Hancock Park (11 page)

At the bottom of the stairs, next to my dad in a magician's cape and my brother in, well, some sort of eccentric rapper outfit, was Darcy. Dressed as Lil' Ho Peep. Except, while I still sort of looked like a kid playing dress-up, Darcy looked like the real thing. Boobs, ass, belly button, and all.

I crossed my arms over the inch of my stomach that I realized had become exposed while I was walking. I tugged at the bottom of my top, blushing in the presence of Darcy's skin exposure.

So then my third thought was,
I have to get the hell out of here. Right now.

J
oey picked me up in his mother's old dark green minivan. I folded up my cane and climbed into the passenger seat, eager to get away. Joey wasn't wearing a costume, exactly. He wore dark-wash jeans with a white button-down shirt that was mostly unbuttoned, and for the first time, I realized that Joey was not just little Joey who played with trucks and didn't get mad easily. Joey was…well, he was actually kind of cute.

As we approached the Key Club, I saw the bright blue projection of a large, old-fashioned key and the marquee just below it, which usually boasted the names of bands playing gigs. Tonight, there were only three black characters, stark and just mysterious enough against the
illuminated white background.

P
&
H
.

An overweight bouncer sat on a folding chair in front of the door.

“Okay, this is it,” I said, pulling on a black sweater as Joey parked in front of the valet stand. I suddenly felt very bare. I jerked my oversized pink cane sideways through the car door and tucked my cell phone into the side of my skirt. Then I got out of the minivan and walked with Joey toward the club. A couple of paparazzi, toting large cameras, stood a few yards away from the entrance.

“Hey! Who are you?” one of them called as Joey and I walked to the club. I smiled, but didn't answer, and followed Joey through the front entrance.

 

I pushed the heavy black door open and walked into the madness. Standing at the end of the entrance hallway were Alissa and Courtney. Both wore matching black lace bras and boy shorts and, underneath, different colors of fishnet tights. Alissa's were pink, Courtney's were blue. Both girls wore their hair in low pigtails, but while Alissa's blonde locks were straightened, Courtney's red hair frizzed out from beneath the rubber bands. Alissa wore a headband that had pointy white ears with pink centers on the top. Courtney's headband was similar, but instead of white, her ears were gray. Both wore knee-high black leather boots.

“Becky! Guess what I am.” Courtney teetered over to me and wrapped her arms around me in a hug.

“A mouse?” I asked. She looked nothing like a mouse, and Alissa looked nothing like a cat, but when dressing like a slut, lingerie and a headband count as a costume.

“Yeah.” Courtney nodded.

“See, I told you it was obvious!” Alissa said. “Come on, let's go mingle.” Alissa grabbed one of my arms, and Courtney followed suit, grabbing onto the other. I looked around for Joey, but it was dark and I didn't see him. We walked, as a pack, across the main room of the Key Club. On the left side was a bar, which was officially shut down for the night because management knew that the club would be filled with underage kids. Even so, the countertop of the bar was covered with stacks of red plastic cups and bottles of various kinds of alcohol. Farther in, there was a stage, and Kim sat on the edge of it, holding court with a few girls and a group of guys, none of whom I could identify. She was wearing some sort of a baseball jersey. I couldn't tell how long it was but, from where she sat, most of her long, tan legs were exposed. Kim caught sight of me and the playboy cat and mouse, and jumped off of her perch. Her heels hit the black cement with a click. Alissa and Courtney began to move forward, toward the mass of teenagers. I followed but made sure to stay a step behind. My skirt was too short. My corset was riding up. What the hell was I doing here?

“This is, like, totally perfect. I'm so glad Mom agreed,” Kim said as she approached us. She gave both Alissa and Courtney a kiss on each cheek, and then she approached me.

But here's the thing. I hug and kiss my parents all the time, and I really want to meet a boy, who could become my boyfriend, who I would love to kiss. But I'm basically awkward with physical displays of affection. Like the two-cheek kiss. It makes me feel entirely uncomfortable.

Kim reached in to give me a hug, and I responded by putting my arms gently around her back. The baseball jersey was silk, I noticed. “It's all thanks to you, Becky. You and your mom! Otherwise this would be in some crummy, so-last-season warehouse.”

