April, 1983

Michael sat at his desk, crossing out the times he'd written throughout the day and putting tally marks next to his list of corresponding half-hour intervals. He heard a knock on his door.

"Come in," he said, looking up as his twin sister came into the room, holding a bottle of vodka in one hand and squeezing two glasses against her body with her other arm.

"Look what I've got," she said in a sing-song voice. "Mom left it out. Do you want to try it?"

"Isn't it illegal?" Michael said uncertainly.

She laughed. "That's what makes it fun. And I think it's only illegal for other people to sell it to us or something. Anyway, Mom and Dad are gone at that dinner thing so we're not going to get caught." She walked over to him and set the bottle and glasses on the desk. "Come on, it will be fun."

"Okay," Michael said, embarrassed at his hesitation.

"Great," she said brightly and poured the drinks, filling the glasses to the top. She picked up her glass. "Cheers!" she said.

"Cheers," Michael laughed, picking up his glass and clinking it with hers. He watched her take a drink, then quickly drank his before she noticed his hesitation. He winced at the bitter taste and the prickly sensation in his throat. Why did people drink this stuff? He could tell from Lindsay's face that she was similarly unimpressed, but she didn't say so, so he didn't either.

"What are you working on?" she asked, pulling his list closer to her. "Oh my god, are you doing homework on a Saturday night?"

"No, I've been keeping track of when I sell the most bananas to figure out when my lunch break should be," he told her. Lindsay stared at him in disbelief.

"Okay, it's a good thing I interrupted this," she said. "Come on, let's sit on the bed." She took her drink and pranced over to the bed. She positioned his pillow against the headboard and leaned against it. He got up from his desk and sat down next to her, already feeling a little light-headed, his face growing warm.

"So, I bought my dress for the Eighth Grade Prom today," she said cheerfully. "It's so cute. It's black and strapless with little differently colored dots all over the skirt. Oh, and it's got this adorable hot pink bow…"

"That's great, Lindsay," Michael said sarcastically. Lindsay had a tendency to hijack their conversations and go on and on about things that only concerned her. She smirked and took another sip of her drink.

"You know what Mom said when I showed her the dress?" she continued. "She said, 'Are you sure you don't want something longer to cover up those chubby legs?'"

"Wow," he said.

"I know, right?" She forced a laugh, but the bitterness was plain in her voice. "You don't think my legs are chubby, do you?"

"No, of course not," Michael said automatically.

"Really?" she pressed. "You're not just saying that to be nice?"

He rolled his eyes. "No, I'm not just saying that to be nice," he said, pretending to be exasperated even though he wasn't.

She smiled warmly at him. "Thanks," she said.

Michael was used to Lindsay constantly asking him for reassurance that she was pretty. He didn't mind. It was understandable given how frequently their mother criticized her, and it was nice to feel needed.

He saw that her glass was already half empty. He reluctantly drank more, trying to catch up. It really was disgusting.

"Anyway," Lindsay continued, taking another sip. "Who are you taking to the dance?"

"It's an eighth grade dance, you don't need a date."

"It's an eighth grade prom, and yes, you do," she corrected. "At least you do if you don't want to look like a loser."

"Lots of people are going without dates," he said defensively. "And they don't even call it the Eighth Grade Prom anymore." The school had changed the name two years ago when people started showing up in limos, but Lindsay still insisted on calling it the Eighth Grade Prom.

"Come on, isn't there anyone you want to ask?" she pressed.

"No, there isn't," he said flatly, starting to get annoyed.

"What about Sally Sitwell? She likes you."

"She does?"

"Ha! I knew it!" she said triumphantly. "I knew you liked her!"

"Oh," he said, annoyed and embarrassed. "So you were just making that up?"

"Oh, no, it's true," she said quickly. "She definitely likes you, it's really obvious," she said, her words a little slurred.

This was news to Michael. He'd had a crush on Sally for over a year, but he'd always thought it was unreciprocated. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes. So you should ask her! She'll be thrilled."

"I'll think about it."

"You'll think about it? What does that mean?"

"It means I'll think about it!"

"Oh my god, Michael. She likes you, you like her, what is there to think about?"

"I'm not sure I want to go with her," he protested.

"Yes, you do, you're just scared."

"No, that's not true—"

Lindsay began to do her signature chicken dance, a practice she'd adopted from their older brother. "Cha, chee cha, chee cha!"

"Oh, goddamn it," he said. "Stop!"

"Cha, chee cha, chee cha!"

"Okay, fine, I'll ask her!" he snapped.

"Good," she said smugly. "I'm holding you to that."

"Jesus," he muttered. "That doesn't even look like a chicken."

Lindsay laughed and leaned her head back against the wall. "Okay, I'm starting to feel drunk," she said. "What about you?"

"Yeah, a little," he said, his head feeling a little fuzzy.

"Good," she laughed, getting off the bed and walking over to the desk, a little unsteady. "You need to loosen up more." She refilled her glass.

"Aren't you starting to feel sick?" Michael asked, surprised.

"Not really," she replied, her words a little slurred.

"Alright," he said skeptically. He was starting to feel a little nauseous himself, and she'd had almost twice as much as him. He wondered if she was pretending to like it more than she did.

She walked back to the bed. "Scoot over," she said, sitting down next to him. Her black and white check skirt slipped down to show her thigh as she sat, but she didn't fix it. "You haven't asked me about my date to the dance yet," she said.

"That's 'cause I already know who it is," he said. "You've told me a million times."

"Yes, because it's Brian Peterson. He's like the cutest guy in the whole school!"

"Yeah, I've heard that a million times, too."

"Ugh, fine. What d'you want to talk about?"

"I dunno. Anything but Brian Peterson."

"Okay," she said, the corners of her mouth curling up into a sly smile. "We'll talk about Sally, then."

"No, that's worse—"

"You said anything!"

"Oh my god."

She laughed and took another sip of her drink. "She's gonna say yes, you know."

He hesitated. "You really think so?"

"Yes," she said emphatically, grabbing his arm. "And she should. You're a great guy."

"Thanks," he said, surprised. "You're pretty great, too," he added.

"Aww, you're so sweet," she teased. She smiled at him. "This is fun."

"Yeah," he agreed. He really was enjoying himself now. There was something exciting about breaking the rules, especially with someone as cool as Lindsay. Though he would never admit it, he was more than a little jealous of his twin sister's popularity.

"Ugh," she said suddenly, sitting up.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing, just feeling a little sick."

Michael looked at her glass and saw that it was almost empty. "Yeah, I can see why."

"Shut up," she said, leaning her head back against the wall and closing her eyes.

"You okay?" he laughed.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she snapped. She sat up suddenly. "Oh god, I think I'm gonna throw up," she said, and got up and ran out of the room.