I tip back the shot with them, and everyone cheers.
It goes down hot, like accidentally swallowing mouthwash.
“How much alcohol is in this?” I ask. I’ve had little bits of wine and mezcal before, but nothing like these layered liqueurs.
“Don’t worry,” the redhead says. “Five shots or less and you’ll still wake up pretty as Sleeping Beauty, three or less if you’re a lightweight.”
“And let’s call you a lightweight just to be safe,” Sara tells me.
Three or less.
So I take the next one with them, and it tastes not just like mouthwash but like chocolate and mint.
And the next one, sweet as vanilla and raspberries.
I slump across the sofa cushion.
Sara laughs. “Okay, we’re cutting you off.”
The room turns fuzzy, like seeing pool lights underwater. Or Christmas tree lights through a rain-blurred window on the few nights it rains in Meteor, New Mexico.
Chicky
AT LEAST FIFTY people watch as I beat Junior Cortes at beer pong. I take the last shot with my eyes closed, because it’s going to go in. It’s just that kind of night.
Everything slows down after he drinks his last cup of “beer” and there are people jumping up and down and drunkenly shouting, ribbing him and congratulating me, but it’s all just noise. The only real thing in the room is the way he’s looking at me.
The way I’m looking back.
And I feel like maybe finally, finally coming clean—coming out—to Lita has unlocked something in me, something that’s been building for a long time. And that something starts to crystalize, and I feel, in this moment, like maybe I do know Junior. Maybe I’ve finally figured out what I have.
Maybe it’s time to decide what comes after knowing.
Even after liking . . .
“I got next!” shouts one of the twins from the final match, his red jacket unzipped, his hair disheveled. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s drunk, and sure, it would be fun to beat him, but Junior already took care of that.
“Why would I play you when I already beat him?” I ask, a hand on my hip. “Seems like kind of a step down, doesn’t it?”
“Oooooh!” goes the crowd, and two high fives are bestowed upon me by people I don’t even know.
“Wanna get out of here?” I ask Junior, and his new smile has none of the suave, newly popular Junior in it. This one is just for me, and I feel the pull of it, tugging at all the places we’ve tied ourselves together these past five years.
“For sure,” he says, and I slip my arm into his as we leave the noisy kitchen and all my new fans behind.
There’s nowhere quiet in the entire Bradley house, and I don’t see Lita and Cole anywhere, but I’m not worried. This is Cole’s turf, and I trust him. And even the knowledge that Lita is here, and she knows who I am, and she’s my friend, makes me feel safe in a way I’ve been missing for five years.
That safety is what makes me follow when Junior gestures to a sliding-glass door and the dark, velvety night beyond it. It’s a little scary, another new world, but this time I think I’m ready for it.
There’s a bite of fall in the air out here, and my sweatshirt is still on the kitchen chair. Junior notices before I even react, sliding off his own hoodie and holding it out like one of those guys in movies helping some fancy lady into her coat.
I let him, and his fingers brush my collarbones as he’s drawing it around me, and it’s nice, the feeling of him being close to me. It’s more than nice.
“So,” he asks, his smirk on full display even though its edges are softer tonight. “What’s no limit beer pong?”
“Shut up!” I say. “Like I have any idea! I was just trying to sound cool.”
“Well, you did,” he says, his smile turning tender.
“Whatever,” I say, but I’m smiling too.
“No, I’m serious,” he says, something shifting as he moves a little closer. “You were kind of incredible in there.” We’re in the side yard, and I’m leaning against the house. The only light is coming from inside, and it feels like we’re on our own little planet out here, just the two of us.
“Had to stop hiding eventually,” I say, feeling suddenly shy at the thought of myself on that chair, shouting without fear like a true Quintanilla sister.
“I never got why you were hiding in the first place,” he says, and it’s quieter.
“Maybe the world wasn’t ready for the real Chicky Quintanilla,” I say, like it’s a joke, but he doesn’t laugh.
“Maybe it was. Maybe it is.”
I want to want to, kiss him so much, and I swear I almost do, but it feels like everything is moving too fast all of a sudden, and I break eye contact, snuggling deeper into the sweatshirt that smells like him.
“Junior?” I ask, like there’s anyone else out here.
“Yeah?”
“Who would you be, if you could be anyone?”
He smiles now, and instead of moving closer again, into that space that makes my heart beat funny and my hands get a little shaky, he leans against the wall beside me, our shoulders touching.
He’s not pushing. He’s keeping his promise.
The panicky feeling recedes, and I think this is perfect for now. Just this. But maybe I won’t be afraid of what’s next for very much longer.
While he’s thinking, I notice his shoulders, and the line of his jaw, and the way there’s still a little bit of that awkward middle school boy left in his cheeks. I notice the way he catches every speck of light, how it reflects off the sleek crow-black of his hair until he glows like he can’t possibly be real.
I’ve never looked at him like this before, and he must feel it, because he looks back—really looks, like he wants to memorize my slightly crooked teeth and the blunt line of my kitchen-scissor haircut and the freckles just a single shade darker than my cinnamon skin.
“I think,” he begins, not looking away. His breath smells clean and sharp, like I imagine snow on pine trees might. “If I could be absolutely anyone . . .”
Inside, something—or someone—crashes loudly into something or someone else. The door slides open, and three people run out, giggling into the dark yard.
The spell we’ve woven in this little quiet corner breaks, but it breaks softly, like there’s something left of it. Our shoulders are still touching.
“You tell me first,” he says, and in the light from the doorway I think he might be blushing.
Lita
FIVE SHOTS IN—well, three for me, since I skipped two rounds on Sara’s advice—the First Timers’ Club spills into the hall and back into the party. We hug each other goodbye until tomorrow, and as Sara calls after me, “Do you want somebody to walk around with? I’m a little worried about you,” I’m already weaving into the crowd.
First I look for a sink. Bathroom, kitchen, laundry room, I don’t care, I just need to splash some water onto my face to make the world less blurry.
I wander through a door that I think might be the laundry room.
It is.
But a blond girl stands between me and the sink, her shoulders heaving.