21

Hannah

The only parties I ever go to are surfer parties, but I’m making an exception tonight. Some girl named Jackie who goes to our school is throwing one because her parents are out of town, and Drew has asked me to come along. I need one night off from my sister’s X-ray vision, so I say yes.

“Is this you mixing business with pleasure, or would you have gone to the party even if you weren’t holding?” I ask as we walk toward one of the fancy Victorian homes Jamaica Plain is known for. This one looks particularly imposing, with a large porch and three floors, the windows blazing with light.

“I probably wouldn’t have gone, but since I’ve got company and I’m holding, it was a no-brainer. Unless you want to go back to my place and play video games.”

I wrinkle my nose. “No, thanks.”

He laughs as he heads up the walkway.

We get inside, and it’s already packed. The house is very Saint Francis, all grandfather clocks and heavy drapes, real art—not some shit you buy at a home store. Drew grabs my hand and pulls me toward the kitchen, where there’s an impressive assortment of bottles on a counter—good stuff, too.

“Let me guess,” he says, giving me a once-over. “You’re not a rum-and-Coke kind of girl. Whiskey?”

I nod. “Straight.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You came to play.”

Drew gets me a cup, and I’ve barely taken a sip before someone is pulling on his hoodie and palming cash. Drew looks at me, and I make a go on motion.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, and follows the guy upstairs.

I push through to the open sliding glass door that leads to the patio. It’s quieter out here. It’s a pretty big backyard, and it’s filled with people I don’t know. There’s a fire pit and s’mores. Someone has a guitar. Someone always has a guitar. Nobody talks to me and I don’t talk to anybody. I just drink my whiskey, then go back into the kitchen for more. I notice Drew coming down the stairs, and it occurs to me that Drew Nolan is hot. Like, really hot. Maybe I haven’t been sober enough since I met him to notice that.

I feel a twinge of guilt and slide my phone out of my pocket. I send Micah a text, but he doesn’t text back.

“Skittles?” a boy asks, holding out a heavy crystal bowl toward me, the kind in Gram’s fancy hutch.

“Uh, sure?”

But then I look in the bowl—not Skittles. Pills. All kinds.

“How do you know what’s what?” I ask.

“You don’t,” he says. “That’s the fun.”

“Yeah, no,” Drew says, pushing the bowl away. “She’s good.”

I glance at him. “I am?”