The Lifeboat Clique (16 page)

I put on my brightest smile. “Hey!” I'd say as I recognized classmates. “Welcome to our party!”

“Oh,” they'd say. “You're helping Abigail throw this party?”

“Yes, I am,” I'd say. “I'm kind of like a tall, awkward Martha Stewart.” And they'd actually laugh, too.

“Hey, Denver,” a girl from math class told me, “you look really different.”

“Different . . . how?” I asked. I hadn't had enough alcohol yet to remove my self-consciousness, but it was coming on fast.

“More makeup!” she said. “You look great!”

“Why, thank you.”

I kept circulating, staying away from the kitchen and any contact with Abigail. I felt such a strange mix of moods slugging through me. On the one hand, I was doing fine. I wasn't worshipped as a god or anything, but I was making conversation and it was fairly easy. I was fitting into the swirl of the party and not playing the role of the sad wallflower hanging out in some corner covered in pollen. So on that level, I was succeeding. But it wasn't really me. The booze had taken my personality and replaced it with someone more fun to be around.

But maybe Abigail was right. I overthought things too much. I worried too much. And maybe my sleazy, cheating, dirty-dog father was right when he told me not to put all my eggs in one basket. There was a reason people ran around in packs. It was safer that way. One egg in one basket might use its egg powers to disappear one day, leaving you with nothing. Kind of like my father.

I wandered outside, where more people milled around.
Some of them had taken off their shoes and were sitting on the side of the pool, drinking and dangling their legs in the water.

I noticed a row of kids I'd never seen anywhere before. The old Denver would have gone the other way, but the new Denver slunk right up to them, waved around the red cup in greeting, and said a bright “Hello!”

They looked up at me. “Hey!” one said.

“Welcome to our party!” I said.

“Oh,” said a pretty girl with olive skin and dark hair, earrings dangling so low they rested on her shoulder, “this is your party?”

“Yeah,” I said. “My friend Abigail and I are throwing it. Do I know you guys?”

“No,” said a boy sitting on the end closest to me. “We're from Davidson High. We just heard there's a great party going on over here.” He had messy blond hair and cool wire-rim glasses, and full lips that were red from the punch. Despite the chill in the air, he was just wearing a pair of board shorts and a T-shirt.

“I'm Drew,” the blond guy said.

“I'm Denver.”

“Are you gonna film us?” another girl said.

“Nah,” I answered. “I'm kind of tired of it, to tell you the truth.”

“Want to sit down?” Drew asked.

“Sure.”

I took off my shoes and sank down, putting my camera off to the side and let my feet dangle in the water. Drew looked down and laughed. “Hey,” he said. “You forgot to roll up your pants.”

“Ah,” I said as the water went through my pants, making them feel cold and heavy, “I knew I forgot something.”

“That's okay,” said one of the other girls. “We've been drinking the punch too, and we barely can talk.”

“That stuff is lethal,” I said.

“Did you make it?” Drew asked.

“No,” I said, holding up my cup. “But whoever did is a psychopath.”

Drew nodded at my camera. “You getting some good stuff?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“You like to film?”

“Yeah, I mean, it's kind of a hobby of mine, I guess. I don't know what I'd do with it as a career, exactly.”

“I'm thinking of majoring in film at UCLA,” Drew said.

“That sounds cool,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

“This is a soccer party, right?” asked another girl. “Do you play soccer, too?”

“Nah,” I said, “I'd trip and fall and die.”

“Me too!” the girl admitted with a laugh.

We kept talking like that, the five of us there, just bantering about little forgettable things, and time passed, and I drank a bit more of the punch. At some point the girls started talking among themselves, and it was just Drew and me talking, leaning a bit closer together. I wasn't myself. I was a giggly, prettied-up, shallow party girl. The raw meat of my true self was basting in the punch, turning pleasing colors. The night was chilly; my jeans were wet up to the knees. The pool water was sparkling and blue and calming.

“You must be cold,” I told Drew, “in just that T-shirt and shorts.”

“You must be cold with those wet pants.”

“It's not so bad.”

