The five of them stared in my direction, so I assumed Alex had told them about me. They all sipped their drinks—beer, except for Whitney’s vodka cranberry. Were none of them going to tell me their names?
Whitney caught me staring at her drink. “You want some?” She handed it to me.
I took a sip and tried not to make a face. The cranberry juice was fine, but the liquor was gross, like Windex or something. Still, I’d done it: my first sip of alcohol. My nineteenth birthday was a month away. I handed the drink back to her.
Alex tapped one of the guys on the shoulder. He was wearing a track jacket with a moose stitched onto the left side of the chest. “Can you grab Rose Gold a drink? Vodka cranberry.”
Moose Shirt wandered off. Alex, satisfied, turned back to the group. “I get to go on the photo shoot with her,” she said, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder.
The girls both got Christmas eyes.
“So cool,” said Whitney.
“Amazing,” agreed the other. She had freckles all over her face.
Alex nodded. “Rose Gold used to let me do her makeup when we were younger.” She turned to me and smiled. “Remember that huge Caboodle case I had? You always wanted the sparkly purple eye shadow.”
I gave her a small smile back and nodded. I would still let Alex do my makeup if she offered. At least now I wouldn’t have to worry about Mom scrubbing my face clean when she saw Alex’s handiwork.
Moose Shirt pushed through the crowd and handed me the red drink in a plastic cup. I turned away from the group and opened my purse. “How much?” I asked.
“What?” he yelled.
“How much?” I repeated, louder this time.
“Five,” he said.
I found my wallet and handed him a five-dollar bill. He accepted it without a word.
Moose Shirt walked around the circle and back to his spot between Alex and one of the other guys. They stepped aside to make room for him. I admired the ease of this group, how in sync they all were with one another’s bodies and movements. They took their friendships for granted. This was their average Friday night.
I guzzled the vodka cranberry. It made my head spin. I didn’t have anything else to drink that night—I’d been through enough dizziness for one lifetime.
Instead, as the night went on, I watched Alex and her friends get tipsy, then drunk. The drunker they got, the more they rambled.
“Do you think I could get the photographer to take my photo?” Alex asked the group.
“For sure,” said Freckles, swaying. “You’re so pretty.”
“And so photogenic,” Whitney agreed.
“In case I need headshots one day,” Alex explained to the boys.
“You’re a graphic design major,” Moose Shirt said.
“Maybe I’ll be an actress on the side.” Alex threw her arms up with dramatic flair. Everyone laughed. The way Alex said it, it didn’t sound far-fetched. I pressed my lips together and smiled at her. She winked, ponytail bouncing and flirting.
I’d wanted to pee for forty-five minutes, but I’d been holding it in fear of missing anything: a funny joke, a compliment from one of the guys or Alex. But I couldn’t hold it any longer. “Be right back,” I said to Freckles. She didn’t respond, too busy ruffling one of the guys’ hair.
I pushed my way through the crowd to the women’s bathroom and found a long line of girls already waiting. I joined the end of it and wondered why the men’s bathroom was empty. Three girls in front of me giggled and tiptoed toward the men’s room, pretending they were sneaky. They were breaking the rules so obviously. Weren’t they afraid of getting in trouble?
They went into the single stall together. I wondered if they peed in front of one another. By the time they came out, I’d reached the front of the women’s line. I locked the bathroom door and checked my face in the mirror while I peed. So far, the night had gone unbelievably well. No one was paying attention to me, but no one had asked any intrusive questions either. Maybe Alex would let me come back and go out with them again. I just had to follow their cues.
I wound my way back toward the group. Moose Shirt had slung his arm around Alex. He whispered in her ear. Alex chuckled and intertwined her fingers through his, but kept chattering to the group. Freckles kept stealing glances at Moose Shirt. I bet she had a crush on him, but he liked Alex. I was prouder of having figured out this puzzle than of any social studies quiz Mom ever gave me.
I imagined Phil and me at a bar, maybe a lodge in Breckenridge. We’d sink into a big brown leather couch by a cozy fireplace, exhausted after a day of snowboarding. He’d sling his arm around me without asking, my shoulders an extension of his body. I’d intertwine my fingers with his, and he’d kiss me on the forehead. Someone to take care of me again.
Alex didn’t know about Phil because I kept him a secret. She would think an online boyfriend was weird. How can you be sure this guy is who he says he is? she would ask. Or Why don’t you get a real boyfriend? As if we all had guys lining up to woo us.
I had reached the group, but they were all too absorbed with Alex to note my return.
“She’s so tragic,” Alex shouted over the roar of the crowd. “Really struggling.”
“Isn’t her mom, like, in jail now?” Freckles yelled, laughing.
“I was the one who called the cops,” Alex bragged.
My face grew hot and my hands shook. I balled them into fists. I was about to spin around so they wouldn’t see me, but then Whitney called out, “Rose Gold, there you are!” A few months ago, I would have thought she was excited to see me. Now I knew she was clueing in the rest of the group to stop talking about me.
They were all either too drunk to notice or didn’t care that my eyes were wet. I wiped them with the back of my hand and watched Alex, waiting for her to mouth a subtle Sorry or wink at me again. But she was too busy laughing at Moose Shirt to acknowledge me.
Alex didn’t want to be my best friend. She wanted a few minutes of fame, to see her name or face in a magazine, to say she used to live next door to a total freak. I was nothing but the butt of a joke to her friends when they’d run out of things to talk about. Alex Stone had betrayed me, just like the other person I’d most trusted.
I told you that little hussy never had your best interest at heart, Mom whispered.
Shut up, I hissed.
Alex tipped her head back to laugh at Moose Shirt’s latest witty remark. I watched that perky blond ponytail cascade down her back and imagined ripping it off her head, this time with my bare hands instead of scissors. Now she was just a baldhead running around the bar, crying for help. But no one would help the charming Alex Stone, because they were too busy laughing at her—doubled over, tears running down their cheeks, clutching-their-stomachs-in-pain kind of laughter. How humiliated she would be, how alone she would feel. She’d find me in a corner of the room and fall to her knees, eyes pleading, hands clutched. Sorry, I’d yawn. You’re just a little tragic.