A procession of taillights proceeds across the little steel bridge.
Taylor rides in the front seat (since Shelby is still not speaking to Mae and hasn't been for twenty-four hours) and she doesn't see what the big deal is. The angle is different but the view is the same.
Taylor just spent two hours in Shelby's room getting ready, pretending to straighten already straight hair while Shelby modeled outfits. The conversation went like this:
“How 'bout this one?”
“It's fine.”
“Fine like the last one or fine fine?”
“It's just...fine.” As Mae likes to point out, Taylor has no sense of aesthetics.
Shelby settled on a fitted tank paired with a jean miniskirt, an ensemble similar to Taylor's. “Hey look, we match.”
“So we do...” Shelby pursed her lips in concern but didn't change again, thank god.
There must be a hundred people at the Harrington house by the time they arrive. Parked cars line Thoroughbred Circle like a stone wall around the property. The girls totter for ten minutes just to reach the front door. Inside, the telltale sweet scent of pot wafts up dim stairs. An indeterminate beat throbs throughout, originating in the foyer but present even as the background music shifts from room to room, while bouncing girls in groups of three or four traipse through the house, all legs and hairspray and cherry lip gloss, to approach sedentary boys who congregate in the centers of rooms and on couches and in front of televisions—each boy content in the knowledge that if he stays put long enough, some pretty girl will find him.
Taylor stands with Shelby in the foyer. Presciently, Jasper emerges from the crowd and motions for them to follow him into the kitchen and toward a sticky counter filled with bottles. He hands them red plastic cups and asks what they prefer.
“I'll have a vodka orange,” Shelby answers, affecting a mildly British accent. Taylor admits that 'vodka orange' sounds infinitely more sophisticated than 'screwdriver,' and she will have the same.
Unsure of what to do with her other hand, Taylor clutches the solo cup with two, sipping as sincerely as a toddler. “Wow, I'm almost ready for another.”
“No you're not,” Shelby corrects her.
Jasper laughs. “Just lemme know when.”
He leaves as Mae—alone in a white mini dress and gaudy turquoise necklace—enters. Three boys trail behind her, one of whom Taylor recognizes as a junior who plays guitar during lunch. Grant Medina, sans guitar, heads toward the table full of booze. Taylor inspects the juice options because juice she understands.
“Hi ladies!” Mae greets the room cheerfully, squinting disapprovingly at the sight of Shelby with Jasper. Mae acts sober yet nervous, methodically opening cabinet after cabinet until she finds the whiskey, which she combines with ice in a cup made of actual glass. “Plastic is so juvenile,” she explains to nobody in particular. The kitchen is crowded. One boy holds a vodka bottle in each hand while his friend snaps a picture.
Taylor and Grant migrate to the library, where a blues singer croons from hidden speakers. Taylor admires the color of the walls (a green that makes her think of horses) and notices liquid on her shoes and all over the delicate rug. She thinks to herself, oh look at that, I'm spilling vodka, but forms no opinion on the matter, which is how she knows she's drunk. Grant has one arm around her waist. How did that get there? Taylor is not sure. He leans closer to expound on classic rock. “Musicians today don't have the same energy, you know, raw masculine energy.” A lot of it apparently has to do with the analog process, which is superior to overproduced Auto-Tune. Taylor doesn't know what analog means but nods along. As his face continues to inch closer, she wonders what will happen if it connects with hers.
“I need to pee,” Taylor says.
“Now?”
“Where did Shelby go?”
“She's probably upstairs with Jasper by now.” Grant crudely sticks an index finger into what looks like an okay sign.
“That's not happening.” Taylor knows it might be happening.
Unmoored yet invincible, she wanders down the hall and into the basement rec room. A group of younger kids dressed in black bang away at a foosball table while their friends smoke and choose sides. Sophomores, probably. One smoker, filming the game with her phone, looks up and locks eyes with Taylor. They both wear layers of eyeliner, but it's smudged on the younger girl, leaving the rest of her face bare and undefined. Taylor finds it odd that the girl is here at this house; perhaps the whole school is here, and the basement has become the equivalent of the dumpsters behind the cafeteria. Taylor feels overdressed.
Outside, glass lanterns illuminate a trim lawn peppered with wooden benches. A sofa leads to the pool. Lithe bodies loll about. Taylor looks for Shelby but spots Mae in her white dress on the grass, bare legs extending to painted toes. She is kissing someone who looks like Ethan; yes, she is definitely kissing Ethan. The scene is more curiously still than clumsy: Mae faces the pool, legs outstretched, while Ethan lazes in the opposite direction. Together they resemble an intricately entwined statue specially sculpted to live in this yard. Had Taylor not known either, she would think they were the perfect couple.
