i need a moment to get outside of my head, i'm trying/god knows that that shit's never right

— "2 Young 2 Die," Hippo Campus

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Ginger drops me off at Athens Blackmore's on her way to Cally's. She's wearing a lemon-yellow cover up, and her hair is in pigtail braids. I can't tell if she's wearing makeup and thinks it won't come off, or if she's wearing makeup and plans on not submerging her face at all tonight. Either way, she looks like she's attending an Instagrammer pool soiree and not a dull pool party in an affluent yet boring Wisconsin town.

"Don't get knocked up," Ginger says sweetly. Her Disney sitcom smile has overstayed its welcome, but I decide to rise above petty, simple insults.

"But what else am I supposed to do?" I ask her, then adjust the chair's posture so I lean much farther back.

She shrugs, but I can tell messing with her car annoys her. Noted. "Not my problem. Bye!"

I haven't even unbuckled yet. So I allow myself to do so as slowly as humanly possible, all for the satisfaction of seeing Ginger's eye twitch. I linger in front of the passenger door, holding it open so that her air conditioned paradise is lost to the humid night air.

"What?" she asks after several moments of uncomfortable silence.

"Bye," I say, slamming the door shut.

After a moment of likely slack-jawed shock, Ginger drives away, leaving me beneath the orange street lights.

There aren't as many cars as I had anticipated. If Beeves is here—and, although we hardly know each other, I certainly hope she is—she either walked or carpooled.

I get all the way to the front door when I see the large piece of paper taped against the red-painted wood.

PARTY IN THE BACK. DO NOT WAKE SLEEPING GRANDMA.

I mean, makes sense to me.

I circle around the side of the house. It's smaller than I would have anticipated, I suppose. Podunkatatchawantown is pretty well off, financially speaking, which is often reflected in the size and design of the houses. Whereas my town is largely similar to the neighborhood in Edward Scissorhands, Poddieville is varied. Like, Aunt Cassie's house is large and white-brick with a stone foundation, and it's nice and bright and considerably cute.

The Blackmore's house feels like a newer construction, like one of those that come without a furnished basement and has too little space between its neighbors' yards. (That kind of thing makes my dad so claustrophobic. I couldn't give less of a fuck.) The backyard is at a much lower level than the front, enough so that I have to do that weird kind of sideways skidding walk so that I don't fall down. I hear voices before I'm back there, and I can see the yellowish light of what must be a fire, dancing against the grass before me. The sound of laughter is everywhere, accompanied by bright indie rock.

I come into the backyard and immediately want to turn around. I thought that this was going to be one of those parties you see in movies, the "big suburban house party," where the kids parents are gone for a week in Brunei or Bhutan or Bali, so they throw a rager complete with kegs, vomit, and clouds of vape smoke that glow in the house's omnipresent LED lighting. I was thinking there would be Dua Lipa remixes with booming bass and grinding couples and someone falling over because they're too drunk to stand, and their similarly impaired friends all cackle and laugh at their highly-incapacitated stupidity.

I was anticipating being able to remain unnoticed on the sidelines.

Don't get me wrong, it's an alright crowd, maybe forty people or so the closer I get to it. I'm guessing it's a sizeable amount of the people around my age here in Poopookawan, which is terrifying and disappointing all at once. I can't believe that Ginger just let me walk in here by myself. What a cow.

I'm standing against the side of the house, just watching the party unfold in the shadows, when there's a tap on my shoulder.

I jump into the siding, bashing my head, and whisper-shout, "FUCK!"

"Oh my gosh I'm so sorry!" The girl who tapped my shoulder is immediately placeable, even though I haven't seen her in a good five years, apart from the occasional Instagram post. "Sorry. Hadley, right?"

"Hey, Beeves." My shoulders loosen. "You almost made me shit myself."

"Sorry. That would have sucked. But you didn't actually poop, right?"

Oh, Beeves. She hasn't changed a bit. "No, I didn't actually poop."

"Good, good." She smiles. "So, how have you been? Is Ginger here with you? It's been ages!"

"I've been alright. Uh, Ginger just kind of abandoned me here and told me I should try and find you." Beeves looks at me with her big, wide eyes, like she's confused. I clear my throat. "It has definitely been quite some time. How have you been?"

"Great! I'm fantastic. So good. Wanna meet everyone?" Beeves smiles. She's got a headscarf holding her bangs away from her face, in addition to a slicked-back ballerina bun, and she's wearing makeup that is surprisingly well-applied. All those summers ago, Beeves was a dorky, awkward girl with no sense and a penchant for wearing only black-and-white striped shirts and overalls. Now, looking at her, I can see that puberty has either done her a service, or kids were absolutely brutal and she watched a lot of YouTube to compensate. Either/or.

Beeves walks down the remaining incline and into the backyard, where kids sit around the campfire in complicated clumps of lawn chairs. I spot several empty bottles of Mike's Hard Lemonade lying about—the exceptionally fruity kind—so I'm guessing this party won't be off the chain, at least. I'm beginning to think that that's a good thing.

"Hey everyone!" Beeves said, waving her hand. A group of teens in a small clump of chairs looks over. I feel slightly exposed in my Hawaiian T-shirt that is so oversized, it reaches past my mustard yellow shorts. I'm glad I didn't go for the ball cap, at least. Because, like, sometimes ball caps can be really cute. But then I thought, Hadley, do you want to be that guy?

I'm very glad that I'm not that guy.

