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  “We did, but everything changed when we started dating.”

  “What happened?” she asked again, putting the sponge down in order to give me her full attention. “I’m sure whatever it is, you can work it out. It’d be a shame to throw away a decade of friendship over a little spat.”

  “It wasn’t a little spat.” I gnawed on my lip as I debated on whether or not to tell her the truth. But before I could decide either way, it came bursting forth like an overeager sprinter before the “go” signal. “He cheated on me.”

  “Oh.” Her shoulders slumped a little and she looked away, toward the window. “I see. Well then…you’re better off without him. Right?”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Right.”

  Chapter 4

  “No,” I said, crossing my arms firmly over my chest.

  Robin had come over to Dad’s house the second I arrived, gushed over her latest date with Devon for a half hour, and then revealed her plans to hit another party tonight in Redwood Hills. Then she insisted—no, decided—that I go with her.

  “Come on. Live a little, will ya?”

  She said this to me at least once a week. As if I weren’t “living” unless I went to out-of-control parties, drank beer, and hooked up with random guys.

  “Dad would never let me,” I said, even though I knew he probably would. He trusted me implicitly.

  “Sure he will. Your dad’s awesome.” Robin was borderline obsessed with my father. She adored him, even after learning about his past transgressions. Everything he said was gospel. Everything he did was wonderful. I attributed her father-obsession to not having one of her own. “At least you have a father,” she liked to tell me when I complained about him. Her father died when she was a toddler, so I didn’t mind her getting her Dad-fix with mine.

  “I wouldn’t know anyone,” I said. A last-ditch effort.

  “You’ll know me,” Robin said. “Stop making excuses and come with me. When was the last time we did anything fun like this together? You never want to go out with me.”

  I never stood a chance against her pouting. Resigned, I swung my legs off the bed and went to hunt for Dad. Of course he said yes, I could go, as long as I was home by midnight. He asked where the party was and seemed impressed, even relieved, when I told him. I guess he thought rich kids didn’t drink as much.

  Right.

  I told Robin the verdict and she went home to gather supplies, promising to come back in an hour so we could get ready together. Already regretting my decision, I trudged out to the kitchen for an inspirational jolt of caffeine. My stepmother stood at the sink, scraping burnt food off a casserole dish. She’d recently gotten home from a day shift and still wore her uniform. Lynn was a nurse at a children’s hospital, and sometimes I didn’t see her the entire weekend. There were times when Dad didn’t see her all week, but the time apart made them even more lovey-dovey and nauseating.

  “Hey, honey,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at me as I extracted a can of Coke from the fridge. “How’ve you been? I feel like I haven’t seen you in months.”

  She came over to fold me into a hug, and I breathed in her customary scent of Ivory soap and hospital antiseptic. Back when I first started visiting Dad here, it took me a while to warm up to Lynn, for obvious reasons. But adultery aside, it wasn’t hard to see why Dad had fallen for her. She was sweet, with a round face always curved into a smile, and an attitude so positive that simply being around her made you feel hopeful, like the world was on the verge of something wonderful. She hardly looked like a home-wrecker at all.

  “You’ve been working a lot,” I reminded her.

  “Ah, the joys of being short staffed.” She beamed her smile on me and went back to the sink. “Hey,” she said, running water over the casserole dish. “Jamie’s birthday party is tomorrow. Want to give me a hand? I’m having it here at the house.”

  “Sure.”

  She gave me another grin. Another quality I liked about my stepmother was that she always seemed so appreciative. I knew she felt grateful to have at least one teenage girl around who wanted to spend time with the family on occasion. Especially since her own daughter treated the place like a pay-by-the-hour motel.

  Months before our custodial weekend visits with Dad started, I had begun to notice something quite disconcerting about my stepsister Leanne: she hated us. All of us, even Dad. We were intruders, unwelcome guests in her house. Luckily, she wasn’t around often. In the year before Dad and Lynn got married, I saw Leanne only a handful of times, so I barely knew her when our families blended, and I still barely knew her two years later. She kept herself scarce, spending most of her time hanging around with her friends and pretending the rest of us didn’t exist.