“So what do you do for fun?” he asked.

I shrugged. “This kind of stuff,” I lied. “I like parties and . . . music . . . and . . .” I searched for something else. Something that sounded natural and effortless and cool. “Oh! I go to all the soccer games. My friend Abigail is the star forward.”

“Yeah,” said Drew. “My girlfriend's on the JV soccer team at our high school. She played against you guys last week and got beat.”

I put down my cup. He'd lost me back at
girlfriend
.

He read my eyes, and his smile faded. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing,” I said. “It's just that I didn't know you had a girlfriend.”

“Ah,” he said. He was quiet.

“Where is she?” I asked.

“We're spending some time apart. We've had some problems. Jealousy. She keeps thinking I'm with other girls and then she'll text the girls and go psycho on them. A lot of drama.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Nah, don't be sorry.”

“So . . . ,” I said. “I'm gonna go inside. Getting cold out here.”

“No, wait.” Drew took my hand and held it. “Stay here awhile.”

“Listen, if you have a girlfriend . . .”

“No, I mean, yes, I guess I do or maybe not. I'm kind of in limbo. Anyway, she's not here.”

“Yeah, well . . .” I let go of his hand. “You see, my dad left my mom and moved in with my friend's mom, so I'm kind of careful about whose toes I'm stepping on, you know?”

“Oh,” he said. “I'm sorry to hear that.” He sounded really sincere. “That must have been so weird.”

“Yes, it was. It came out of the blue. I just thought they were friendly, you know?”

“My parents divorced when I was three. My dad lives in Silver Lake and my mom in Brentwood. It sucks, shuffling back and forth between the two of them every weekend.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sucks.” Then I added, “I don't really shuffle back and forth at all, because my dad and I are not speaking. As a matter of fact . . . he just moved into this very house.”

“Really?” he asked. “This house?”

“Yeah.”

“That must be really awful for you.”

“It is awful,” I said, and he gazed into my eyes like he wanted me to confide in him more. He was very cute, he really was. But I didn't like this pesky, psycho, sort-of-broken-up girlfriend situation.

“Well,” I said awkwardly, “I better take off.”

Drew grabbed my hand again and pulled me toward him, so slowly and effortlessly that it seemed natural to follow along. I'd had enough of the lethal punch to make me flirtatious and giggly. His smile was so beautiful, shy but daring, and his lips came toward me and we kissed. Not a making-out kiss but a friendly and tipsy kiss that was so natural it seemed like I'd been kissing boys all my life as opposed to never.

We were both smiling as we pulled away. I grabbed my video camera and got up, dripping water as I slogged across the grass, forgetting my cup and the warm remnants of the punch. A wind came up and I shivered. My pants were wet up to my knees and my shoes were off somewhere in the dark. The grass was cold to my bare feet. I was weaving a little. This was the greatest party in the world.

I just had to tell Abigail. Even though she had acted so snobby to me, ordering me around like her personal bitch, I had just kissed a boy, and this was big news.

I went to the kitchen and she wasn't there, just another group of drunken kids fighting over the last of the punch and one kid juggling steak knives to show off for the others.

“Hey,” I asked a girl I recognized from the soccer team, “where's Abigail?”

“Oh, Abigail!” The girl laughed. “She's in the TV room!”

Something about her tone of voice set off alarm bells. I plowed into the knot of people crowding the opening to the TV room and finally got through.

I couldn't believe my eyes.

Abigail was dancing with another girl in the center of the room. They staggered around, holding each other up, while a crowd of drunken people cheered them on.
Abigail was a hot mess, her hair all crazy and her eyeliner smeared.

“Abigail!” I ran up to her, grabbing her by the shoulder and turning her to me. She looked at me with glassy eyes.

“Denver,” she slurred. “Hey, cowgirrrrrl . . .”

“Oh, my God, Abigail, you're wasted!”

Her dancing partner pushed me. “Get out of here,” she snarled, just as drunk. “We're dancing.”

Abigail closed her eyes. Her head bobbed. “Yeah,” she muttered, “we're dancing.” She grabbed the girl and started doing some kind of made-up waltz. They lumbered around a couple steps and then fell in a heap together on the floor.