Music blares out here, too—a thick beat, heavy on the bass—and periodically a drunk kid sways in front of Taylor's line of vision, still fixed on the two beautiful bodies on the lawn. It occurs to Taylor how desperate she must look.
“There you are. Did you find your friend?” It's Grant.
Taylor is too tired to shake him. “Shelby's not out here. Maybe she's upstairs.”
“I'll go with you.”
“Of course you will.”
The bedrooms are all locked on the second floor, but the end of the hall opens to a cozy office. A love seat faces an old-fashioned writing desk. It's all very austere and despoiled and even dusty, save for the two beer bottles on the ground. Rims point toward tangled bodies. This room contains no music, only the sound of rustling cushions.
Grant's voice sounds dull and forced. “What are y'all doing in here? Making a porno?” Taylor hangs helplessly behind him. “C'mon, don't be shy.”
“Who the fuck is there? Taylor, what the fuck?” Shelby squirms. Jasper casually pulls up his fly. With his hair matted like this, he resembles an overgrown hobbit. “Can you give us some privacy?” As if on cue, a strange boy emerges from beneath the desk and silently pads out of the room. Shelby straightens her blouse.
Taylor announces that both girls are leaving now. “Jasper. Grant. Sorry, boys. It's been real.” Her hand tightens around Shelby's arm. Somehow Taylor is the most sober person upstairs—a realization that surprises nobody more than herself.
“You know,” Shelby slurs as the two make their way downstairs. “It's better like this. Make an entrance, then leave them wanting more.”
“For sure.” Taylor has no idea what Shelby is talking about, but deciding to leave this party fills her with confidence. She is rising above the fray.
Three girls doze at the bottom of the stairs. The smell of pot grows more intense as the music slows, the once-bustling crowd dropping like flies: draped over furniture and all over the floor. A few couples embrace, bodies pressed up against door frames and exquisite leather chairs. Shelby mentions Mae, pointing out that she might need a ride home, so they head toward the back door.
In the thick air, the lawn has shifted in its own way. A circle of barefoot dancers carries on in the center. Two gawky boys, having successfully unwound a garden hose, fumble to find a suitable mist setting. People soaking their feet coat the edge of the swimming pool, shoulder to shoulder, like salt around a glass rim. Mae and Ethan occupy the center of the far end, legs bright blue from underwater lights. Mae's head sags against Ethan's shoulder. He reaches into the pool, splashes a handful of water into her face, and laughs when nothing happens.
The curly-haired boy on the other side of Ethan clutches a beer with one hand and lifts a bunch of Mae's hair with the other, swinging it about with glee. “Your girlfriend's looking sloppy.”
“She's not my girlfriend.”
“Right. Oh, hey man, is it true you're gay?”
“Fuck off.”
“I just meant—”
Suddenly the boy with curly hair is in the water, holding his nose and yelling nonsensically. He frantically paddles only to maroon himself in the middle of the pool. The nosebleed is spectacular; it drips theatrically down his chin and into the water, where it veins out before vanishing. Ethan jumps in after him, out to dunk the boy until he thinks better of it and, instead, swims back to his spot on the ledge. Mae still sits slumped over, messy ringlets covering her face.
Pulling himself out of the water, chiseled cheekbones first and wet t-shirt clinging to each muscle, Ethan looks like a water deity straight out of a Greek myth. “I'm so fucking tired of this shit,” Taylor hears him say. “I'm not fucking gay.”
Another football player named Jayden takes this opportunity to grab Mae's breasts from behind. He jolts her upright and mocks in a high-pitched voice, “Oh yeah! I know you're not gay, Ethan! Fuck me, Ethan!” Nobody looks graceful. Mae's head sways stiffly. Her skirt bunches up around her upper thighs to expose hot pink underwear. Jayden's most prominent feature is his enormous stomach, which convulses above khaki shorts as he struggles to squat on the concrete. He finally settles on his knees.
A few feet away, under a gazebo and out of the light, Shelby crosses her arms. “It's time to go.”
Taylor can't take her eyes off the pool, where most partygoers delight at this new development, clapping and cheering and sipping drinks—hecklers at a show. “How will Mae get home?”
“We have to go. My parents don't even know I'm here.”
“But something terrible is about to happen.”
“That's why...we need to leave.”
In the pool, Mae and Ethan are bright and blurry, like extras in a bad dream. Taylor does as she's told: she backs away, the lawn darkening around the edges, until she reaches Shelby's car.
Shelby rummages in her purse for keys. “You drive. I'm drunk.”
Taylor dutifully slides behind the wheel. Maybe this whole party is in her imagination, she thinks, a suspicion she will entertain for days. The wheel is hot and damp. Taylor pulls into the street and drives away fitfully—away from the illuminated Harrington estate and back across the bridge.