preposterous in that getup. I look like I should be churning her butter.
“Heyyyyy, Zoey,” she says to me, coming over and bending down to give me a hug. “And hey there, Ben,” she says. She nods at her brother. “Pete,” she says.
“Doctor,” he says back. Then he says to me, “Let’s get a drink.” He puts his arm around my shoulder and steers me toward the back of the house.
I turn to look and make sure that Ben’s following, but I don’t see him. Intellectually, I feel like thirty seconds after getting to a party, he’s probably fine. Probably sitting in a quiet corner reading. Or maybe being social by giving a lecture on the natural history of Inuit architecture to some drunk seniors. But I can feel the anxiety re-bubbling up inside of me,pushing out the excitement of the date (is that what this even is?) and the regret about the floral dress.
Out on the back patio, some kids are standing around a keg. Others are on the tiny yard playing bocce ball.
Hey Zoey, Hey Zoey
, they say, then talk to Pete about whatever—music or friends or something. I hardly even hear them; mostly my thoughts veer between wondering where Ben is, hating my dress, and trying desperately to imagine what a girl detective would do to save her father. (Likely get her two closest friends to help gather evidence, identify suspects and make observations. Unfortunately, my best friend isn’t speaking with me. And observations aren’t my strong suit. As for suspects? I mean, seriously. No idea.)
Other courses of action are easier. Someone hands me a cup. I drink what’s in it. It’s coconutty. I haven’t had any alcohol since moving to this area. The last time I’d gotten drunk was that time at the movies, when I slept with my best friend’s ex. And
that
did not improve my life much. I feel that pleasant driftiness starting after half a cup, then the whole thing.
“Where did this come from?” I ask someone standing nearby. A boy from my class named David pours some more from a blender. I drink it. The drift, the fuzz, is welcome.
A girl named Muffy—it’s her real name—is saying how she’s looking for a condo in Georgetown now, since she’ll be going to college there next year, but that she’s “super angry” that her parents are going to make her get a two-bedroom in case her sister stays in town for college, too.
“I need my independence,” Muffy says. “Why can’t my parents understand this?”
“Totally,” someone else says.
Then David says, “But aren’t your parents buying you the condo?”
“Oh, shut up!” Muffy says. “Like your parents aren’t buying you a place in New York!”
“Are you going to New York for college?” I ask him.
“NYU for film school,” he says. “I’m gonna make documentaries. Shine a light on reality. How do you like your drink?”
“Tasty,” I say. “Strong, I think. Have you seen Ben?”
David leans toward me and whispers, “There’s no alcohol in it. I like to see people make themselves drunk through the sheer power of suggestion.” He brushes his lips on my ear. These kids, these kids, I don’t understand these kids. I still feel drunk. I do not know where I will be going to college in the fall, if I will be going.
If Dad doesn’t come back, I couldn’t go anyway … I couldn’t leave my brother. We’d have to go somewhere, though. The house is paid off, I think, but how would we even pay for, like, electricity? How would I pay for Ben’s school? His doctors? Where is he?
Where is he
?
“I’m going to find Ben,” I say to Pete, who is tossing a bocce ball into the middle of someone else’s game. If I were him I’d be worried about tearing my jacket while tossing those heavy balls around. The leather looks so supple and delicate. We’ve only been at the party a short time, maybe fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, and I know I have to leave once I find my brother, so that he and I can embark on our next steps in the effort to save our
“Heyyyyy, Zoey,” she says to me, coming over and bending down to give me a hug. “And hey there, Ben,” she says. She nods at her brother. “Pete,” she says.
“Doctor,” he says back. Then he says to me, “Let’s get a drink.” He puts his arm around my shoulder and steers me toward the back of the house.
I turn to look and make sure that Ben’s following, but I don’t see him. Intellectually, I feel like thirty seconds after getting to a party, he’s probably fine. Probably sitting in a quiet corner reading. Or maybe being social by giving a lecture on the natural history of Inuit architecture to some drunk seniors. But I can feel the anxiety re-bubbling up inside of me,pushing out the excitement of the date (is that what this even is?) and the regret about the floral dress.
Out on the back patio, some kids are standing around a keg. Others are on the tiny yard playing bocce ball.
Hey Zoey, Hey Zoey
, they say, then talk to Pete about whatever—music or friends or something. I hardly even hear them; mostly my thoughts veer between wondering where Ben is, hating my dress, and trying desperately to imagine what a girl detective would do to save her father. (Likely get her two closest friends to help gather evidence, identify suspects and make observations. Unfortunately, my best friend isn’t speaking with me. And observations aren’t my strong suit. As for suspects? I mean, seriously. No idea.)
Other courses of action are easier. Someone hands me a cup. I drink what’s in it. It’s coconutty. I haven’t had any alcohol since moving to this area. The last time I’d gotten drunk was that time at the movies, when I slept with my best friend’s ex. And
that
did not improve my life much. I feel that pleasant driftiness starting after half a cup, then the whole thing.
“Where did this come from?” I ask someone standing nearby. A boy from my class named David pours some more from a blender. I drink it. The drift, the fuzz, is welcome.
A girl named Muffy—it’s her real name—is saying how she’s looking for a condo in Georgetown now, since she’ll be going to college there next year, but that she’s “super angry” that her parents are going to make her get a two-bedroom in case her sister stays in town for college, too.
“I need my independence,” Muffy says. “Why can’t my parents understand this?”
“Totally,” someone else says.
Then David says, “But aren’t your parents buying you the condo?”
“Oh, shut up!” Muffy says. “Like your parents aren’t buying you a place in New York!”
“Are you going to New York for college?” I ask him.
“NYU for film school,” he says. “I’m gonna make documentaries. Shine a light on reality. How do you like your drink?”
“Tasty,” I say. “Strong, I think. Have you seen Ben?”
David leans toward me and whispers, “There’s no alcohol in it. I like to see people make themselves drunk through the sheer power of suggestion.” He brushes his lips on my ear. These kids, these kids, I don’t understand these kids. I still feel drunk. I do not know where I will be going to college in the fall, if I will be going.
If Dad doesn’t come back, I couldn’t go anyway … I couldn’t leave my brother. We’d have to go somewhere, though. The house is paid off, I think, but how would we even pay for, like, electricity? How would I pay for Ben’s school? His doctors? Where is he?
Where is he
?
“I’m going to find Ben,” I say to Pete, who is tossing a bocce ball into the middle of someone else’s game. If I were him I’d be worried about tearing my jacket while tossing those heavy balls around. The leather looks so supple and delicate. We’ve only been at the party a short time, maybe fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, and I know I have to leave once I find my brother, so that he and I can embark on our next steps in the effort to save our
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