I wander around, looking for Simon. The living room furniture has all been pushed aside to make room for a dance floor, where kids are busy gyrating and jumping around.
I make my way through the house. People are lounging on the sofa or the stairs, drinking beer and whatever else from plastic cups. Others are clustered in the kitchen or shooting pool in another room. A few of them nod in greeting, but no one speaks to me.
“Hey, Nell.” Simon hurries toward me from another room. “You get a drink?”
“Not yet.”
“C’mon, what’ll you have?”
“Uh, just a beer, I guess.”
“Coming up.” He disappears into the crowd and returns with another cup filled with beer. He shoves it into my hand and leans closer to my ear, shouting to be heard above the noise. “You wanna shoot some pool?”
“Okay.” I take a sip of the lukewarm beer.
We make our way to the pool table, where a group of people are either leaning against the walls or clustered around the table. Simon leaves my side to put dibs on the next game. I find an empty space to stand.
A big guy backs into me, bumping me so hard the beer sloshes over the rim of the cup.
“Whoa, sorry.” He turns and holds his hands up. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I set the cup on a nearby table.
He squints. “Hey, Nell, right? Billy Wilson. We were on the cross-country team when I was a freshman.”
I have no memory of him, but I nod. He must be a junior now. “Billy, sure. Hi.”
“Hi. I never see you around.” He circles a finger to indicate the party. “What’re you doing here?”
“What’s anyone doing here?”
He laughs, displaying a nice smile and white teeth. “Sorry if that sounded rude. I’m just surprised, I guess. You don’t seem like a party kind of girl.”
“I’m not.”
He spreads his arms out. “But here you are.”
“Here I am.”
“We’re up, Nell.” Simon pushes through a group of kids to reach us. “You wanna pick a cue? You can break.”
I couldn’t care less what cue I use, but I excuse myself from Billy and head toward the rack to pick one out. Simon racks the balls. I sense a few people glance my way as I position the cue, but their curiosity doesn’t bother me as much as it does at school.
As we play a poor game of 8-ball, I sense Billy hovering around the periphery of the room. A couple of times, I glance up and our eyes meet. I don’t usually like people looking at me, but his regard doesn’t seem to be jagged or assessing. He doesn’t seem to be trying to figure out if I’m really as messed up as everyone says I am.
“Line up your cue with the ball,” Simon says, as if he knows what he’s talking about.
I knock the red ball into the pocket and straighten. Across the pool table, Billy is still watching me. I’m sharply aware of his gaze for the rest of the game, which Simon wins. As I’m putting my cue back into the rack, Billy approaches.
“You want to get some pizza?” he asks.
I look around for Simon, but he’s disappeared. “Okay.”
Billy moves in front of me, carving a path through the crowd. He reaches back, and his hand closes around mine. My heart gives an odd little thump. I’ve never even held hands with a boy. His palm is warm against mine, and his fingers are strong.
Someone turns up the music. The crowd cheers.
We reach the open space of the kitchen, where there’s a couple kissing against the fridge and several other people talking and mixing drinks.
“Hey, I’m going with Tim and Dana to the Qwik-Mart for ice.” Simon pokes his head into the kitchen and waves to catch my attention. “We might also stop and grab more pizza or a bunch of subs. You want to come?”
“No, I’ll stay. Thanks.”
“Get some more cups too,” Billy shouts as Simon heads to the front door.
“Ten four,” Simon calls back.
Billy grabs two slices of pepperoni pizza from an open box. After putting them on paper plates, he hands one to me and picks up two bottles of beer with his free hand.
“You want to go sit outside?” he yells above the music. “It’s quieter.”
I hesitate for a second—I’ve never been alone with a boy anywhere, much less at a party—but I remind myself how tired I am of being afraid of things that are so simple and normal for everyone else.
I nod and follow him out a set of french doors to a stone terrace. The cold night air is a welcome reprieve from the hot, stuffy interior. We sit in two wicker chairs that overlook the spot-lit garden.
“So are you doing the insane college application thing too?” Billy twists the cap on a beer and hands it to me. “My parents want me to apply to a few dozen places. Cast my net wide, they say.”
“I’m just applying to Evergreen.” I take a bite of the rubbery pizza.
He lifts his eyebrows. “You’re staying in Grenville? Wow. Most people want to get the hell out of here as soon as they can.”
I shrug, like it doesn’t make a difference to me. “Where do you want to go?”
“Wherever I can get the most money.” He takes a gulp of beer. “Hoping to get through it without having to take out any loans.”
“Do you know what you’re going to study?”
“Law.” His mouth twists. “Gotta become a lawyer like the old man. That’s what I’ve been told, anyway.”
“Do you want to be a lawyer?”
“Better than other jobs, I guess.” He chews off a bite of pizza, peering out at the garden. “What about you?”
“I’m going to be a librarian.”
He laughs, then stops abruptly. “Oh, shit. You’re serious?”
I shrug again. A month ago, I could barely imagine ever leaving Grenville. But lately, my mind has been tumbling with images of lions on the Serengeti and the Northern Lights bursting overhead. And me, right there watching them.
Or even less exotic things, like sitting in one of those sunlit art studios at a campus in Vermont, talking to my fellow students about color, lines, and proportion. I imagine walking through the great museums of the world—the Louvre, the Prado, the Museum of Modern Art in New York where The Starry Night is housed.
Could I ever live that way? Even though it’s not war photography, a career in the arts would still be risky and uncertain. It might sound terribly romantic now, but my father is right. I don’t have the temperament for an ambitious, exciting life. I’d just be scared and anxious all the time.
But that’s okay, right?
Not everyone can be as fearlessly bold as Darius. Some of us have to work in the library archives. And I love books and libraries, so it’s not as if I wouldn’t enjoy the job.
I just can’t help wondering what else there is.
“It’s a profession, isn’t it?” I say to Billy. “Who do you think works in libraries?”
“Well, I know.” He gives me an abashed grin. “Sorry. I’ve just never heard anyone say they actually want to be a librarian.”
“I didn’t say that either.” I sip the beer. “I’m kind of like you, I guess. My father thinks it’ll be a good career choice for me.”