you can see our outfits. And then we’re off to the party of the decade.
* * *
The party is ridiculous. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan’s adult friends, for the most part not in 1920s costumes, stand near the bar drinking, and Maura’s friends mill around the patio of the clubhouse holding “mocktails” in fancy glasses and talking over the upbeat jazz the DJ had chosen for cocktail hour. The boys are mostly just wearing regular suits, a few even have on tuxedos, but the girls are wearing dresses that are completely over-the-top. Each is hoping to outdo the others. Of course, none can rival Maura. It’s like a wedding where the bride is always the most beautiful woman. Maura is the center of the universe for the evening.
Still, when Missy and I walk in, I notice that Missy draws a lot of glances. Looks that say, Who is that gorgeous girl? It’s a relief to be beside her because no one really sees me at all. I am a blur in a black dress beside the girl with the outrageous red hair who looks like a fashion model.
“This is so exciting,” Missy says, leaning down toward my ear and clutching my arm. Although I am wearing shoes with a heel, in her stilettos Missy towers over me like a giant.
A server offers us pink drinks in martini glasses—it’s pink lemonade—and we make our way to the edge of the patio to survey the scene. Maura’s mother has pulled Maura away from her friends to say hello to the adults, and in her absence, Katherine and Jessica are holding court.
Missy and I stand on the edge of the patio. I can tell she’s dying to go over and introduce herself. She’s not afraid to put herself out there. And she knows that I have no intention of going over to those kids.
Then I see Katherine approaching.
“Lizzie! Looking good,” she says. “I didn’t see you come in.” She hooks an arm in mine. “Come meet some of the guys, ok?” She doesn’t acknowledge Missy. As Katherine leads me away, I look back at Missy and she just smiles and nods encouragingly.
“Who’s that?” Katherine asks when we’re out of earshot.
“Missy Howston. She just moved here too,” I say. “Mrs. Morgan thought it would be fun for her to come and meet people.”
“She’s pretty,” Katherine says. It’s an absurd understatement and also not spoken as a compliment. “How do you know her?”
“Facebook,” I say.
“Oh, wait, I remember that name now. But she doesn’t have a profile picture, right?”
I shake my head. “Her parents won’t let her.”
“Go figure,” Katherine says. “Well, you ready to meet everyone?”
I nod and let her lead me into her circle of friends. As Katherine goes around the group making introductions, it is all I can do to breathe normally. My heart is pounding and I can feel sweat forming on my face. I try to pay attention to all the names—to put together faces I recognize from Facebook profiles and names I also recognize but that don’t seem to match the people in front of me—but it’s hard to stay focused when I realize I am standing next to Hunter Groves.
“So that’s everyone, and this is Lizzie Richards,” Katherine concludes. “She’s Maura’s new neighbor.”
“Are you going to be a freshman?” someone asks.
“Senior,” I say.
“Really?”
I nod.
“Hey, you’re the girl from the battle of the bands,” a guy says. I look up and see that it’s the same guy who rescued me from the cop. “I wouldn’t have expected to see you here,” he continues. “Seemed like you weren’t a big favorite of Maura’s that night.”
“It was a misunderstanding,” I say and everyone laughs.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he says. He looks amused.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “what’s your name again?”
“Ouch,” another male voice says. “That’s gotta hurt.”
“Huh?”
“It’s just, we all thought everyone knew Pauly, here.”
Paul. That name came up in several of Maura’s poems. I look at him again. He is
* * *
The party is ridiculous. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan’s adult friends, for the most part not in 1920s costumes, stand near the bar drinking, and Maura’s friends mill around the patio of the clubhouse holding “mocktails” in fancy glasses and talking over the upbeat jazz the DJ had chosen for cocktail hour. The boys are mostly just wearing regular suits, a few even have on tuxedos, but the girls are wearing dresses that are completely over-the-top. Each is hoping to outdo the others. Of course, none can rival Maura. It’s like a wedding where the bride is always the most beautiful woman. Maura is the center of the universe for the evening.
Still, when Missy and I walk in, I notice that Missy draws a lot of glances. Looks that say, Who is that gorgeous girl? It’s a relief to be beside her because no one really sees me at all. I am a blur in a black dress beside the girl with the outrageous red hair who looks like a fashion model.
“This is so exciting,” Missy says, leaning down toward my ear and clutching my arm. Although I am wearing shoes with a heel, in her stilettos Missy towers over me like a giant.
A server offers us pink drinks in martini glasses—it’s pink lemonade—and we make our way to the edge of the patio to survey the scene. Maura’s mother has pulled Maura away from her friends to say hello to the adults, and in her absence, Katherine and Jessica are holding court.
Missy and I stand on the edge of the patio. I can tell she’s dying to go over and introduce herself. She’s not afraid to put herself out there. And she knows that I have no intention of going over to those kids.
Then I see Katherine approaching.
“Lizzie! Looking good,” she says. “I didn’t see you come in.” She hooks an arm in mine. “Come meet some of the guys, ok?” She doesn’t acknowledge Missy. As Katherine leads me away, I look back at Missy and she just smiles and nods encouragingly.
“Who’s that?” Katherine asks when we’re out of earshot.
“Missy Howston. She just moved here too,” I say. “Mrs. Morgan thought it would be fun for her to come and meet people.”
“She’s pretty,” Katherine says. It’s an absurd understatement and also not spoken as a compliment. “How do you know her?”
“Facebook,” I say.
“Oh, wait, I remember that name now. But she doesn’t have a profile picture, right?”
I shake my head. “Her parents won’t let her.”
“Go figure,” Katherine says. “Well, you ready to meet everyone?”
I nod and let her lead me into her circle of friends. As Katherine goes around the group making introductions, it is all I can do to breathe normally. My heart is pounding and I can feel sweat forming on my face. I try to pay attention to all the names—to put together faces I recognize from Facebook profiles and names I also recognize but that don’t seem to match the people in front of me—but it’s hard to stay focused when I realize I am standing next to Hunter Groves.
“So that’s everyone, and this is Lizzie Richards,” Katherine concludes. “She’s Maura’s new neighbor.”
“Are you going to be a freshman?” someone asks.
“Senior,” I say.
“Really?”
I nod.
“Hey, you’re the girl from the battle of the bands,” a guy says. I look up and see that it’s the same guy who rescued me from the cop. “I wouldn’t have expected to see you here,” he continues. “Seemed like you weren’t a big favorite of Maura’s that night.”
“It was a misunderstanding,” I say and everyone laughs.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he says. He looks amused.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “what’s your name again?”
“Ouch,” another male voice says. “That’s gotta hurt.”
“Huh?”
“It’s just, we all thought everyone knew Pauly, here.”
Paul. That name came up in several of Maura’s poems. I look at him again. He is
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