Page 12 of If This Gets Out

“You’re spending too much time around Angel,” Jon says.

“Honestly, I’m spending too much time around all three of you. Though you’d think your influence would balance me out, Jon.”

He scowls at me as we reach the bar.

The nearest bartender is a skinny guy with acne and blond hair. He barely looks any older than us. I flash a dazzling smile, and he wilts. “Hey,” I say, “Can I please get a whiskey and Coke and… Zach, what would you like?”

“Oh, um, the same, I guess.”

“Two Jack and Cokes, please?”

The bartender shifts his weight. “Do you, um… have your ID?” he asks, presumably stalling for time, because there’s no way he doesn’t know I’m underage.

Joy. Trust me to zero in on the newbie who hasn’t been given a proper induction. It’s generally an unspoken agreement that drinking laws don’t apply to us—especiallyat private parties. I smile even bigger. “You know? I left it in my suitcase. I’ll tell you what, we’ll get out of your hair for a minute, and you can leave our drinks on the edge there. We’ll grab them when we’re ready.” I slide a generous tip his way—not because I think we need to bribe him, but because the poor guy looks so terrified—and steer Jon and Zach by their elbows a few feet away to give him some plausible deniability. He greets the next customer, tells them he’ll be a second, and grabs a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, glancing sideways to see if his coworkers are watching. Like they give a shit.

Zach laughs and Jon rolls his eyes in a long-suffering way.

Drinks in hand, the three of us find a spot to stand in just as smoke starts to billow out from the ground at the far end of the room.

Nearby a girl asks in alarm if the place is on fire. No one answers her.

Then a row of cold spark machines lights up like a fountain, shooting blinding white flames into the air. The music surges into a regal chorus of trumpets and strings, before breaking into a hip-hop beat. I can’t quite see what’shappening up front at first, then I realize: Angel’s emerged from a trapdoor in the floor, standing atop a rising platform that’s also bordered by spark-effect fireworks. His arms are held to the sides and his head is tipped back, legs planted apart. Like a phoenix rising from the goddamn flames or something.

“What was that you were saying about a dramatic entrance, Jon?” I say mildly as the crowd breaks into applause.

“Bigger than Billboard,” Zach muses, before taking a sip.

“I hope he isn’t flammable,” Jon adds.

“Probably not, but he’s definitely high,” I say, taking in his manic smile and the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

“Again?” Zach asks with a sigh.

“Why am I not surprised?” Jon mutters. “I just hope he doesn’t fall.”

“Thank you for coming here tonight!” Angel’s voice booms over the loudspeakers. I spot the telltale bulge of a mic-pack. “Is everyone having a good time?”

The partiers roar. Angel, probably a few drinks in by now at a minimum, sways a little, and Jon looks like he might faint. “Please,don’t fall,” he says, like Angel can hear him.

“Tonight is my last night in the U S of A before we pack up and head off toEurope, baby!” More cheering. “I’m so psyched to be hitting up Europe with my fucking family. Zach, Ruben, Jon. You’re my fucking family. I love you so fucking much. Everyone, I met those guys atmusic camp,did you know that? Fuckingcamp.I wasn’t gonna go that year! I had a new girlfriend and I didn’t wanna leave her. Can you imagine if I’d skipped?”

The crowd buzzes with laughter.

“And Zach and I met Ruben, and he dragged us to hang with Jon—whonone of usknew was Geoff Braxton’s sonbecause he waslying about his name,which is supposed to be a sin, but whatever—”

Jon cups a hand over his forehead in disbelief.

“—and if that’s not fucking destiny, I don’t know what is.”

Hah. Destiny, it wasn’t. At first, I think Jon’s unhappy moan is because he knows as well as I do that my becoming friends with him was anything but fated. Then I realize, no, he’s just panicking, still.

He’s like a parent with a toddler. If the toddler was high off its face and standing on a ledge.

“He’s not gonna fall,” Zach reassures Jon. “Look, he’s not even rocking anymore.”

The speech goes on for another few minutes, in which Angel remembers to thank hisactualfamily, goes on a rant about staplers, and tells everyone they can pick one peacock each to bring home before his party planner reminds him that the peacocks are rented and not legal pets. Then, finally, the platform starts lowering him back down to land. Only when I’m sure he’s safe do I make eye contact with the bartender and hold up two fingers, shooting him a smile. He nods and gets to making our second round.

Angel makes a beeline for us, swaying more now than he was on the platform. “Where’s mine?” he asks as I grab the drinks.

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