“Abigail,” I said, “get up!”

Everyone was laughing and yelling out things, and no one paid me any attention. I knelt down next to Abigail. “I'm gonna take you upstairs to bed,” I told her.

“No, you're not,” she mumbled drunkenly, her eyes barely open. “Get out of here. I'm fine!”

“You're making a fool of yourself.” I took her arm and got up, trying to lift her off the floor, but the other drunken girl held her back.

“Tell her to go away!” she said to Abigail.

“I'm not going anywhere,” I replied, defiant.

Sienna and Hayley appeared out of the gloom.

“We need to help Abigail!” I told them.

“Stop being so lame,” Sienna said. “You're ruining the party.”

“She needs our help, you idiots!” I shouted. I set the video camera on the floor so I could grab Abigail with both hands to try and pull her to her feet. “Come on,” I said, “party's over.”

“Party's just starting, cowgirl,” Abigail mumbled. “You're an old wet horse blanket. Go throw yourself over another party and stop ruining mine.”

A great fury came over me at the sound of her scornful tone. I let go of her arms, and she slumped back on the floor, where she suddenly came to life, laughing and rolling around and screaming “Yeehaw! Yeeha
wwww!”
Now I was angry. I grabbed my video camera and started shooting.

“You wanted me to film you, Abigail?” I asked. “I'll film you making a fool of yourself so you can see yourself in the morning.”

Abigail cackled drunkenly and gave me the finger, and I filmed that, too.

“Stop,” Sienna ordered. “Maybe she doesn't want to be filmed.”

“Shut up, Sienna,” I said. “This is none of your business.”

Abigail managed to sit up and bark at her friends, “Help me up!” They dragged her to her feet and tried to help her regain her balance, but she swayed from side to side. I lowered my camera and tried to steady her arm.

“Go away!” Abigail told me as she wrenched away from me. “You're embarrassing me!”

I stared at Abigail. I couldn't believe it. “You're the one who's embarrassing yourself. You can barely stand up!”

“Get out,” she said. “Get out of my house! I knew you wouldn't be any fun.”

I had barely any time to react to the bitchiness of that remark when Sienna's face appeared inches from mine.

“You heard her,” she snarled. “Get out!”

Suddenly I was being pushed by a tide of drunken people toward the door. I stumbled and recovered and tried to push back, but it was no use. It was like an ocean of drunken, overdressed unfairness had risen up against me, and all I could do was hold on tight to my camera and be swept away by the crowd, protesting and calling Abigail's name until I was forced out into the frigid night air and the door slammed behind me.

The lock turned for emphasis, and I was alone, my bare feet cold, my hairstyle broken and disheveled and ruined, my pants wet to the knees, and my shirt ripped at the seam where the arm meets the shoulder. The party went on and
on inside without me, the sound of it pulsating through the doorways and windows. Good times, hardly containable, but none leaking out for me.

I had never felt so betrayed in my life. Here I was trying to save Abigail from making a drunken idiot, slobbery fool of herself. She was on the verge of passing out in the middle of her own illegal party full of underage drinkers, and I was the one punished for it. I felt utterly defeated. Tears stung my eyes. Even Sonny Boy didn't bother taunting me in apparition form, so low had I sunk. I felt humiliated, completely destroyed.

My camera was intact, but my purse, and the cell phone that was supposed to be used only in emergencies, was upstairs in Abigail's room, and I was not going back in that house. There was nothing I could do but sneak around to the backyard and ask the first person I saw to borrow their cell phone so I could call my mom.

“What's the matter?” she asked as soon as she heard my voice, and I burst into tears.

“Just come and get me,” I said miserably.

MOM WAS PISSED
.
At whom? Well, shockingly, at me. The victim in these circumstances. The good friend. The loyal companion.

Me.

“Explain yourself again,” she said in a tense voice as she gunned the car down Palisades Highway. “You were supposed to go over to spend the night at Abigail's, just the two of you. And here you are, all dressed up, soaking wet, and drunk?”