  These days, I didn’t exactly feel like an intruder anymore, but Lynn’s house still didn’t feel like home. To my stepsister, I was just there. Like a coat rack, or a lamp, only noisier and less useful.

  Like now, for instance. She strode into the kitchen and skirted around me, barely acknowledging my presence as I stood there drinking my Coke. I could have been a chair.

  “Where are you going?” Lynn asked her daughter, her smile slipping. She didn’t sound confident and firm the way my mom always did. Lynn’s face took on this softness—tinged with a hint of guilt—whenever she looked at Leanne. Her first husband, Leanne’s father, had been physically and mentally abusive the entire time they’d been married. Then, as if that wasn’t traumatic enough, he ended up dying in a car accident when Leanne was ten. My stepsister had been through a lot over the years, which I guess accounted for her wariness toward us.

  “Lisa’s,” Leanne said as she grabbed her bag and headed for the sliding glass doors to the deck and outside. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Now wait a second.” Lynn moved away from the sink to follow her daughter. “I want you back first thing in the morning. We’re having Jamie’s party, remember? I need your help.”

  Leanne paused at the door. “Whatever. I’ll be here.”

  As she turned to escape her blue eyes met mine for a fraction of a second, showing nothing, and then she was gone. Lynn stared after her as she descended the stairs off the deck and disappeared around the house. When she turned to face me again, her smile was back in place, wide and steady. My stepmom never stayed discouraged for long.

  “Two helpers for tomorrow,” she said, all cheerful and bright. “Wonderful. Ten ten-year-olds…what was I thinking?”

  “Maybe slip some tranquilizers into the cake.” I tipped my can, drained it, and then tossed it in the recycle bin.

  Lynn cocked her head, considering my suggestion, as I slipped out of the room.

  ****

  “What I wouldn’t give for your ta-tas,” Robin said an hour later as we were getting ready in my bedroom. She looked incredible in her black cami top and skin-tight jeans, and I’d chosen my favorite jeans and a red tank top belonging to Robin. Even I had to admit that I filled it out a lot better than she did.

  “What I wouldn’t give for your cheekbones,” I replied in turn. We had this exchange often. She envied my figure, I envied her everything.

  At eight o’clock, we applied anti-frizz cream to our hair and body glitter to our bare shoulders. We were ready.

  I did have to lie to my father a little bit. I’d told him Robin’s mother was driving us to the party when in fact her mother still hadn’t returned from her date the night before. Devon was picking us up. Lynn had agreed to get us at midnight, which I knew would be too early for Robin. She was used to staying out until one or two at the earliest.

  Before we left my room I found my black sweatshirt and put it on. I didn’t want Dad to notice how skimpy my top was.

  “It’s really warm out,” Robin said. “Like summer.”

  “Nah, it’s a little chilly. Feels like rain.”

  “I’d show ‘em off proudly if I were you,” she mumbled as we left my room.

  “Would you stop talking about my tits?
” I snapped at her, just as Dad emerged from the kitchen and stopped in front of us.

  “Leaving?” he asked. He probably hadn’t been paying any attention to what we’d been saying—he was perpetually distracted—but my face burned anyway.

  “Uh huh,” I said, seizing Robin’s arm and skittering away like a cockroach that had been exposed to light.

  “Midnight!” Dad called after me.

  On the porch, Robin and I burst into giggles. “That was so embarrassing,” I said as we walked the short distance to Robin’s house.

  “Don’t worry.” She fished in her purse for a cigarette. “It probably never even occurred to him that you have boobs. Fathers always see their daughters as little girls, right?” She said this as if she were asking for clarification on a totally foreign subject, which I guess it was, for her.

  The same silver car that had slid to a halt across the street a couple of weekends ago did the same thing again now. We started toward it. I had a passing thought of memorizing the license plate number in case Devon turned out to be a serial rapist, but I calmed down when I opened the door to the backseat to find two extra passengers sitting there. Unless they all planned to kill us collectively, I figured we were safe enough.