Beeves' friends seem nice. I don't catch all of their names, not completely, but they're all holding bottles of water and Sunkist instead of any Hard Lemonades, so I can tell that they're in a similar league of Good Kid as Beeves is. I want to go grab my own Mike's, even though I think they're pretty overrated most of the time, so I excuse myself and head over to the coolers next to a table of chips. Luckily, they have more than just Mike's; I pick up the first White Claw I see.

"Hey, I don't know you," someone says. I turn and nearly drop my can.

The girl is wearing a striped tank top and spandex bike shorts, with a sweatshirt tied around her waist. It all does well to showcase her incredibly buff gymnast frame. Seriously, her shoulders and biceps are, like, thicker than my head. The light of the fire makes her skin look like molten gold, and her sharp hazel eyes are focused on mine with a startling intensity that I'm not sure I've experienced before.

She looks like she could probably snap me in half. With her eyes. How can someone's eyes seem buff?

My only hope is that I come across as somewhat suave. "I don't know you either."

"So you're a party crasher then?" the girl asks, her tone completely neutral. "Just dropped by?"

"Somewhat. I was ditched here, but I know Beeves, so I guess I have some slight association with your get-together. Hopefully that's okay."

"How do you know it's my get-together?" the girl asks, what might be a smirk working across her features. Her lips are thin, but the reddish-peach lip gloss she's wearing makes it impossible to look away from her mouth; her smile seems to shine against the firelight.

Honestly, after she said she didn't know me then said I crashed, I figured it was hers. "Who else here looks cool enough to be named Athens Blackmore?"

"Touché." She moves a strand of wavy black hair off her shoulder and cocks her chin at me. "So who ditched you here at my party, nameless girl?"

"My useless cousin," I tell her, completely sincere. "Ginger Combs."

"Ah, Ginger. Sounds like her. Now are you going to give me your name, or am I going to have to ask for it outright?"

I pop the tab of the White Claw. The flimsy metal presses uncomfortably against the sensitive skin beneath my nail, but it's impossible to stop now. I can't not do my best to look cool in front of this girl. "Pretty sure you just did."

"It's cute how that's not an answer."

I'm definitely enjoying our back and forth, but I know from first-hand experience how taking banter too far can make you like a supreme douchebag. "Hadley Linderman." I finally pop the tab.

"Hadley Linderman," Athens said. "Nice to meet you."

She sticks her hand out, and I shake it with my free hand, not at all surprised by her strong grip. I am, however, caught a little off-guard by the roughness of her palm. Her skin is lined with callouses and feels like sandpaper against the softness of my own. We nearly overstep the boundary of "too long a hand shake," but luckily, we evade the awkwardness. (I'm convinced this is why people my age don't typically shake hands.)

"You're new in town, I'm guessing?" she asks me.

"What on earth gave you that idea?"

She smiles. "I'm pretty sure I would have remembered seeing a girl like you around."

Oh, she's smooth. My dad could totally sell me to her for booze money.

"Wow, Athens, you're going to make me think you're hitting on me," I tell her, then take a sip of my White Claw. Dark cherry flavor fizzes down my throat. There's the slightest taste of alcohol there, but nothing that makes your throat burn or your eyes squeeze shut. It would take at least three of these for me to feel any warmth in the pit of my stomach, that comforting looseness that creeps along your spine and to your fingers and temple.

Athens regards me for a moment, then says, "You're right, my bad. I'll stop."

I feel like I'm losing my footing in the conversation. I try to play it cool. "Oh, don't worry, you don't have to stop."

"So you're into it?" she asks. She glances at the bonfire, where a random burst of laughter has erupted, before regarding me once more. "That's good."

"I'd certainly hope so," I tell her, and then I take another long sip of the White Claw. It barely even tastes like alcohol. I know that's the point, but it's somehow disappointing. "So, Athens, what do you do for fun?"

"I play guitar," she says. "I'm basically the next Michael Cera."

"I didn't know Michael Cera was a guitarist."

"Oh, he's a damn virtuoso." She says it straight-faced, like we're having an unbelievably serious conversation, even though I know this is just flirty banter.

"Guitar is hot," I tell her, ever the wordsmith.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Ohhh yeah. And it certainly explains the roughness of your fingers."

Athens grins. "Well, you definitely strike me as the kind of girl who appreciates rough fingers."

This girl is amazing.

"Your assumption is correct," I tell her. "Very astute."

"Do I get a gold star?" She reaches down to the cooler, digging around through the ice and overabundance Hard Lemonades and pulls out a hidden Coors. Bronze and fiery in the light of the bonfire, her skin is flawless. She's undeniably attractive. Which is unfortunate for me, because insanely beautiful buff girls are my hamartia.

"I see no issue with that," I tell her.

"Perfect," she says, and, sensing there's not much of a quippy transition to a new conversational topic to be had, she opens the Coors with a crack, and turns. "See you around, Hadley."

Beeves is waiting for me back with the rest of her friends. "Hey, you met Athens!" she says, like it's an accomplishment or something.

"Yeah," I tell her, glancing back toward the fire. "I guess I did."

A/N -

HIII HOMESLICES

If you're in the US, happy Thanksgiving! Here's an update so that if you're bored and hiding in the bathroom from your relatives, or if you need help succumbing to your food coma, then here you aaare. I hope you're enjoying the break!

If you're not in the US, my b, homies.

Hope you're all enjoying your week!!!! <3333