“This is pretty crazy!” I said, taking in the Nava-ho to my left (which made me wonder how Amanda's night was going), the shirtless boy holding a bottle of Absolut, and the smoky-sweet smell of pot.

“No, Becky, this isn't crazy,” Alissa said, grabbing a hold of my hand again and directing me to the bar. “
This
is high school.”

It certainly wasn't the high school
I
knew. I shrugged my shoulders out of my sweater and rearranged the cane in front of me.

“Hey, look, it's Lil' Ho Peep!” some guy called out. I turned around to find a guy wearing only striped boxers giving me a thumbs-up sign. My stomach clenched and I quickly turned back to the Trinity.

“Anyway,” Kim said, tripping over one of her heels as she tried to take a step toward me, “we are totally going to drag you out from that encyclopedia you've been hiding under!” Her words were high-pitched and slightly slurred.
She grabbed onto my elbow, inadvertently pushing Alissa backward. Alissa stopped herself from falling by grabbing onto a railing. “And the first step is right this way!” We were a few feet from the makeshift bar.

Alissa didn't take well to being pushed out of the way. She brushed her fishnets off and stomped ahead. “Drunken slut,” I heard her mutter. She went to stand behind the unattended bar. I stood with Kim and Courtney on the opposite side. “What's your pleasure?” Alissa asked, folding her arms over her chest.

“I'll take a vodka cranberry.” Kim leaned forward and rested her head on her hand, which caused her ass to stick out. Way out.

“You're drunk enough,” Courtney said. She turned to the side and tried to discreetly pull down her boy shorts. Half of her ass was exposed, only covered by her fishnets, and I could tell that this made her uncomfortable.

“Well, you're
not
drunk enough!” Kim replied.

“Okay, Courtney, what will it be?”

“Beer.” She grabbed a can of light beer from a carton.

“That won't get you drunk, you know,” Alissa said.

“I know,” Courtney said.

“It'll just make you fat.” Courtney's face sunk visibly. “Kidding!” Alissa continued. “You'll never be fat. You're a hottie.”

“And what about Becky? She's totally sober.”

“We can fix that. What do you want?”

I asked for a vodka tonic. The drink was presented to
me in a red plastic cup, and I took a bigger gulp than I should have, because I quickly began to feel the alcohol stinging my throat. I wasn't supposed to drink alcohol, not with the meds I was on, but the warmth spreading in my stomach just felt so good.

I remembered this feeling and relished it.

I had been completely drunk only once before. I was twelve and in the seventh grade. Too smart and too observant, I was nearly friendless. I sat at the dinner table, indignant that my parents seemed to have no concept of limits. They would randomly present me with things I didn't want (like clothes, electronic gadgets, dinners out at expensive restaurants) in order to show their love for me, in order to provide me with the things they hadn't had—and had pined for—as children. But when it came to things I really wanted from them—for them to show up at my school events without my having to remind them constantly, for them to notice that I was in pain, buried under depression—they fell completely short.

So, right in front of them during one of their competition-discussions about who was the most overworked, the most stressed, the most accomplished, I poured myself a glass of Grey Goose vodka and orange juice. With nine-year-old Jack preoccupied with his video games and with my parents preoccupied with their pressures, I felt invisible. I was sick of being perfect and good, capable and competent. I wanted them to notice. “I'm having some vodka,” I told my parents, who didn't hear me—at least, they didn't
stop me. So I went and poured another. And then another. And then I was drunk, delirious, and empowered.

I hadn't ever been that drunk since, because I knew that drinking alone was a sign of alcoholism. I was already a depressive obsessive-compulsive—I didn't want to risk adding another label to my list.

But now that vodka was presented to me in a social context, I jumped at it. It would, I reminded myself, make me stupider, which would in turn make me less self-conscious and more capable of getting along with my classmates. Taking a deep gulp of the fiery liquid, I smiled.

I knew that I shouldn't drink. It would fuck with my neurotransmitters. I would pee out all the meds, and in a few days I would feel like shit. But right at that moment, it seemed worth it. I wasn't sure that I would make it through the night any other way.

After a bit, I excused myself from the Trinity and took a lap around the club, looking for Joey. I found him standing with a boy dressed as a fireman. “Hey!” I said. “I had no idea where you went.”

