Mae gazes at the entrance to the Taco Hut.
The cinder box of a restaurant, which sits alone on the outskirts of Pearville, is frequented by students in pickup trucks and families with chubby children, its concrete walls and parking lot lit by an ancient, flickering neon sign. The sign (which sometimes reads Tco Hut and sometimes Taco Ht, depending on the day) is usually the second thing a visitor to Pearville from Chicago sees, after the oft-defaced welcome sign. Mae finally unbuckles her seat belt. “Maybe they won't come.”
Shelby applies rose lip gloss in the driver's seat. “They're not that late,” she says, yet turns off the car. Thick warm air, kept at bay by the air conditioner, rushes through the open top. “Only by, like, fifteen minutes?” She checks her phone. “Okay, twenty-four minutes.”
Mae senses that, if left alone, Shelby would wait all night. “Maybe we should come up with a plan of action just in case. Like if it's just Ethan, you can pretend to get a tummy ache.”
“Why would it be just Ethan?”
“You know, just in case.”
“Do you think Jasper isn't into me?”
“I didn't say that.”
“Do you think I like Jasper more than he likes me?”
“No! I mean, I have no idea, Shelby. I don't understand these boys at all.”
Ethan and Jasper arrive just before sunset in separate yet similar trucks. They pull in on either side of Shelby's convertible in an unmistakably choreographed gesture. Inside the car, Mae rolls her eyes at her own reflection. “Obvious displays of dominance are obvious.”
The boys are hungry, they proclaim, as they tumble down from their elevated perches. Ethan could eat “ten of those motherfucking tacos” in one go. Not to be outdone, Jasper says this makes Ethan a pussy. Ten's nothing. He could eat “twenty tacos, shit, no big deal.” They ask the girls what they want and are met with shrugs. Mae and Shelby, by now out of the car and pulling on their miniskirts self-consciously, inch closer together. Mae finally asks if they can go inside.
Emerging from the taco joint with a paper bag the size of a small backpack, Ethan suggests that Mae ride in his truck and Shelby travel with Jasper. Mae wonders if this is a double date. Are all double dates this rushed? She sits with hands clasped in her lap as Ethan clutches the frame of the truck to pull himself inside. His biceps bulge, but provide no clues as to what he wants from her.
“Are you always this quiet?” she asks.
Ethan rubs one hand through dark curls. “That sounds like something a guy would say.”
“Sorry for stealing your line.” She is not sorry, though she racks her brain to remember where on TV she heard someone use it.
He revs the truck with a chuckle. “You don't do this often, do you?”
“I do this all the time,” Mae lies. “Though Shelby and I usually double date college guys.”
“Uh huh.”
The trucks head toward a fork in the river, where the water separates to reveal an island artfully ringed by a natural fence of oak trees and reached only by an unnamed steel bridge. Colt Road becomes Thoroughbred Circle, and around a bend the brick behemoth appears—deep red against a trim front lawn, like a lighthouse rising above calm ocean. A turret spirals around the right side, competing for cloud space with two chimneys and a gabled roof.
Mae has never seen anything like it. “This is where you live?” she asks, too shocked to even take a photo. “It looks like a hotel!” Ethan flashes a knowing smile. Mae regrets her awe. In one strong motion, the boys pull around to the left and stop in front of a garage by the tennis court. The door is unlocked.
In the kitchen, Jasper dumps a dozen individually wrapped tacos onto black granite while Ethan rummages through a cupboard. “I know they have some whiskey hidden back here. I saw them drinking it the other day.”
“Want me to check the cellar?” asks Jasper.
“They fucking locked it.” They, of course, are Ethan's parents, who evidently are not home. In this quiet, unfilled space, Mae is a tourist. She watches the boys inhale tacos, and admires how beautiful the kitchen is, and sees herself suddenly as she truly is: a girl standing clumsily by the window in thick eyeliner and a crumpled skirt. She feels off balance; crossing her arms helps.
Shelby unwraps a taco and eats the cheese one shred at a time, appearing to nibble on air. Ethan locates the whiskey and mixes it, half and half, with ginger ale. Beneath a mop of dark hair, his wide brow crumples in concentration above prominent cheekbones. Wealthy people should not be allowed to also be handsome, Mae thinks, as it disrupts the playing field for everybody else.
They move into the TV room, a beige space with a comically large flat screen, to watch a horror film. “This is gonna be good,” Jasper promises as they settle into plush seating, drinks in hand. Ominous notes over opening credits seep through the walls. Jasper produces a carton of cigarettes.
“You can't smoke in here.” Ethan sits alone and very straight in an oversize throne of a chair, peering down at the other three on the sofa.
“Ah. Anyone wanna go outside and smoke? Shelby?”
Mae works through her nervousness by taking more sips of her comfortingly sweet drink. “You should go. Outside, and smoke or whatever.” She turns back toward the TV and, having missed an important plot point, wonders why a young woman in a bathrobe runs for her life down a dark hallway. Alone with Ethan, Mae feels his eyes on her but vows not to meet them. The important thing is to retain as much control as possible. Her legs cross involuntarily.
“Do you play pool?”
“Like, sure. I like pool. Kinda.”
