Suddenly, the thought of doing it all over again tonight is exhausting. It’s just another house party at Carter’s, but it means straightening my hair, and doing my makeup, and making small talk with whatever tourists he’s picked up on the beach, and nursing a beer I don’t even like, and dodging smokers, and politely rejecting come-ons that I don’t want, and I just … don’t feel like it. I spend most of the parties only hanging out with Jasmine anyway, playing at mixing drinks, or talking about books, or prying for details of her life at home, where she takes pictures for the school paper and goes to rock shows after having Shabbat dinner with her mom most Friday nights, and I can do that here.

The image of a lazy night on the couch, watching movies, sharing a blanket, skin grazing skin … I shake my head to dislodge it. That’s not how this goes. That’s not what this is. She’ll want to go to Carter’s party, because in real life, she wants Carter. I don’t know how many times they might’ve hooked up since that first night, but I couldn’t forget Keisha’s “like bunnies” if I tried. They—

“Hey, any chance you wanna skip this thing tonight and stay here?”

I whirl around to see Jasmine standing in the doorway to my room, her hair in her usual party waves but her face makeup-free, her body clad in nothing but a tank top and pajama shorts, her legs glittering lightly with sparkly lotion that I happen to know smells like peaches.

“Movie night?” I offer, hoping she can’t tell how excited I am that we’re on the same page.

“I’ll go make popcorn.”

Our parents are out at a dinner tonight, which they are so often that I would think it was a cover if I hadn’t heard my mother firmly confirm reservations while curling her hair and touching up her lipstick all at the same time. She can be an octopus of multitasking when she needs to. It’s what makes her so good at her job, and also a little frightening. We haven’t spent as much time together this summer as I’d imagined when she floated the change of plans by me, but we promised tomorrow we’d have a Saturday brunch, just the two of us, and I’m strangely looking forward to it.

I slide on some tinted lip balm and put my hair, still wet from the shower, in two simple braids. It’s a relief to slip into a T-shirt and shorts instead of a party outfit, but I have to shake the momentary urge to put on something nice to impress Jasmine.

“Your hair looks cute like that,” she says when I walk into the living room, where she’s splayed out on the couch, her tank top riding up an inch.