She used to be good at this stuff, the whole hair and the lipstick and the outfit mess before the party. But she's not sure how it works in the context of this place. What she's pretty sure of is the fact that all the trimmings of her upper upper middle class New York world of parties and events—full of things that went to and from the drycleaners and hung in plastic bags in her closet—have no place here. And that's why she packed none of it.
But still. What the hell does one wear to a party in the middle of a small town that is basically nowhere? Eventually she opts for jeans and a top that could go either way in the appearance of effort and no effort, and lets her make up do the rest of the work. Given the size of her case, now hidden under her bed, it's not like she has much choice, anyway.
She bundles into her coat and turns for the door. But before she can make it through, she's chased down by a thought. A second later, she's dropping her things and is back at her computer, checking for the millionth time today. This time she's rewarded with a trill of relief.
Friend request accepted.
Holding her breath, she scrolls slowly down her wall. Never has Lauren been so happy to see the litany of inanities about school and friends and movies. There's the whining about homework, the FML drama of pre-teen angst, the kitten pictures. Then there are the photos she's tagged in: Schoolyards, camps, parties. Pouty-mouth group shots with girls in the same kinds of dresses and same kind of long, straightened hair, doing the same kind poses. Suddenly, her friends look older, though, even though they are the same small humans that Vanessa used to bring over in the rare moments Jeannie was out of town. They dress older, too. She pauses on a photo of Vanessa and her best friend Hannah posing in someone's plush white living room couch, showing way too much leg for their age. Behind them, a kid in a baseball cap flips the bird at the camera, a can of beer barely concealed by a vase. Fuck. Already? Vanessa's not even thirteen yet. But neither was Lauren.
She keeps scrolling until she sees the post. September 14. Just three words: I hate you.
No need to wonder who you is. Heart hammering, Lauren shuts down the computer and grabs her jacket, marching out into the fluorescent-lit hallways. September 14. Two days after Lauren got on the plane. Two days in which Jeannie, her mother, might have sobered up enough to read her message. The real question is: How did Jeannie tell Vanessa? Who is she kidding? How did Jeannie always break bad news? Weaponised it, tossing it like a grenade right into the very moment you were feeling halfway okay.
Outside the residential building, Lauren stops in her tracks. What is she doing? Does she even want to go to a stupid college party after reading that? Not that she doesn't deserve that little love letter. What she probably doesn't deserve is a party. Or to have any kind of life after leaving Vanessa to hers. She turns back towards the glass sliding doors and then stops again. The thought of sitting in that tiny room all night—prisoner to impending incursion by the Steffi and the God Botherers—feels just as impossible. Wow. So it turns out you can know barely a soul in a place, and still have nowhere to hide.
She moves out of the way of a clutch of kids carrying steaming pizza boxes back into the dorm and lets out a breath. What else is she going to do? Besides, the only thing that will murder this sting in her chest is the buzz of a few drinks and the anonymity of a dance floor. And she'll take what she can get,
She pulls her dark red lipstick from her pocket, swipes it on without the benefit of a mirror (about the only useful thing her mother ever taught her), and strides through the town. She's surrounded by the sounds of people sloughing off the week trickling from bars and restaurants. People strut past her in groups and pairs, slicing through the cold night towards whatever is next, filling the darkness with laughter.
The house is a small brick worker's cottage not far off the main street. Kids stand in clumps on the footpath, holding cups, digging their chins into their scarves and chatting. Music pulses from somewhere inside. Lauren edges down the hallway, elbowing her way through a living room full of bodies shuffling to one of last summer's songs. She's suddenly blindsided by a flash of a picnic in Central Park, lying on the grass after too much wine, wishing the world would stay still. The chorus kicks in and that memory veers to another. To her little sister mouthing the words to on radio, jumping on her bed, accidentally flipping over the end rail but somehow miraculously landing on her feet. They laughed for hours after that, so long the that song came on again, in endless high-rotation.
