always make sure that I’m in my room with the lights out by the time she bumps around the kitchen, knocks bottles off the shelf in the bathroom, curses when the water is too cold, and finally collapses with a sigh of bedsprings. In the morning she’s pale and sweaty from last night’s wine, her face like some pearly-fleshed mollusk. She presses the heel of her hand into her forehead as she sips her coffee. “Why do I do it?” she always asks. The one time I actually offered an answer to this question, she didn’t speak to me for a week.
In the car, I tell Hadley, “I have some time.”
We end up at a diner near the highway. I order a pop, but Hadley gets another meal: coffee and a plate of pancakes.
“I need to get the taste of spaghetti out of my mouth,” she says and then looks stricken for a second. “God, I’m such a bitch,” she sighs.
I don’t say anything, because I know that when she calls herself a bitch, she doesn’t mean it to be entirely an insult. There’s a table ofguys across the aisle all with coffees and no food. I don’t recognize them from school, so maybe they’re older. A couple of them sneak glances at Hadley, her hank of light hair, her laced-up boots, her tough-girl clothes, her sneer.
A few of Hadley’s old friends are playing quarters at a booth near ours. They wave at us shyly, and Hadley returns a weary salute.
“They suck,” she whispers to me, and I’m more pleased by this than I should be. Twice, kids at school have come up to me in the halls to ask if I know where Hadley is, and when she was sick one day, the guidance counselor sent the packet of her missed homework with me. We’re considered best friends now; we’re considered a pair.
While we’re waiting for our food, we blow straw wrappers at each other and use the jam containers as bricks for a miniature pyramid. We stare out at the entrance ramp to the parking lot, which beads up with a steady string of cars. There’s been an away game, and we see the school buses return, their headlights high and familiar.
“Ugh. They’re coming back,” Hadley says and rests her head on the tabletop, a chunk of her hair landing in something sticky, probably syrup from her pancakes. She spends the next few minutes dabbing at it with a wet napkin and picking the strands apart.
“I feel drunk,” she announces a few minutes later.
“All you’ve had is coffee.”
“And syrup.”
“Wicked combo.”
She snorts. “Yeah, wicked. You ever been drunk?”
“No,” I say.
She studies me. “No.” She agrees that I haven’t. “Have you ever hitchhiked?” She nods out to the highway.
“No. You?”
She rolls her eyes. “I have a car, dummy. Have you ever—” “I’ve never nothing.” “God, Evie. You’re sixteen. You should do
something
.” She looks around. For something for me to do, I guess. Her eyes land on the table across from ours. “Go talk to those guys.”
I feel myself blush at the suggestion. The boys aren’t looking at us now; they’re hunched over the center of the table, doing something furtive with the sugar packets. “I don’t have anything to say.”
“Pick one and tell him to meet you in the parking lot to make out.” She says this like it’s nothing.
“Sure. Right.
Hi, stranger.
”
Hadley shrugs. “He’ll come.”
“No,” I whisper.
“Of course he will. He’s a guy.” She shrugs again.
I try to keep my eyes half lidded, my voice nonchalant. “Is that something people, like, do? I mean, have you?”
“Shit!” Hadley says. “They’re leaving.”
She slides out of the booth and grabs my hand. It’s all I can do to latch on to a sleeve of my coat and pull it after me.
“We haven’t paid!” I say, but we’re already out the door and in the parking lot, stamping our feet against the chill of the spring night.
The boys have already piled into their car, exhaust putting out its back. The car rolls forward a few feet and then stops. We hear a shout and see
In the car, I tell Hadley, “I have some time.”
We end up at a diner near the highway. I order a pop, but Hadley gets another meal: coffee and a plate of pancakes.
“I need to get the taste of spaghetti out of my mouth,” she says and then looks stricken for a second. “God, I’m such a bitch,” she sighs.
I don’t say anything, because I know that when she calls herself a bitch, she doesn’t mean it to be entirely an insult. There’s a table ofguys across the aisle all with coffees and no food. I don’t recognize them from school, so maybe they’re older. A couple of them sneak glances at Hadley, her hank of light hair, her laced-up boots, her tough-girl clothes, her sneer.
A few of Hadley’s old friends are playing quarters at a booth near ours. They wave at us shyly, and Hadley returns a weary salute.
“They suck,” she whispers to me, and I’m more pleased by this than I should be. Twice, kids at school have come up to me in the halls to ask if I know where Hadley is, and when she was sick one day, the guidance counselor sent the packet of her missed homework with me. We’re considered best friends now; we’re considered a pair.
While we’re waiting for our food, we blow straw wrappers at each other and use the jam containers as bricks for a miniature pyramid. We stare out at the entrance ramp to the parking lot, which beads up with a steady string of cars. There’s been an away game, and we see the school buses return, their headlights high and familiar.
“Ugh. They’re coming back,” Hadley says and rests her head on the tabletop, a chunk of her hair landing in something sticky, probably syrup from her pancakes. She spends the next few minutes dabbing at it with a wet napkin and picking the strands apart.
“I feel drunk,” she announces a few minutes later.
“All you’ve had is coffee.”
“And syrup.”
“Wicked combo.”
She snorts. “Yeah, wicked. You ever been drunk?”
“No,” I say.
She studies me. “No.” She agrees that I haven’t. “Have you ever hitchhiked?” She nods out to the highway.
“No. You?”
She rolls her eyes. “I have a car, dummy. Have you ever—” “I’ve never nothing.” “God, Evie. You’re sixteen. You should do
something
.” She looks around. For something for me to do, I guess. Her eyes land on the table across from ours. “Go talk to those guys.”
I feel myself blush at the suggestion. The boys aren’t looking at us now; they’re hunched over the center of the table, doing something furtive with the sugar packets. “I don’t have anything to say.”
“Pick one and tell him to meet you in the parking lot to make out.” She says this like it’s nothing.
“Sure. Right.
Hi, stranger.
”
Hadley shrugs. “He’ll come.”
“No,” I whisper.
“Of course he will. He’s a guy.” She shrugs again.
I try to keep my eyes half lidded, my voice nonchalant. “Is that something people, like, do? I mean, have you?”
“Shit!” Hadley says. “They’re leaving.”
She slides out of the booth and grabs my hand. It’s all I can do to latch on to a sleeve of my coat and pull it after me.
“We haven’t paid!” I say, but we’re already out the door and in the parking lot, stamping our feet against the chill of the spring night.
The boys have already piled into their car, exhaust putting out its back. The car rolls forward a few feet and then stops. We hear a shout and see
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