Chapter 7 Then Fourteen Years Ago
Then
Fourteen Years Ago
“Okay. Which earrings?”
I was sitting on the floor of Maren’s walk-in closet, surrounded by piles of rejected clothing and shoes.
I considered her question, then pointed to the oversize silver hoop she held up to her right ear.
She nodded in agreement, slipping on the hoops as she turned once more to her floor-length mirror to examine the final look.
Her dress was a multicolor patchwork situation she’d sewn herself, sleeveless with a high neck and a tie at the waist. On anyone else it would look have looked drab and grandmotherly, but Maren somehow pulled it off.
In the last year, Maren had transformed before my eyes from an awkward, artsy middle schooler with a costume-like wardrobe into the girl standing before me.
She still made her own clothes, but her style had begun to mature and evolve.
In a school of girls whose idea of fitting in fashion-wise revolved around sameness (same short UGG boots, same Alex and Ani bracelet stacks jingling down their wrists, same Abercrombie skinny jeans), her insistence on difference was equal parts cool and frustrating to the more popular girls, who regarded her with resigned respect.
She zipped her thrifted white go-go boots, then reached down and pulled me to my feet.
“I think we’re ready,” she said to our reflections.
It had taken almost a full school year, but we’d finally gotten invited to our first real high school party, a Memorial Day Weekend “day drink” that her latest crush, a sophomore soccer player named Aaron Reingold, was throwing while his parents were out of town.
We’d spent the last two hours in Maren’s room, blasting iTunes from her clunky white MacBook and getting ready.
I smoothed my jean skirt, which I’d paired with my favorite white tank top, while she swiped on a bubblegum-pink lip gloss, then handed it to me so I could follow suit.
I remember thinking that I looked good—pretty, even—if a bit plain in comparison to Maren, with her sparkling blue eyes and cascade of naturally curly blond hair.
Middle school hadn’t been the kindest to either of us in the looks department (think: a near-unibrow for me and a conspicuous palate expander for Maren), but ninth grade had proven to be transformative.
And while I wouldn’t exactly consider us part of the popular crowd at Brantley Beach High, we fell somewhere in the middle.
Respectable. That was more than enough for us—and apparently it was also enough to get us invited to the first legit party of the summer.
Maren and I chatted nervously with Mr. Murphy the whole drive to Aaron’s.
He was under the impression that this was a chaperoned barbecue, and our bodies practically vibrated with the knowledge of our fib.
It was 12:30 in the afternoon when we pulled up (exactly thirty minutes after the start of the party—the absolute latest we could force ourselves to wait for our fashionably late arrival), agreeing to meet Mr. Murphy out front again at four to go back to Maren’s.
I’d brought my overnight things when I had come over earlier, and although I’d never admit it to Maren, I was already sort of looking forward to after the party, when we’d throw on comfy clothes and stay up late rehashing it.
“Thanks, Mr. Murphy!” I called as we leapt from the car. Maren grabbed my hand, and we speed-walked around to the front of the house, following the sounds of voices and music.
The house was gorgeous. It was clearly one of the newer constructions that had begun popping up around town, with a modular look and floor-to-ceiling windows with black trim that stood in sharp contrast to the quaint, old-fashioned beach houses on either side.
The front of the property faced the water, with a firepit and Adirondack chairs on one side and a keg and two white folding tables lined with red Solo cups on the other (a temporary setup for this occasion, I assumed).
Aaron waved us over to one of the tables where at least a dozen other kids—some from our rising sophomore class and others I vaguely recognized from the hallways of BBH—were congregating.
Aaron and his buddy from the soccer team, Chris Cappelli, began arranging the cups in the middle of the table.
I watched as they cracked open a few cans of Natural Light, then doused each cup with a splash of the beer.
Apart from the cup in the very center, which Chris filled to the brim.
I made a concerted effort not to wrinkle my nose at the smell.
Maren and I had dabbled in alcohol here and there over the last year, but always in a controlled environment (her room, long after her parents had gone to sleep, Gossip Girl reruns playing on her MacBook to drown out the sounds of our nervous laughter).