The billiards room, on the second floor, contains a pool table beneath a beamed ceiling. Mae enjoys having a defined goal. She strides toward the cue sticks, hips swaying. This objectively sexy self, her default way of moving through space, feels more powerful than shrinking on a sofa. The Harrington estate begins to feel manageable; it's just a house, like any other house, and she's with a boy, like any other boy, right? She senses her frame in relation to the wall, and brazenly pulls a stick from the rack, her performance not (entirely) driven by the knowledge that Ethan is watching her, but the knowledge that someone, anywhere, is watching her. A dominant part of her physical repertoire since her breasts sprouted, the familiar movements—arch of the spine, flip of the hair—feel as familiar as a ballerina's turnout. The world imbues immutable physical characteristics with certain expectations, and so here she is: flirting subconsciously, rubbing chalk all over the top of a cue stick while jutting out one hip, wondering why she's here at all.
“You can break.” Ethan deposits fifteen balls onto the table, then reaches over and places one in front of Mae.
She angles her back and knocks a striped ball into the left corner pocket, which garners an impressed whistle. Mae has only played this game in the dive bar where her mother works, in a basement full of sweaty men and their scantily-clad girlfriends. As of four minutes ago, there is evidentially another version of pool: one played in extravagant rooms on soft green felt. (Different environment, same game.)
“Why'd you invite me over?” Mae takes another sip of whiskey. How much has she drunk? Her lips are too nimble; her feet drag.
“Because I like you, of course.” Ethan smoothly pockets a solid and follows it up with another.
“Since when?”
“In fact, I like you so much that I wish I didn't have to beat you in our silly school election.” He pulls back one arm. Triceps flex through navy cotton. A solid ball ricochets a few inches from the left side pocket.
“I knew it!” Words tumble out. “I knew it but I didn't want to believe it. I kept being like, nah, that's impossible; this whole thing is so Jasper can hook up with Shelby.” Mae's eyes widen with newfound respect. “You're more competitive than I thought.”
“So are you.”
Her drink sloshes about. “Here's the thing.” She sets it precariously on the pool table. “I know you don't like me because I heard what you said in the coffee shop.”
“The what shop?”
She audibly swallows the knowledge that she's sure to regret this later. “When I used to hang out in the coffee shop a lot, back when I first moved to Pearville, you came in with all your friends.”
“I don't remember this.” Nervous laughter.
“I do. I was by the window so maybe you guys didn't think I heard you, but one of your friends was like, 'She's hot,' and then you were like, 'Hot but trashy.' So don't pretend you like me now.”
Ethan plasters on a charming smile but his eyes narrow. “You sure that was me? I don't think that. I don't think I'd ever say that.”
“You did.” Mae will tell herself later that, had she been more sober, she would have left while still ahead. Instead, she stretches both arms across the table in the style of dominant movie heroines. “I'm not dropping out of our 'silly' election.” Actual air quotes. “And I'm going to win.”
Ethan briskly pockets a green solid, and then a blue one. “What do you think about this?” He sets his cue stick down and amiably slides one arm around Mae. “How 'bout you run for student body secretary instead? Then we can still hang out.”
“I don't want to hang out. And only fat people run for secretary.” She shrugs off his arm and hands him his stick. “It's your turn. You get to go again.”
But he doesn't take the cue, and instead moves directly in front of Mae to place two large hands on either side of her slight frame. She's pinned against the table. His face hovers a few inches away. Mae wonders how it's possible to be repulsed by someone this attractive. “But we'd make such a great team.” The kiss is sudden and competent. She feels a tickle in the base of her spine. Either she's turned on or the pool table is digging into her spinal cord. Regardless, the solution is the same.
“I think you need to back up.”
Ethan holds up both hands. “Listen, Mae. I was just an idiot kid. I do like you.”
Defeated, Mae stares at pale toes poking out of her polka-dotted espadrilles. “You obviously won this round. We should find our friends.”
Sultry thick air outside. A sweet aroma wafting from hydrangea shrubs by the gazebo. Shelby's legs drape across Jasper's lap as they lounge by the pool, an attractive couple lit by shimmering lights, no filter necessary. While laughing, Jasper leans over and places his baseball cap squarely on Shelby's head.
Jealously viewing this exchange from a safe distance on the wraparound porch, Mae wonders what could be so funny.
“What the fuck's so funny?” Ethan roars across the lawn. Shelby jumps. “There's more whiskey inside!”
Ambling toward the kitchen, the four are met by the sound of adult voices and clinking ice. Marc and Angela Harrington eye the group warily.
Marc raises his lowball glass. “Thanks for the drink, son.” He's wry and fit, with salt and pepper hair and the same deep dimples as his eldest. It's a good look for a dad, thinks Mae, who does not have one.
Angela speaks to her husband in a girlish whisper. “I told you we have to lock 'em all up.” She peers at Ethan, seems to reconsider, and addresses the group brightly. “Who needs a ride home?”
“Shelby and I would love one, Mrs. Harrington.” Mae could hug this well-dressed woman. “Thank you so much.”
“Oh, girls. Call me Angie! Anybody need anything for the road?”
Then soft seats in a genteel sedan. Polite conversation above talk radio. Whisper smooth turns down Main Street.
Back in the parking lot of the taco restaurant, Shelby finally notices Jasper's blue hat still on her head. “It kinda' look good on me, right?” Slight, modest chuckle.
A new glow radiates from Shelby, as if she's beaming from the inside, so Mae agrees. “You look adorbs.” Mae reaches for her phone to document the adorableness, but Shelby tosses the hat in the backseat.
“Some things are private,” Shelby says earnestly, and Mae learns that not a single photo was snapped that night.