I stood up, and as I did so, he, sitting on the table, took his hands out of his pockets as if to touch me: my waist or my shoulders or my face. But he dropped them into his lap and swung his feet back and forth, then stood up and settled into the folding chair I’d been sitting in.

I went to the ladies’ room. Green-­painted wood covered with writing in lipstick, pen, and carvings had absorbed the smell of thousands of girls, gallons of disinfectant. The little room with two sinks, two mirrors, and two toilet stalls was stuffed with girls putting on makeup, adjusting their clothes, and combing their hair. I stood in the corner and watched them for a while, as they chatted on about the boys and their boyfriends. Then a pretty dark-­haired girl with dark-­red lipstick and too much rouge on her cheeks noticed me in the mirror, and she turned to me across the crowd and said, “Hi.”

I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets and said, “Hello.”

“You a friend of Boyd’s?”

I didn’t know how to answer her. “Sort of.”

“You’re new.”

I nodded.

“I’m Catherine.”

“I’m Angelina.”

“Well, Angelina, if you’re a friend of Boyd’s, I’m a friend of yours.” She turned to her friends and they all laughed, then she looked me up and down again, and returned to her creams and colors and speaking of nonsense. I watched her in the mirror for a moment longer, watched her take glances toward me without meeting my look, and I remembered that feeling, that feeling of being different, being outside the joke, outside the crowd, and I hated it. I pushed my way out, and ran directly into a drunken lad whose hands quickly felt my entire torso, inside my jacket. I shoved him from me, disgusted with the whole place, and walked outside. I wished for my space at the table again, but Bill was standing there, exchanging money and fellowship with some of his friends.

The cold air refreshed me after the steamy con­fines of the crowded hall. The stench of sweat, mixed with perfume, after-­shaving lotions, underarm deodo­rant, beer and cigarette breath, was too potent for me. I took some deep breaths of fresh air and walked aimlessly around some of the cars in the parking lot. Most of the vehicles were uninhabited; a few had fogged windows, others had cigarettes glowing in the darkness as their occupants talked. I wandered among them, fists stuffed tight into my pockets. I wondered what they talked about, what it felt like to be closed up tight in someone’s dad’s car, with good friends and lots to talk about on a Friday night.