Our drinks of choice were red wine pilfered from a cabinet that was gathering dust in her parents’ dining room and—once—a fifth of New Amsterdam her older cousin Leah had (reluctantly) procured for us while home from TCNJ for Thanksgiving break.
All this to say: Beer was new territory. As was drinking out in the open.
“Stack cup!” Aaron announced, with no additional explanation.
Maren and I exchanged a worried look, but thankfully the game started at the opposite end of the table.
We watched as Shelby Daniels and Melissa Cruz each grabbed a cup from the middle, downed the contents and then attempted to bounce ping-pong balls into their empty cups with the seriousness of competitive athletes.
Shelby made her shot first and passed her cup to the right.
Then Melissa made her shot and passed it to Shelby, and so on until Isaiah Thompson beat Mary Douglas and, with great enthusiasm, stacked his cup inside hers.
The rest of the table broke out in cheers and whoops as Mary grabbed a new cup from the center, drank and started the whole process over again.
By the time my turn came the cups were stacked five high.
My hand shook as I bounced the ball, which landed nowhere near the cup and instead rolled off the other side of the table.
I reached underneath and grabbed it, popping back up just as the freshman boy to my left, Manny Nelson, was stacking his cup into mine.
Everyone yelled, “Drink!” I followed orders and then (to my relief) successfully bounced the ball into a new cup and passed it on.
The game continued like this, and once Maren and I started getting the hang of it, we got just as competitive as everyone else, celebrating when we made shots in time, pouting when we missed and had to throw back bready gulps of beer.
Each drink didn’t seem like much, but they added up, and soon the whole scene was becoming fuzzy at the corners.
The game ended when Aaron failed to bounce his ball into the now-swaying tower of stacked cups before Chris.
As punishment, he feigned reluctance, pulled the full cup of beer from the center and chugged to everyone’s applause.
Aaron and a few other boys immediately got to work resetting the cups for another round when Sebastian walked in with Theo Louros and Andre Silva.
He wore a white T-shirt, khaki shorts and his signature Vans, his skin already tanned from the mornings he spent surfing after school.
They seemed to know everyone, hugging the girls hello and clapping the other guys on the back.
Sebastian’s eyes landed on me and I offered a little wave.
He smiled in response, and I felt fire on my skin.
Aside from brief acknowledgments in the hallway, I’d barely interacted with Sebastian that school year.
We didn’t share any classes or even a lunch slot, and after school I spent most nights either at home with my family or working on the student newspaper, while Sebastian helped out at the restaurant and surfed with his buddies.
We were summer friends, and it quickly became clear to me that that wasn’t the same thing as real friends.
Maren rolled her eyes whenever I said this, but it was the truth.
There was some more shuffling as the setup continued, which Maren took as an opportunity to hip-check me halfway down the table. I stumbled (conveniently) right next to Sebastian.
“Hey, Mariano,” he said, his expression unreadable. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
I crossed my arms. Was running into me at a party so shocking?
“Aaron invited us,” I said, defensive. Before I could say more, the game started up again.
I realized I was now standing to Sebastian’s left and shot Maren a hot glare. She shrugged innocently.
My turn came, and despite my shaking hand I made my shot on the third try—respectable—then passed my cup to Sebastian. But I made my next shot on the second, beating him. Confident from my beer buzz, I stacked my cup into his with a satisfying thwack.
The table erupted in cheers. Even Sebastian applauded me before taking his drink.
My luck didn’t last long, though. Theo was to my left, and on the next round, he beat me and I had to drink.
Then Sebastian made his shot on the first try, which meant he could send his cup to anyone.
He reached over me and passed it to Theo, who beat me again.
They were teaming up to crush me, and the crowd was loving it.
I tried to catch up, but Sebastian made his shot first again.
This time, though, he sent his cup across the table to Andre.
A few people booed this decision. I felt conflicted.
Part of me was relieved that he saved me, but part of me felt defensive.
Did he think I wasn’t mature or experienced enough to handle a game like this?