CHAPTER 1
LARA
Ican’t believe I let Zachery talk me into going to this party.
With my back against the wall, I watch the teenagers around me writhing to the music, shouting and laughing, sloshing the liquid in their cups like they don’t even care that they’re making the floor a mess. I’m trying, desperately, not to be a stick in the mud, a sore thumb — any of the phrases Zachery would use to describe me — but it’s not working.
This room smells like sweat, like too much cologne and perfume. I breathe carefully through my nose, worried it might give me a headache. I might only be eighteen, but being here makes me feel like I’m forty. I picture my parents at home, relaxing over their books, doing a puzzle together. Or my mother is knitting, the rhythmic clack of her needles soothing as I sink into my own project. My dad is bringing me a cup of tea, making bad puns.
If I could be there, I would. But I came with Zachery, and it feels wrong to leave without him. I don’t even remember who he said was throwing the party at this huge, expensive house, but I think it was an athlete of some sort.
“You’re a teenager!” he’d insisted, pulling a tight, shimmering dress from his backpack and flashing it to me like it was contraband. “You need to act like one. Atleastduring senior year.”
He didn’t need to bother with the secrecy; my parents don’t care what I wear. My mother is a strong supporter of women choosing their own clothes. My dad did, however, insist that I take a jacket for the walk to the party, since it’s October. I’m wearing that jacket now, pulling it tightly around my body.
I keep tugging on my clothes and then raising a hand to my hair, which is straightened, thanks to Zachery. Normally, I just throw it into a messy half-up, half-down. But tonight, it shines in the light, running silkily through my fingers. It feels like hair that doesn’t belong to me.
Every time I raise my hand to run it over my face, I have to remind myself that instead of just my usual mascara and lip gloss, I’m wearing a full face of makeup — foundation, concealer, and contour that Zachery insisted made my cheekbonespop.
“Oh myGod, Lara? Is that you?”
A short blond girl from one of my math classes stumbles over to me, almost spilling her drink. I try to step away surreptitiously, holding my own cup away from her in case she decides to start flailing her arms, or launches a surprise hug, like the last classmate did. Forcing a smile and a kind tone, I answer her, keeping a close eye on the drink in her hand and trying to remember her name.
“It’s me! How are you?”
“I can’t believe you’re here! I’ve never seen you at a party before. This is so fun—” She reaches out and takes my arm, and I almostlaugh at the realization that she might cause me to spill myownbeer on myself. Eyes bright and cheeks flushed, she says, “Let’s dance!”
“Oh—” I look at the ‘dance floor’ and return my gaze to her, shaking my head and glancing down at my drink. “Sorry, I’m trying to finish this up. I’ll join you in a bit.”
“You’ve got this.” She claps a hand on my shoulder and jostles me, her face close enough to mine that I can smell the beer on her breath. “You can finish that drink, Novak.”
With that, she’s drifting away, and I’m alone again.
Not wanting to risk opening myself up to another conversation like that, and not seeing Zachery anywhere, I turn and start making my way through the bodies, pushing until I see the metaphorical green light at the end of the pier — a sliding glass door leading out onto a massive deck.
Whoever is throwing this party must have wealthy parents, because the deck is stunning. Along the brick wall, there are two inset grills and an outdoor refrigerator. Down below, a pool is covered by a tarp that snaps in the wind.
I stumble out onto the deck, dumping my beer into the bushes. It’s warm and stale. The things high schoolers will do just to get drunk!
In a moment that even embarrassesme,I suddenly wish my mom were here, with a glass of wine from her cellar, telling me what it pairs with, pouring me a small glass, a sparkle in her eye as we toast. That’s the kind of drinking I’ve gotten used to - a glass of wine with dinner, maybe a glass after.
And for me, usually only a glass on my birthday and at Christmas.
I move to an inconspicuous spot at the side, and stand on the porch for a moment, bracing my forearms against the railing and sucking in a deep breath of the frigid air. It’s not warm enough to be out here like this — not in October, anyway — but even freezing, it’s better than going back inside.
When I spot the tree house in the far corner of the yard, I consider going over and climbing inside for warmth, even though it looks like it hasn’t been used since whichever teen is throwing this party was a little kid. But this isn’t my house, and it feels like a strange thing to do.
That is until I hear the scrape of the sliding door on the rails and realize someone is going to join me out here. With a quickness that surprises me, I slip over the railing and hurry to the base of the tree house, fingers digging into the rudimentary ladder as I make my way up.
It is warmer in the tree house, though not by much, and I hunch in the corner, taking a deep breath and a moment to slow my heartbeat. Sure enough, I hear the faint sound of a voice across the yard, over on the porch, and I’m grateful for my gut instincts.
The inside of the tree house is dark, only the faint light from the streetlamp flooding through, rich and yellow, in a square on the rough wooden floor. There’s a rug thrown over it, slightly crooked, and I fix it before taking a seat on it, my back against the wall.
A little table holds a melted candy bar, an empty soda can, and a few discarded wrappers. They look old enough to convince me that this tree house hasn’t been used for quite a while. When Ipull a wooden crate out from under the bench, I find a stack of old comic books.
I’m not a huge comic book person, but it’s still better than the party. Pulling one out, I’m flipping to the first page when I realize the voice from the porch is getting louder, coming toward me.
I freeze when it gets close enough that I can hear it clearly, and make out the words.