  Robin made the introductions. Devon was pretty cute, with golden blond hair and nice teeth. The other two were Ethan and Jenna, a couple. They laughed amongst themselves—at what, I didn’t know—the entire seven minute drive to Redwood Hills, basically ignoring me in the process. I felt like a complete idiot already and the night hadn’t even begun.

  Devon pulled up to a house that I knew must have cost at least five times what Mom had paid for ours. Expensive-looking cars lined the long, paved driveway. I tried to look cool and indifferent as we all walked up to the door. How did Robin think I could possibly fit in here? How did she think she could fit in here? Like me, she was fifteen, a lowly tenth-grader, and boringly average middle-class. Then again, Robin was anything but boring or average. She was a chameleon, able to blend in anywhere. I realized this as soon as we walked into that huge, fancy house.

  Me? I felt like I had a sign that read IMPOSTER on my forehead.

  Robin seemed to know everyone. By the time we’d made our way though the modern rooms to the gigantic finished basement where most people had gathered, drinking and circling the pool table in the corner, she’d been stopped at least six times to say hello to so-and-so. She introduced me each time but the music was so loud and I felt so uneasy, I never did catch the names.

  “Come on,” she shouted to me over the pounding beat of the music. “Let’s get a drink.”

  She towed me toward the bar—yes, there was a bar in there, with stools and everything—where a cute, clean-cut guy lined up bottles on the shiny surface.

  “Hey, R.J.,” Robin greeted him.

  R.J. flashed her a boyish grin as he dug around underneath the bar. “How’s it going, Robin?”

  “Great,” she said with her flirting face on. She didn’t seem to mind that Devon had disappeared. “Will you pour us some shots?”

  “Sure. What can I get you?”

  Robin looked at me. “Vodka?” I nodded and R.J. turned his grin on me, making me blush. He grabbed a bottle and two shot glasses, filling both to the rim. Robin tilted her head and smiled coyly at him. “Thanks, bartender.”

  “My pleasure,” he drawled, and I wondered if this was his house and he raided his parents’ liquor cabinet every weekend or if tonight was a special occasion.

  Robin handed me my shot. “Let’s go together. On the count of three.”

  I’d never had a shot before. Just a couple of beer at a party once. I peered down at the clear liquid and then sniffed it.

  “One…two…three,” Robin counted. On three we both poured the vodka down our throats. Robin barely flinched while I made a fool of myself almost choking to death. “You okay?”

  “Uh huh,” I said, coughing.

  “Want to do another?”

  I cleared my throat and swallowed, trying to get the nasty taste out of my mouth. “Not right now,” I said, meaning not ever again.

  Robin pulled two vodka coolers out of the bar fridge before we ambled off to mingle some more. She popped the tops off both bottles and handed one to me. “You’ll like this better.”

  I gingerly took a sip of the cooler. It tasted sweet, nothing like the vodka we’d downed straight. I kept sipping at it as Robin led me from one group to the other, introducing me to dozens of kids who all had a word for her but didn’t bother with me. She was Miss Socialite, obviously a fixture at many of their past parties, and I was the tagalong.

  At ten-thirty she left me for a few minutes to go outside on the enormous two-tiered back deck for a smoke. I stationed myself next to a leafy potted plant, not wanting to go outside with her and her friends but not feeling comfortable inside alone either. My cooler was almost gone, and I felt kind of buzzed already. I downed the last inch of liquid in the bottle, placed it on a nearby table, and glanced at my watch. Where in the hell was Robin?

  “Hey, you want me to bring you another one of those?”

  I looked up to see a smiling boy in a white Polo shirt who was only slightly taller than my five foot four inches. He had a buzz cut and squinty eyes that were peering at me with great interest.

  “Um, no thanks,” I said, flustered.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You want to go sit down or something?” He kept flicking glances at my boobs, as if he were waiting for an answer from them instead of my mouth. Creepy.

