us—Asher tries to pitch a cup into the trash and I slap it out of the air. “Hey! Those can get washed or recycled.”
Asher lets out a booming laugh. “Okay, Little Kris.” Asher pats me on the head. “Your mom is really rubbing off on you.”
I narrow my eyes and turn back to the table.
Asher comes up beside me and whispers in my ear. “I’m just kidding. I love your mom. Please don’t tell her I said that.” I smile, and we’re standing like that, Asher’s lips by my ear, when Caleb walks into the kitchen.
Asher looks from me to Caleb, and says he’s going to go get something from the kitchen. Kara trots over to my side of the table and gives me a high five.
Caleb looks nervous but happy when he makes his way through the kitchen to us.
“You came,” he says, like he’s both surprised and glad that I’m here. He sidles up next to me and puts an arm out. I carefully try to give him a hug while avoiding the red cup he has in his hand. It’s awkward but not horrible.
“I did.” I wish I could think of something flirty or clever to say, but I just feel caught off guard. Something about Asher being nice to me has made me feel less like myself.
Meet Me at Midnight Page 5
