one person across. Still, it had a working sink, fridge, oven, a fully stocked pantry, and two stools that put you at the perfect height to munch on a bowl of cereal at the end of the counter.
There was more. A full wall of sliding glass doors along the far side of The Hang opened to a tented cencrete patio filled with electric tiki torch heaters and padded double chaises. It was like an additional room. There was a small doggie door built into the sliders, which is how I first met Riley. The pooch bounded in the second we arrived, ready to leap all over us and lick us to pieces.
That cemented it for me. Trista's place was perfection. I never wanted to leave.
"And now," Trista said, "the Liberation Celebration Libations!"
Trista ducked into The Hole and emerged with a stack of red plastic cups and a bottle of champagne. She handed the bottle to me. "Pop the cork?"
I had never popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, but it wasn't a problem. The girls cheered and Trista poured ... and I started to panic inside.
I couldn't drink champagne. I'd be driving home in a couple hours. If champagne made me feel anything like the beer I'd had with Nate did, I'd be a swimmy mess in about two minutes. Still, I'd look like a complete loser if I was the only one saying no to the champagne, especially since it was in my honor.
Kristie must have seen the look on my face. She leaned in close and said, "We're all driving, so we're just taking the tiniest sip to celebrate."
"Yeah." Ree-Ree lounged back in her beanbag and gazed wistfully at her red plastic cup. "We don't really raid The Hole unless we're staying over."
"Which they do every Saturday," Trista said. She plopped down in a beanbag next to me and clinked my plastic cup. She drained her drink—she was already home. "Saturday's club night. Friday sometimes, but Saturday for sure. Always okay to crash here Saturday night, so it's cool to GYBO."
"Get Your Buzz On." Kristie giggled.
"Grab her cup, Cara!" Ree-Ree said. "KBG!"
"KBG?" I asked.
"Kristie Buzz Giggle," Kristie said, shoving her cup in my hands. "Don't let me drink any more."
"I'll take it." Trista downed the little bit of champagne left in Kristie's, Ree-Ree's, and my cups.
"Shall we bring out ... the List?" Ree-Ree asked. Without waiting for an answer, she walked to The Hole and came back with a creased piece of yellow legal-pad paper. The front was split into four columns with the scrawled headers "Trista," "Ree-Ree," "Kristie," and "Gemma." Under each was a list of names, and next to each name was a small H or S.
"The List of Conquests," Ree-Ree said. "All the guys we've ever fooled around with. 'H' means hookup; 'S' means sex."
I ran my eyes over the sheet of paper again. Gemma's and Ree-Ree's lists were far longer than the others' and peppered with far more S s. Kristie's was next longest, and every name was followed by an H. Trista's had only four names, ending with Brett's, the only name to be awarded an S.
"Gemma's pulling way ahead of me." Ree-Ree tsked. "Marsh and I might need to take another break. Or who knows?" she said to me. "Maybe you'll beat us both out."
She flipped over the paper, and for a second I felt like Ebenezer Scrooge looking at his own tombstone. Next to the fresh column Ree-Ree created for me were three other columns, all scratched to oblivion with ballpoint ink. I wondered what my predecessors had done to earn their excommunication.
"All right," Ree-Ree said. "Shoot."
I was grateful I'd seen the other side first. I wouldn't lose face by having a short, virginal list. Still, I couldn't name only Nate and Eddie. And even if I thought Archer might be an acceptable hookup for someone in the Populazzi—which I didn't think he was—his wild freak-out at the touch of my lips was hardly something I wanted to publicize.
Yet that, as Claudia had told me, was the beauty of being new to Chrysella. I could say anything, and no one would know. I gave a list of six names "from my old school," mostly guys I'd had crushes on at one time or another. I also included Fred Crumston, Claudia's and my least favorite teacher, who always had at least one string of spittle connecting his upper and lower lips. They vibrated when he spoke. Just picturing it made me