My Wishful Thinking by Shel Delisle

calm me or to steer me away from Sasha.
    A huge green plastic trashcan on wheels is filled with ice and beer. Nigel grabs a two cans, one for Em and one for himself. Em takes one teeny sip and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. I know she hates the taste of beer. She’s trying to hide a grossed-out look while still looking with-it for Nigel.
    “Good?” I ask.
    “Mm, mm,” she agrees, and I laugh.
    Nigel pulls another can from the ice and holds it out to me like he’s offering up a bouquet of flowers. “I know this ale has allure to a party lass like you.”
    Lass? Really?
    He’s kind of dorky, but supposedly he’s super smart since he goes to Yale, and Em can’t get enough of that Brit accent. This is her crush date. I hope it’s everything she’s wanted.
    “A party lass like me needs to mingle.” I pop the top and pretend to take a sip, leaving Em so she can have some quality time with Nigel.
    Eugene follows. Either he gets it or he just tags along; I can’t really figure out which one.
    Dawson waves at me from a group of guys sitting around a table by the pool. “Hello, Lo.” He snorts. “Is there an echo, echo, echo.” He laughs at his lame joke and it’s not exactly like I haven’t heard this one before.
    Tucker, one of the guys, laughs and says, “No it’s Hell-Lo.” He takes a swig of his beer.
    “I’ve heard that one, too. It’s even less funny than Dawson’s. As if that’s possible.”
    “Who’s your friend?” Rafa asks with a cruel smile. Before I can answer he says, “Hey there‌—‌whatever your name is‌—‌how long have you known Lo?”
    Eugene smiles. “Almost a week.”
    “Well, that’s long enough to know her really well,” Rafa says. He smacks the table and laughs hard. “Right, Dawson?” The rest of the table cracks up. Even a small laugh escapes Dawson before he can hide it behind his beer can.
    It hurts that they treat me like this, but I’m never gonna let them see it. Eugene hovers just over my shoulder, and I can’t decide if I’m glad he’s here or annoyed or ashamed that he’s seeing this. Probably all three.
    Tucker grins hard, barely concealing the spite. “Is your mom coming by later on? I heard she’d never miss a chance for free beer.”
    The group cracks up.
    “Tucker Doyle‌—‌” I jab a finger at his face.
    Eugene puts an arm around my waist and tugs me slightly backwards.
    “You’re an asshole!” My eyes sting, but I will not cry in front of Dawson’s crew.
    “Hey, Lo. He didn’t mean it,” Dawson says, not getting up.
    I storm away and he still does. Not. Get. Up.
    Eugene trails me to the edge of the yard by a fence with a privacy hedge. I walk along the fence, the can concealed, and slowly empty the brew. I hope it doesn’t kill the plants. Most people would toss the empty, but I’ve learned if you have one in hand, no one will ask if you want another. Everyone just assumes you still have beer. Finally, I circle back around toward the party.
    Eugene grabs my wrist. “Why are you throwing your brew away?”
    “I don’t like beer and don’t drink it,” I confess, “but sometimes it’s easier to play along than it is to go all in-depth. Know what I mean?” I’m convinced he doesn’t know what I mean , and I wish that he’d try out the play along technique. I really don’t want to answer another question from him.
    He floors me when he says, “It’s because of your mother.”
    I hesitate. “Yes. And considering what Sasha did, there shouldn’t be any beer at this party.”
    “This girl, Sasha, she is your enemy?”
    Enemy? I can think of a few choice words to call Sasha‌—‌with ‘bitch’ holding down the number one spot and ‘two-faced liar’ in the second position‌—‌but I hadn’t considered enemy. “Could be. She’s a little like Richard.”
    “She’s a dick?” Eugene asks.
    I crack up, and Eugene looks a little hurt. “You can’t call girls a dick,” I explain, “but if you