Page 13 of Catcher's Lock
Age 15 (Then)
“Ithought Rachael was the party twin.”
Hannah elbows Gem’s excited frame out from between the front seats so she can back the Corolla out between the trees. “She is. That’s why you get me tonight. You need a DD for your first high school party.”
Gem throws himself back in the seat and doesn’t push it. We could all crash at Cassidy’s. Her parents will take everyone’s keys in the way of Mendo parties—the unbreakable contract between parents of teenagers in an area where twelve inches of crumbling shoulder is all that separates the blacktop from an eighty-foot drop to death on the rocks. They can’t stop us from drinking, but they can try to keep us all alive until graduation.
But Gem knows why Rachael can’t come too. I spend as much time as possible at Big Top, but sometimes we have to hang at my place. No one likes to leave Jeremy alone with mydad for too long, and my mom’s been picking up shifts at the ER lately to cover the bills. At least, that’s why she says she’s doing it. To be fair, since legalization sent weed prices into the gutter and my dad shut down our grow, he hasn’t been bringing home a lot of cash to help out.
In my less charitable moments, I think it’s really because she doesn’t like coming home before he’s passed out. They can’t fight when he’s unconscious. The peace is worth abandoning her children to each other’s care.
Both my twin sisters were adamant that Gem and I not miss the first party of the year now that we’re all in school together, so Rachael drew the short straw, and Hannah is covering like she always does, pretending that if she keeps the act together, no one will notice she’s the only grown-up in the room.
Cassidy’s house is one of those big redwood mansions, with glass everywhere and decks on two levels. Hannah leaves us at the front door, beelining for her friends with a last “Don’t do anything too stupid” tossed over her shoulder. Gem is bouncing on his toes, trying to take in everything from the kids leaning over the second-story balcony to the smoking crowd clustered around a keg in the yard. Couples are making out in the Adirondack chairs on the front deck, and music pumps from somewhere deeper in the house.
“You came!” Penny flings herself into my arms, a tornado of spiky pink hair and elbows. “Hi, Gem,” she adds, as I disentangle myself. They bump fists, and she starts dragging us toward the kitchen. “This place is insane. Have you seen the rec room yet? There’s an eighty-inch TV.”
“We just got here,” I remind her.
“Lucky. My dad insisted on dropping me off early so he could talk to Cassidy’s parents.Sohumiliating. It was like me and four juniors for the first hour until people started showing up.”
There are only about sixty kids in the whole high school, and at least half of them seem to be here. The kitchen is as huge as the rest of the house, with a central island covered in bottles and red plastic cups, and two coolers of ice slowly melting by the back door. A group of upperclassmen sits around the breakfast table in the corner, playing some card game that seems to involve a lot of laughing and throwing cards. Two of the girls and one of the guys have their shirts off.
No one is angry or sad or yelling with anything except youthful delight.
As if reading my thoughts, Penny asks, “Are we drinking?”
“You didn’t start without us?” Vague guilt tickles the back of my throat.
“I’m a little stoned.” She shrugs, exchanging a look with Gem.
According to Google, children of alcoholics are four times as likely as other people to become alcoholics themselves, but the odds are still only about fifty percent. Hannah once confessed she’s betting on Rachael and Jeremy.
“You and I are the control freaks,”she told me.“We’re probably safe.”
I don’t want to be a freak of any kind, and I don’t want to bet against my siblings. I want to have fun with my friends.
“I’m in.”
“Anything but vodka,” Gem says, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “Or Budweiser.” He’s helped me drag our overflowing recycling bin down to the road enough times to know my father’s preferred poisons.
Penny surveys the options and reaches for a bottle next to a bowl of sliced limes. “Tequila shots?”
“Body shots,” one of the girls from the card game crows, overhearing. Within seconds, we’re surrounded as they abandontheir game for ours. The shirtless lacrosse player pours the shots while the two bra-clad girls demonstrate the rules. Gem is bouncing on his toes again, but when I cut a glance his way, he leans his shoulder into mine and grins up through his inky lashes.
Penny goes first and stands on her tiptoes, one hand in my hair, to swipe a line of salt from my neck. When I fumble the lime, she laughs and plucks it from my palm. The girls argue good-naturedly over Gem’s turn, and he ends up doing two in a row—one from the first girl’s shoulder and then, emboldened, one from the other’s breast.
When it’s my turn, I freeze, a bolt of nervous panic crawling up my spine. Penny is the obvious choice, and she’s watching me with a small, expectant smile. But I’m nottotallyoblivious, and I try hard not to lead her on, so I avert my gaze.
“Here.” Misreading my hesitation, Gem licks his wrist and sprinkles it with salt, before offering it to me. “Get it over with. The first one’s the worst.”
Everyone’s eyes are on me, so I try not to think about the fact I’m putting my tongue where Gem’sjust was, and act like the whole thing is no big deal. I don’t grab his arm, afraid my fingers might betray my urge to sink into him and never let go. Time slows as I bend my head to meet his waiting wrist.
Salt.
Skin.
Heat.
