the bus and navigating the aisle will hold the people behind me up. I’m waiting for everyone to file on first when Elana walks up in her black and red sparkly dance leotard. She stops next to me and bends to tie her shoe.
“So listen,” she says, and it says a lot that it doesn’t even register that she’s talking to me, “some people are coming over to my place tonight. You’re invited if you want to come.”
I look around, blurting out a confused, “Me?” and her eyes jump to mine.
She’s looking at me like I’m dumb. “Yes, you.”
“Uh, yeah.” My reply is somehow both too enthusiastic and overly flat. “I’ll um… think about it.”
“Cool,” she says, tightening the bow of her lace and walking off. She gets onto the bus and I’m left standing there, wondering if it actually happened.
I’m still wondering, minutes later, as I pass her and her friends for one of the last available seats on the bus. I look over and see the black cord tucked just beneath her leotard, and on impulse, I reach up to touch the key under my own shirt. I have no idea what the key actually goes to, but one thing is clear.
It’s definitely opening doors.
My mom didn’t exactly give me permission to go to the party, but she did say I could hang out with Sydney after the game. In her mind, that probably meant milkshakes and cheeseburgers at The Nerd, but hey. To-mayto, to-mahto. Technically, it’s not a lie. She didn’t ask for specifics. This only makes the guilt a little stronger when I take the glass of red punch from Sydney. My mom trusts me not to be a liar.
All I do is lie.
I tip the plastic cup back and swallow a gulp of the concoction Sydney gave me. It burns my throat and I fight a gag. “Jesus,” I cough. “What the hell?”
“Grain alcohol.” Syd makes her own face after taking a sip. “You get used to it.”
“Yeah,” I peer down in the cup, “not sure I want to.”
What I’d give to be high right now. Pills are so much better than this. Only one swallow, no flavor, and hours of melty goodness. A waft of skunky smoke rolls past us and I observe a circle of kids passing what I assume to be a joint. I mean, hey. Maybe if I wanted to branch out…
Across the room another group of boys—all in letter jackets—get rowdy and a shout comes too late, not enough time for me to get out of the way as a body slams into me. I lurch forward, a big wave of punch leaping from the side of my cup. It hits the floor with a messy splat by my feet.
“Oh god,” I groan. Smooth fucking move, Vandy. I stare at the red mess, knowing my cheeks are just as bright, semi-frozen. I look around. “Is there a rag? Uh, paper towels?”
I have a moment of silent, chest-clenching panic. I can feel it, sense it. Someone ran into the crippled girl. Everyone is staring at me, down at my leg, back at my face. This is why I’m not invited anywhere. I’m a liability. A buzzkill.
I search for Elana, but predictably, she’s nowhere to be found. I can’t just let people drag toxic punch through her parents' house.
“Here.” A roll of paper towels suddenly appears, offered by George, the guy from my art class. “Let me help.”
He yanks off a stretch of sheets and hands them to me, then pulls off another bunch. We both drop to the ground and start mopping up the mess.
“Thank you,” I breathe.
“Sure,” he replies with an easy grin. George is one of those guys that have been in my classes for years, but I know very little about him. He seems nice enough. He’s the best in the class with pastels. He’s a bit reserved, like his sister, and has a really unfortunate acne issue, but that’s about the extent of my knowledge. Like everyone else, I’ve kept him at a distance. He holds the soaked towels in his fist and offers, “I think there’s a trash can in the room off the kitchen.”
He stands and I follow him, walking past a series of increasingly curious eyes. Oh, nothing to see here, folks. Just the loser limping around with dripping paper towels. Ugh. When we arrive in the kitchen, he pushes a pedal on the floor. A silver trash can opens and he dumps in