“Yes! Definitely!” Dylan agrees, enthusiasm pitching her voice high. “Wait, what are you doing tonight?”
I check the clock on my phone. “You want to drive to Berkeley tonight? It might be a little late.”
“No.” Dylan stands up. “Tonight, I want to celebrate with my best friend.”
I smile. It doesn’t matter that I feel Olivia becoming a bigger and bigger wedge in our friendship. Right now, Dylan is happy and she wants to share this moment with me. Everything else can wait while I help Dylan enjoy the evening.
Possibilities of what we can do to celebrate flit through my head. We could grab dinner at the taco place Dylan’s been wanting to try, sing at the top of our lungs in her car, drive to the ice cream parlor in Palo Alto that Dylan maintains is worth any amount of time stuck in traffic. Just the thought of ice cream has me thinking about Blizzards with Hector, which sends my mind to driver’s ed, then to Ethan and finally the kiss, where the whirl of my ideas gets caught. I can’t move past him. Even the most tenuous of connections is bringing this afternoon right back into vivid and exasperating detail.
I need to know how Ethan’s reacting to today, and not just from the videos and photos he posts online. I need to see him, to read his subtle displays of emotion the way only I can and confirm this afternoon was nothing more than a perfectly executed ploy on his part. Then, when I know that the kiss was nothing, I’ll be able to move on. It’s the puzzle I’m fixated on, not the kiss. Obviously not the kiss.
“Let’s go out,” Dylan says, clearly impatient.
In a flash, I realize the perfect way to celebrate and figure out Ethan at the same time. I grab my purse from the table and jog a couple feet down the hallway toward the living room.
“I’m going over to Dylan’s,” I say to my parents over the sound of explosions and gunfire.
“What about the movie?” Mom asks.
“You guys finish.”
My parents exchange a look. I know they have questions, and I’m not interested in hearing them.
“Bye, have a good night,” I preempt them, heading back down the hall to the front door, where I face Dylan. “How does a party sound?”
Thirty-Seven
“MY GIRL ALISON,” DYLAN says while driving, “suggesting we go to an actual party. You really are excited about me getting into Berkeley.” She makes a left, following the directions from her phone leading us to Ethan’s house.
I laugh off her comment. I neglected to mention exactly whose address I plugged into her GPS, only explaining vaguely I heard about the party from someone in ASG. She’s not going to be pleased if she figures it out, but I’m hoping the allure of a party will supersede her hatred of Ethan. Besides, there’s no reason for her to recognize Ethan’s house. She avoids all possible interaction with him even more than I do.
“This is Ethan’s house,” she says suddenly. She’s parked the car on the street and is glancing from the house to the GPS map in her phone like she’s searching for an error.
“How do you know that?” I realize a moment after speaking that it was the wrong thing to say. I should have acted surprised.
Sure enough, Dylan narrows her eyes. “I had to do a Beowulf project with him sophomore year, remember? He made us work until two in the morning because he was obsessed with our project scoring higher than yours.” I cringe. They did beat me by three points, and Ethan made me supervise the winter formal as my task. “Why are we at Ethan’s house, Alison?” Dylan asks pointedly.
“Because it’s the only party I knew about tonight,” I reply, keeping my tone innocent. “Does it matter? We probably won’t even see Ethan. Look how crowded it is.” I gesture to the line of people crossing Ethan’s lawn to the front door. The windows to his living room are lit up, and inside I can see a crowded makeshift dance floor. Frankly, I’m surprised this many people want to celebrate his birth. I would rather commemorate it the way one would a natural disaster or other unfortunate occurrence—somber social media posts, vows to stay strong on this dark day. Either our classmates are indiscriminate with their partying or they like Ethan even more than I’d known.
Dylan’s expression wavers. She glances at the crowd, and I can see her hopes for the night warring with years of vows and rants against Ethan and our “unhealthy” rivalry. I know it won’t be long before she presses me further on why I opted to come here. It’s a conversation I don’t want to have, at least not until I’ve rationalized the kiss better.
I preempt her questions. “Come on. Let’s have fun. We’re already here, aren’t we? Might as well go in.” I flash my most convincing smile.
Her skepticism seems to reluctantly fade. “Fine,” she says, unbuckling her seat belt. “I’m going to need a drink if we end up talking to Ethan, though.”
I don’t object. We join the line of people heading to Ethan’s door, and as the low pulse of the music gets louder, Dylan’s step brightens. Dylan loves parties. It’s something I’ve known about her for years, but rarely seen in person. Personally, I don’t get it. I felt like I had grown out of high school parties by the time I turned fifteen. It’s just hard for me to see the point. But the same side of Dylan that signed up for yearbook and wanted to go skinny-dipping loves a raging house party.
We barely get inside before a group of Dylan’s yearbook friends finds her. They swarm us, and I step to the side while Dylan exchanges hugs with Grace Wu and Molly Goldbaum. The entire space is packed. We’re in the foyer, which overlooks a large living room and behind that, an open kitchen. Everything is impeccably furnished in a modern Cape Cod style under white paneled walls and dark wood ceiling beams. Gray armchairs flank the fireplace currently covered in red cups and empty bottles. From the drapes to the surely expensive rug under my feet and the pristine built-in bookshelves, it’s easy to imagine Ethan in his polos and suede boots reading something obnoxious like Ulysses in here.
I put the image out of my mind. I absolutely refuse to be attracted to such a preppy stereotype.
When I turn back to Dylan, she’s telling the small circle around her about Berkeley. Immediately, Grace grabs Dylan’s arm and pulls her away. Dylan shoots me an apologetic look, and I wave her on.
The yearbook crowd moves into the living room, and I’m given a clear line of vision into the kitchen. Ethan’s leaning against the slate-gray countertop. He’s wearing a white button-down untucked from his jeans with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. A group of guys I don’t recognize stands around him, eating chips and laughing at something he’s said. I notice Ethan, like me, is without a drink. While I don’t drink, mainly because I would never want to get caught doing anything that could jeopardize getting into Harvard or winning valedictorian, I can’t help wondering why he threw a party like this if he’s not interested in participating in the main event. Why does Ethan choose to do anything, though? If I had my answer, I wouldn’t be here trying to find out.