crying. I bend down and root around in the pile of junk at the bottom of my locker, hiding.
I’m wearing my new denim mini and the light blue shirt my mom chose. The top brightens my eyes.
I have no idea how Simon’s friends dress for parties. I can imagine some of the girls in clothes they consider rebellious, from Hot Topic in Westlake Center. Every time I go by there, I think it’s where quirky, cool things go to die.
Jewel and I joked about that. It started when we saw a
Gremlins
T-shirt hanging in the window, lusted after it, and then saw Christy VanSant, head cheerleader, wearing it under her J.Crew blazer.
At eight o’clock, Simon’s honk comes: three short bursts.
“Hey, good-lookin’,” he says as I open the car door and climb in.
He’s wearing the same outfit as the day at Pike Place Market. The turquoise sweater, Adidas vest, and his best faded jeans.
I wonder if he knows how much I wanted him that day, before I actually had him. If that’s why he’s wearing it.
“You look good,” I tell him as we zip over to Mike’s house.
“It’s fun when Corrigan’s parents skip town,” Simon says as he finds a spot for the car.
People I don’t recognize stand on Corrigan’s small front porch, drinking out of red plastic cups and laughing too loudly.
“Private school,” Simon whispers into my hair as we approach. They all seem to know him, waving and even whooping as we approach.
“Who’s your girl?” asks a guy wearing a white baseball cap over his buzz cut.
“This is Alice,” Simon says.
This is me
, I think. I am Simon’s girl.
Inside the house, someone props a stereo speaker on a window ledge.
Some rap song thumps onto the porch.
“Woo-hoo!” screams the guy, raising his drink above his head.
“Let’s go in.” Simon gives my arm a squeeze.
I follow Simon inside. He acts like it’s his own place.
I realize that I’ve never felt as comfortable even at Jewel’s house as Simon seems to feel here. And come to think of it, he has a way of owning whatever space he occupies. I guess that’s confidence.
Simon heads directly for the kitchen counter, stocked with a variety of alcohol. Every kid in this place, except for Simon and me, must’ve raided their parents’ stash.
I guess I realized that a party at Corrigan’s would mean alcohol, but this is really a lot. Simon seems fine with it, though, even excited about it. I’ve never really had the desire to get drunk.
He hands me a red cup that smells like raspberries and nail polish remover. I step out of my frame. I take a drink.
Simon pours his own cup to the brim and we move to the couch.
I give myself over, drinking up, chatting with strangers about pop music, borrowing lip gloss from Mandy. As she hands me the tube, she says, “What’s mine is yours.”
I am at this party. I am the life.
I nuzzle into Simon, leaning on his arm, my head against his neck.
We drink and talk some more.
Simon stands up and takes my hand, leads me back to the kitchen. While he’s mixing vodka with lemon-lime soda, Mike stumbles in and opens the fridge. “I gotta find some pepperoni!”
“Only Corrigan decides to make pizza during a party where everyone is drinking but no one is eating,” says Simon, stirring his concoction. “I gotta pee.”
“Get in line!” Mike shouts.
By the time Simon’s back from the bathroom, I’m alone in the kitchen and I’ve finished his green drink. It tasted like melted Popsicle.
I’ve gone beyond half-drunk. For the first time in my life. My head feels light. I close my eyes and try to get back into myself. I try to drown out the voices, the pumping music, the sway of the crowd.
Simon grabs me by the waist.
It feels too good.
Then I feel like I might vomit.
Simon burps in my ear. I turn around. His eyes are watery. “I’m pretty gone.”
“I can see that.” We’re both drunk. It’s a couple of miles from Corrigan’s house to mine. I could walk. “You can’t drive me
I’m wearing my new denim mini and the light blue shirt my mom chose. The top brightens my eyes.
I have no idea how Simon’s friends dress for parties. I can imagine some of the girls in clothes they consider rebellious, from Hot Topic in Westlake Center. Every time I go by there, I think it’s where quirky, cool things go to die.
Jewel and I joked about that. It started when we saw a
Gremlins
T-shirt hanging in the window, lusted after it, and then saw Christy VanSant, head cheerleader, wearing it under her J.Crew blazer.
At eight o’clock, Simon’s honk comes: three short bursts.
“Hey, good-lookin’,” he says as I open the car door and climb in.
He’s wearing the same outfit as the day at Pike Place Market. The turquoise sweater, Adidas vest, and his best faded jeans.
I wonder if he knows how much I wanted him that day, before I actually had him. If that’s why he’s wearing it.
“You look good,” I tell him as we zip over to Mike’s house.
“It’s fun when Corrigan’s parents skip town,” Simon says as he finds a spot for the car.
People I don’t recognize stand on Corrigan’s small front porch, drinking out of red plastic cups and laughing too loudly.
“Private school,” Simon whispers into my hair as we approach. They all seem to know him, waving and even whooping as we approach.
“Who’s your girl?” asks a guy wearing a white baseball cap over his buzz cut.
“This is Alice,” Simon says.
This is me
, I think. I am Simon’s girl.
Inside the house, someone props a stereo speaker on a window ledge.
Some rap song thumps onto the porch.
“Woo-hoo!” screams the guy, raising his drink above his head.
“Let’s go in.” Simon gives my arm a squeeze.
I follow Simon inside. He acts like it’s his own place.
I realize that I’ve never felt as comfortable even at Jewel’s house as Simon seems to feel here. And come to think of it, he has a way of owning whatever space he occupies. I guess that’s confidence.
Simon heads directly for the kitchen counter, stocked with a variety of alcohol. Every kid in this place, except for Simon and me, must’ve raided their parents’ stash.
I guess I realized that a party at Corrigan’s would mean alcohol, but this is really a lot. Simon seems fine with it, though, even excited about it. I’ve never really had the desire to get drunk.
He hands me a red cup that smells like raspberries and nail polish remover. I step out of my frame. I take a drink.
Simon pours his own cup to the brim and we move to the couch.
I give myself over, drinking up, chatting with strangers about pop music, borrowing lip gloss from Mandy. As she hands me the tube, she says, “What’s mine is yours.”
I am at this party. I am the life.
I nuzzle into Simon, leaning on his arm, my head against his neck.
We drink and talk some more.
Simon stands up and takes my hand, leads me back to the kitchen. While he’s mixing vodka with lemon-lime soda, Mike stumbles in and opens the fridge. “I gotta find some pepperoni!”
“Only Corrigan decides to make pizza during a party where everyone is drinking but no one is eating,” says Simon, stirring his concoction. “I gotta pee.”
“Get in line!” Mike shouts.
By the time Simon’s back from the bathroom, I’m alone in the kitchen and I’ve finished his green drink. It tasted like melted Popsicle.
I’ve gone beyond half-drunk. For the first time in my life. My head feels light. I close my eyes and try to get back into myself. I try to drown out the voices, the pumping music, the sway of the crowd.
Simon grabs me by the waist.
It feels too good.
Then I feel like I might vomit.
Simon burps in my ear. I turn around. His eyes are watery. “I’m pretty gone.”
“I can see that.” We’re both drunk. It’s a couple of miles from Corrigan’s house to mine. I could walk. “You can’t drive me
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