step.
Kelsey Bartlett lives in one of those houses that doesn’t look like much from the outside, but once you go in it’s all black leather couches and hardwood floors and a curiously invisible sound system that even plays music in the bathroom when you’re going pee. There aren’t many people there when we show up, just a few girls sitting on the couch eating celery sticks and ranch dip. When we walk in, Kelsey swoops over to greet us, wearing a purple halter dress and those stupid forty-dollar flip-flops all the girls at our school are wearing this year. Lukas’s face perks up when she appears, like he’s relieved to see someone who won’t talk his ear off about her murder scene evidence collection.
“Welcome, welcome,” gushes Kelsey. “I’m so glad you guys showed up. I haven’t seen you in forever, Kiri. How’s it going?”
Even though I secretly think Kelsey’s kind of a ditz, I give her a big smile.
“Fine. My practice schedule is positively murderous .”
Lukas shoots me a look, but Kelsey doesn’t notice. She makes a little face and pulls me into a hug.
“Crazy piano girl. I don’t know how you do it.”
Kelsey and Lukas start chatting about which bands they’re going to see at IndieFest this year. I try to join in, but I’ve been too busy to look at the lineup, and I probably won’t have time to go anyway. After a few minutes I wander away to see who else is here. I say hi to my friend Angela, who’s in the middle of telling a story to this girl Rhett whose dad owns the Cactus Club.
“Hey, Kiri,” says Angela, sipping her Sprite. “So anyway, he came back again yesterday, and this time he brought his friend. . . .”
I listen as Angela shares the breaking news about the latest additions to her pervert collection. Highlights at six:
-her forty-year-old manager at the snack bar has a crush on her;
-her old boyfriend from middle school wants to get back together;
-Pete Vozt texted her a picture of his schlong.
I peel away from Rhett and Angela and go say hi to the orchestra kids, who are entertaining themselves by playing Chubby Bunny with the cherry tomatoes. There’s no room on the couch, so I plunk myself down on Bryan Kravchenko’s lap. He groans and tries to push me off.
“Get off me, yo!”
Instead I lean back and try to crush him against the couch.
“Help! Get her off me! She’s crazy!”
I finally get off when he elbows me in the ribs. They start talking about a TV show and I get restless again, so I mill around the house, stealing chips off people’s plates. Somebody sets up Guitar Hero and everyone clusters around the TV to watch.
All of a sudden, I feel incredibly bored.
This party is stupid.
There’s nothing happening .
Everyone’s just flirting and posing and trying to look cool. There’s no greater meaning here. No beauty. Sukey was stabbed to death, and I’m supposed to stand here watching fools play Guitar Hero?
A hum of anxiety is building in my chest like a swarm of wasps. I should do something. I should make some signal to let Sukey know I’m with her. I can’t just stand here.
I make another useless circle of the living room and go outside to the deck, where there’s a hot tub, tiki torches, and a barbecue the size of a tank. The lid of the hot tub is off, and the water is steaming quietly into the night. It looks so warm and peaceful, I walk right over and dunk my arm in.
Kelsey’s dad is manning the grill.
“Go ahead,” he says when he sees me. “You can be the first one in.”
The suggestion is too tantalizing to resist.
I can see my reflection wobbling on the surface of the water like the film of edible ink on a Your-Photo-on-a-Cake. I slip my feet out of my sandals, swing my first leg over the edge, and the water swallows up my leg all the way to the hem of my shorts. I swing my other leg in and stand there like a stork in the middle of the warm, bubbling water. Inside the house, a group
Kelsey Bartlett lives in one of those houses that doesn’t look like much from the outside, but once you go in it’s all black leather couches and hardwood floors and a curiously invisible sound system that even plays music in the bathroom when you’re going pee. There aren’t many people there when we show up, just a few girls sitting on the couch eating celery sticks and ranch dip. When we walk in, Kelsey swoops over to greet us, wearing a purple halter dress and those stupid forty-dollar flip-flops all the girls at our school are wearing this year. Lukas’s face perks up when she appears, like he’s relieved to see someone who won’t talk his ear off about her murder scene evidence collection.
“Welcome, welcome,” gushes Kelsey. “I’m so glad you guys showed up. I haven’t seen you in forever, Kiri. How’s it going?”
Even though I secretly think Kelsey’s kind of a ditz, I give her a big smile.
“Fine. My practice schedule is positively murderous .”
Lukas shoots me a look, but Kelsey doesn’t notice. She makes a little face and pulls me into a hug.
“Crazy piano girl. I don’t know how you do it.”
Kelsey and Lukas start chatting about which bands they’re going to see at IndieFest this year. I try to join in, but I’ve been too busy to look at the lineup, and I probably won’t have time to go anyway. After a few minutes I wander away to see who else is here. I say hi to my friend Angela, who’s in the middle of telling a story to this girl Rhett whose dad owns the Cactus Club.
“Hey, Kiri,” says Angela, sipping her Sprite. “So anyway, he came back again yesterday, and this time he brought his friend. . . .”
I listen as Angela shares the breaking news about the latest additions to her pervert collection. Highlights at six:
-her forty-year-old manager at the snack bar has a crush on her;
-her old boyfriend from middle school wants to get back together;
-Pete Vozt texted her a picture of his schlong.
I peel away from Rhett and Angela and go say hi to the orchestra kids, who are entertaining themselves by playing Chubby Bunny with the cherry tomatoes. There’s no room on the couch, so I plunk myself down on Bryan Kravchenko’s lap. He groans and tries to push me off.
“Get off me, yo!”
Instead I lean back and try to crush him against the couch.
“Help! Get her off me! She’s crazy!”
I finally get off when he elbows me in the ribs. They start talking about a TV show and I get restless again, so I mill around the house, stealing chips off people’s plates. Somebody sets up Guitar Hero and everyone clusters around the TV to watch.
All of a sudden, I feel incredibly bored.
This party is stupid.
There’s nothing happening .
Everyone’s just flirting and posing and trying to look cool. There’s no greater meaning here. No beauty. Sukey was stabbed to death, and I’m supposed to stand here watching fools play Guitar Hero?
A hum of anxiety is building in my chest like a swarm of wasps. I should do something. I should make some signal to let Sukey know I’m with her. I can’t just stand here.
I make another useless circle of the living room and go outside to the deck, where there’s a hot tub, tiki torches, and a barbecue the size of a tank. The lid of the hot tub is off, and the water is steaming quietly into the night. It looks so warm and peaceful, I walk right over and dunk my arm in.
Kelsey’s dad is manning the grill.
“Go ahead,” he says when he sees me. “You can be the first one in.”
The suggestion is too tantalizing to resist.
I can see my reflection wobbling on the surface of the water like the film of edible ink on a Your-Photo-on-a-Cake. I slip my feet out of my sandals, swing my first leg over the edge, and the water swallows up my leg all the way to the hem of my shorts. I swing my other leg in and stand there like a stork in the middle of the warm, bubbling water. Inside the house, a group
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