  “No, thanks.” I craned my neck toward the basement door, hoping for any sign of Robin.

  “Sure you don’t want another drink?” the guy asked again. Obviously he couldn’t take a hint.

  “I’m not thirsty,” I said, edging away. “Well, I have to, um, use the washroom now.”

  He gestured toward the six or so people lining the wall near the bathroom. “Big line up. I could show you where the other bathrooms are.”

  “That’s okay, I don’t mind waiting.”

  He ogled me one last time before moving off. “Suit yourself.”

  I really did need to go, so I darted over to the bathroom queue with my head down and my arms folded over my chest, feeling pissed at Robin for leaving me alone for so long. I vowed, right then and there, to never let her talk me into anything ever again. I was totally out of my element here. How could she think this was fun? I felt like a child who’d crashed an older sibling’s house party.

  I was standing there in the unmoving line, shifting my weight from one foot to the other to distract myself from wetting my pants (I had what my doctor called an “overactive bladder”), when the guy standing to my left suddenly started speaking.

  “He’s an asshole.”

  It took a few moments to register that these words were meant for me. Feeling even stupider than I already did, I looked over at the owner of the voice and felt my stomach drop to somewhere around my knees. Damn. This guy was hot.

  “What?” I said, trying not to stare.

  He nodded in the direction of creepy Buzz Cut Boy, who was now talking to some other girl’s breasts. “Kurt Doyle. He’s like that with all the girls.”

  I scanned him quickly as he spoke—short dark hair, blue eyes, tall, completely out of my league. “Oh,” I said, dropping my gaze to the floor.

  We shifted a few inches as another person exited the washroom. My face felt like it was on fire, either from the alcohol or from being in such close proximity to this guy. I could feel the heat of his arm right next to mine, and he smelled amazing. When he didn’t say anything in response to my last comment, I began to wonder if I’d imagined him speaking to me at all. But when we reached the front of the line, he spoke to me again.

  “You go ahead,” he said when his turn came up. “I can wait.”

  By then I was busting. “Are you sure?”

  He nodded and I rushed into the bathroom without any further convers
ation. It wasn’t until I was washing my hands at the sink that I realized I had forgotten to thank him. I quickly dried my hands and opened the door, expecting to see him, but he wasn’t there anymore. He must have gotten tired of waiting and gone in search of another bathroom. By the size of this house, there had to be at least five or six.

  As I squeezed my way back to the living room, I spotted Robin over by the bar, sitting on a stool and talking to Devon and, you guessed it, the cute boy from the bathroom line. My heart did this weird fluttery thing and I slowed my pace, which wasn’t difficult considering people were cutting in front of me every five seconds.

  “Taylor!” Robin called, waving her arm above her head. “Over here!”

  I shouldered my way through the bodies to get to them. The music was deafening now and people seemed to be getting drunker with each passing minute, including my friend, who flung her arms around me as soon as she could reach me and breathed wetly in my ear, “Just in time.”

  In time for what, I didn’t know and didn’t even want to guess.

  As I looked on in amazement, Robin threaded her arm through the hot guy’s arm, and then clutched my shoulder with her free hand. “This is my friend, Taylor Brogan,” she said, swinging her other arm over my shoulders and pushing me into a sweaty, chubby guy who was wedged somewhere behind me. “The girl I’ve been telling you about for, like, months now. She’s finally single.”

  I wondered if one could actually die from humiliation. The guy smiled at me, feeling my pain. My forehead felt damp with sweat and I knew my eyeliner had probably smeared.

  “Taylor,” Robin went on, “this is Michael Hurst. He’s single too.”

  I found that hard to believe. His type usually had at least three girlfriends and a few others on a string, hoping.

  “I thought you guys should meet,” Robin finished, and then leaned over to whisper in my ear, “He’s perfect for you. Trust me.”

  I found that even harder to believe. His type was better suited to beautiful girls…girls like Robin. Not short girls with untamable hair who couldn’t go two hours without needing to pee.