Joey introduced me to his friend, whose name was Chase, and then said that he thought he was going to head home before everyone's clothes came off completely.

“You'll be okay?” he asked. “You have a ride home?”

“Yeah,” I told him. “Don't worry about me!”

“Have fun, and stay safe,” he said.

Kim was walking toward us. “Joey. Hey,” she said. Joey and Kim were acquaintances, because of their mothers, but
they weren't friends. “Becky, come with me,” Kim said, grabbing my elbow. It occurred to me that Kim might think she was saving me from some sort of social no-no.

A group of boys, all in different states of undress, entered the room. All I can remember is that every one of them had muscles—really nice muscles.

“The soccer team,” Alissa exclaimed, her voice hushed.

“So, that guy you were talking about, Aaron Winters, is he here?” I asked. I leaned my cane against the bar and tried to appear calm.

“Shh!” I hadn't realized that I was talking so loudly. “He's right”—Alissa cocked her head up, toward a boy whose shaggy blond hair immediately stood out—“there.”

The boy walked over to us and gave a hug to Alissa. “It's been a while,” he said.

He was wearing drawstring khaki pants and essentially nothing else. There was a plastic silver sword attached by a holster to the right side of his pants. He had a six-pack, and I immediately decided that I was in lust.

After that everything went fuzzy.

I have a few distinct memories from the rest of the night, but that's it.

The first was after I had finished my third drink, and Courtney asked where I was spending the night. “My house,” I told her. “I just have to call my dad when I want him to pick me up.” I was too drunk to lie.

“You're not having your dad pick you up!” she exclaimed. I took another sip of my drink. “You'll stay at
my house, with Alissa, Kim, and me. Okay?” I must have nodded yes.

The next conversation I remember was also with Courtney. We sat on round velvet ottomans, and I stared at Aaron, daring him to look my way. “That guy,” I told Courtney, referring to a tall Tarzan on a couch across from us, “is giving you the
look
. He's cute. I bet you could totally hook up with him,” I said.

She fiddled with the waistband of her fishnets and was quiet for a moment. “See, here's the thing. I might as well tell you now because they make fun of me for it all the time. But just nice fun. And, you're drunk, so who knows if you'll even remember. The thing is, I've never actually been kissed.”

I almost coughed up the vodka-doused olive I had just swallowed. “Never been kissed?” I asked. How could cool and confident Courtney have never been kissed?

She nodded.

I took a deep breath and put down my drink. “Neither have I.”

That's how I know I was drunk. If I were sober, I never would have divulged this sort of information.

“You know who's so hot? Aaron. Like, fuck-me-now hot,” I said, leaning back on the ottoman and just barely remembering to make sure my skirt covered all the necessary areas.

“You should go talk to him. Say hello and stuff.”

And because I was drunk, that's exactly what I did.

Aaron was leaning against a railing, his elbows drawn back behind him for support. His chin was cocked up, and when I approached, he was standing alone.

“Hi, I'm Becky.” I walked over and offered him my overly perfumed right hand.

“Aaron,” he replied.

“Nice to meet you. So, um, where do you go to school?” I knew the answer, of course, but nobody had warned me about how awkward I might feel trying to conduct a semiserious conversation while wearing this monstrosity of a costume.

“Stratfield. You're a Whitbread girl, right?” He smiled.

“Yeah, I go to Whitbread. So, what do you like to do? Like, what's one of your hobbies?” I pulled down at my skirt and inwardly scolded myself. That sounded a hell of a lot more like a college essay question than flirting.

A few minutes later, I was with Aaron at the bar, my hand interlaced with his, doing shots of Grey Goose.

The next scene I remember was Kim, Courtney, Alissa, Aaron, and me, all sitting around a low, glossed-wood coffee table. Alissa was kneeling over the table, mixing martinis for us.

As if we weren't drunk enough already.

“Hey.” Aaron, sitting across from me, suddenly tapped my left foot with his. “Check this out.” He held up a phone that was smaller and thinner than any phone I had seen before. “It hasn't come out yet. My dad got a demo version and gave it to me. Isn't it cool?”

Alissa laughed. “You better not be planning on getting any text messages from Becky; she's the slowest phone-typist in the world.”

“I am not. You're just jealous of my spelling skills,” I taunted back.