The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants by Ann Brashares Page B

where you turn off your flashlights at nine. I mean, come on. There's not even a drinking age in Mexico.” She didn't actually know whether that was true or not.
    â€œThe first scrimmage is tomorrow,” Rosie pointed out.
    â€œSo? Partying makes you play better,” Bridget said blithely. There was a statement that belonged with “Drinking makes you drive better,” or “Getting stoned makes you good at physics,” but who cared? She was in one of her impulsive moods.
    â€œHow do we go?” Diana asked. She was practical, but she wasn't a coward.
    Bridget considered. “We could either steal a van or take bikes. I think it's about half an hour on bikes if you ride fast.” Bridget didn't want to volunteer the fact that she didn't have a driver's license yet.
    â€œLet's take bikes,” Ollie said.
    Bridget felt that slightly reckless fizz in her veins she always got when she was doing something she shouldn't.
    Diana, Ollie, and Rosie were in. The rest were out.
    They quickly changed their clothes. Bridget borrowed a skirt from Diana, who was almost as tall as she was. It was annoying that Bridget hadn't thought to bring clothes that didn't make her look like a boy.
    Four of them flew along the Baja Highway, whizzing past snail-like RVs. Bridget kept bumping against Diana's back tire and making her scream. The placid bay was to their left and the hills were to their right, and the full moon sat on Bridget's shoulder.
    They could hear the music throbbing from the hotel before it came into sight. “Wahooo!” Bridget yelled. They made a quick huddle at the door.
    â€œListen,” Ollie said. “If Connie's there, we leave. I don't think anyone else will care. We went a couple times at the end of last year, and none of the coaches said anything.”
    Ollie elected herself the one to check. She ducked in and came right back out. “It's packed, but I didn't see her. If she shows, we leave.” She looked at Bridget dubiously. “Okay?”
    â€œOkay,” Bridget agreed.
    â€œWhether or not Eric is there.”
    â€œI said okay.”
    Bridget hadn't been to many clubs, but each time was the same. All eyes, at least all male eyes, followed her hair. Maybe it was the combination of bar light and alcohol that made it glow extra bright.
    They made for the dance floor. Bridget was indifferent to drinking, but she loved to dance. She grabbed Diana's hand and pulled her onto the crowded dance floor. Dancing was like soccer or miniature golf or gin rummy. It was just one of those things she was good at.
    The salsa music pounded through her body. There were shouts and stares and catcalls that she suspected were aimed at her—or her hair, anyway. She looked for Eric.
    At first she didn't see him, so she gave her whole self to the music. A little while later she spotted him with other coaches at a table away from the dancing. The table was covered with big, salty margarita glasses, mostly empty.
    He was watching her. He didn't see her see him seeing her yet, and she didn't want him to. She made it a point never to be coy, but she wanted him to be able to watch her if he wanted to.
    He looked mellow from sun and running and probably tequila. He had a sexy way of tipping his head to the side when he looked at people.
    Men kept bobbing around her, but she stuck with Diana, her preferred partner. A few minutes later, Ollie joined them, a beer in one hand.
    Ollie spotted the coaches' table and waved to them. Marci waved back. Eric and another coach, Robbie, gave them looks that said,
We'll just pretend we're not seeing this.
    But another round of margaritas later, the coaches were out on the dance floor too. It was heady and good. Bridget felt a dancing high coming on that rivaled her running high. She couldn't resist him anymore.
    She turned to Eric and danced close. She touched his hand momentarily. She watched his hips. He was both easy and skilled. She let her eyes