the stairs to the master bedroom, laying each one out carefully on the enormous bed. I do remember the stairs becoming more difficult to climb as the evening wore on. I was wearing a black feather boa that someone had pulled out of Haylie’s closet, and it kept catching beneath my feet.
I do not remember actually opening the door for Third Floor Clyde. Gretchen told me that I did. She specifically remembered the moment he arrived because, apparently, I let out a joyful whoop of recognition, moving past his friends to hug him before he even stepped inside. I do not know if the fact that I don’t remember this moment makes it any more or less embarrassing. She said I took the coats of all the newcomers, but that I insisted, quite loudly in front of everyone, that Clyde help me carry them up the stairs.
“I wasn’t worried,” she told me later. “You weren’t slurring your words or anything. You were sort of just…” Here she leaned to one side and fluttered her eyelids so that she looked sort of stupid. “You were just…listing a little.”
Still, I can hardly claim that Third Floor Clyde took advantage of the situation. I don’t think he had the chance. I have a distinct memory of his startled expression as I took the boa from around my neck and wrapped it around his. I remember thinking that Becky Shoemaker was right: I really could make things happen by just thinking about them. I had known Clyde would show up as soon as I decided to have a party, and now here he was. It was fate, or the antidote to it. We were up in Jimmy and Haylie’s bedroom, by ourselves, standing beside the bed that was now piled high with coats. Or he was standing, I should say. I was actually dancing. Sort of. That’s what I thought I was doing—moving gracefully and easily from foot to foot. Looking back, I think I was still just listing, and maybe vaguely aware that I had to pee.
His eyes moved from side to side as the boa settled around his shoulders. He said something, but I couldn’t hear what. The music on the stereo downstairs had gotten very loud. He wasn’t nearly as tall as Tim, and I remember that just this difference seemed appealing, physical proof that some small but permanent change in perspective was taking place in my mind. We were looking at each other closely, eyes level and bright with anticipation. He brought his finger up to the cut in my lip, softly tracing the outline.
And that was all it took. I pressed my injured mouth against his. There was no exchange of witty dialogue. Maybe I just don’t remember it, but I think I would have. To be honest, I wasn’t that drunk. My coat was buried under all the others, and I clearly remember the muffled beeping of my cell phone from the pocket. It could have been anyone’s, I suppose, but I heard it as mine, and I remember feeling good about ignoring it.
7
“GOOD MORNING.” The words were said sweetly, and very softly. Gretchen stood over me, still wearing the shirt with the kitten on it. Sunlight reflected off the enormous mirror beside Jimmy and Haylie’s bed. I was lying on top of the covers, my coat thrown over me like a blanket.
“How you feeling?” She reached up to move her hair out of her eyes. A bloodstained paper towel was wrapped around one of her fingers, a hair elastic holding it in place. “I have aspirin in my purse.”
“What happened to your hand?” My voice was croaky, hard to hear. My tongue felt large and dry.
“Oh.” She looked at her hand. “Some idiot threw a bottle. I don’t even know who he was. I picked up some of the glass.”
I squinted at her, but said nothing. I was taking in information. There had been people in the house even Gretchen didn’t know. Bottles had been thrown. I sat up quickly. “The wine rack,” I said. What Jimmy considered very expensive would be irreplaceable for me.
She waved her bandaged hand. “Relax. I rolled it into the pantry before things got too crazy. It’s fine. Nobody even saw it.”
“Oh.” My head felt heavy. I lay back down. “Thanks.” I sat up again. “Oh no! What time is it?”
She looked at her watch. “It’s half past nine.”
“My dad is picking me up at eleven.” My cheeks felt raw, scraped by