She pushes her way through a doorway into what turns out to be a large long kitchen. The crowded room smells like winter-damp clothes and countless meals cooked. Candles burn on the long windowsill, and the linoleum beneath her feet is already wet with spilled drinks. She finds Helen sitting at a small wooden table, looking completely unruffled by being by herself.
"Hey loner."
Helen's smile turns to a frown. "You okay?"
"Yeah, no, I'm fine. Cold walk." Lauren shimmies a little, shaking off whatever mood she's carried inside with her. She slides out the seat opposite. "So, who do you know here?"
"Some guy from my bio lab. He's around here somewhere."
"Is it a date?"
"No." Helen's eyes widen. "Oh god, I hope he doesn't think so."
"Why? Is he gross?"
"No, he's fine. I'm just not in the market."
Restless already, Lauren looks around the kitchen for the ubiquitous keg. "Is there beer or something?"
"I honestly don't know."
"There's always something at these things. Hang on." She shoves her way out of the kitchen into a backyard clamouring with people braving the cold for the sake of breathing room. She instinctively heads for the most crowded section, and there it is, the shiny, reliable keg. She grabs two cup from a pile, feeling that instant trickle of anticipation.
She waits in line the guy ahead of her fills his two cups and then turns, the tap in his hand. He has a thick a wave of dark hair and the sleeves of his unbuttoned shirt are rolled up to the elbows. He's good looking but, going on the cocky smile, he definitely knows it. He raises an eyebrow and holds out the tap. "M'lady."
"Wow, smarmy," Lauren holds up the cups. "Fill 'em up, would you""
He smirks and does as he is told. When they're full, he goes to say something, but she turns and walks away.
She plonks a cup in front of Helen and sits, triumphantly holding up her own. "To what I assume is your first US college party? Cheers."
"Indeed. Cheers." Helen tentatively taps hers against Lauren's and takes a sip. She immediately grimaces. "Wow, it's as bad as I always imagined it to be. And what's with the plastic? Has your country not heard of what's happening to the environment?"
"Don't you know it's rude to come to someone's place and diss their traditional cultures?" Lauren chides her. "When in Rome, Helen."
"My apologies." Helen takes another sip and shudders.
"So, you don't like our beer or the guy who invited you here. Ungrateful wench."
"It's not that I don't like him. I'm still just kind of…" Helen taps her chin thoughtfully. "…entangled in a situation back at home."
"Is that a fancy British way of saying you already have a boyfriend?"
"No. I have a…friend. And right before I left, we sort of realised we might be more. But then I had to leave. Nothing happened, but it's there, you know? And it's, I don't know, hard to let go."
"That sounds suitably complicated."
"Correct." Helen sighs, turning her cup in circles on the table. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Did you leave anyone behind in New York?"
Lauren takes a long slug of her beer, ignoring her first thought. "I'm not really great with relationships, you know." By which she means she's thrown her own grenade at every possibility before it's ever even started.
"Why not?"
"I don't know. Because I'm a mess?"
"Are your parents together? They say we learn from what we're modelled."
Okay, so this is not the kind of conversation Lauren planned on having tonight. But it doesn't matter, because she's learned over time exactly how to shut this kind of thing right down. "Well, my dad's dead and my mother's a catastrophe, so there's that."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"Didn't mean it to sound so dramatic. It is what it is."
"Still, I'm sorry. That's tough. Do you have brothers and sisters?"
Lauren slugs the rest of the beer, feeling that delicious, familiar, blood-swimming sensation, and ignores the question. "Anyway, I'm not looking for a relationship."
"Yeah, well I can imagine you might not be feeling up for it with all that to handle."
"I guess." Lauren drums her fingers on the table, looking around her. The sooner Helen learns that Lauren hates sympathy as much as she hates personal questions, the better off their budding "friendship or whatever" will be.
Luckily, before Helen can say another word, a tall, sporty blond guy comes up to the table, the cocky guy from the keg beside him.
"Hey Helen," the blond says, eyes wide and hopeful. "You came."
That's all it takes for Lauren to know that this guy's got a thing for Helen. Things are about to get awkward.
"Lauren, this is Will, from my bio lab," Helen says.
"Hey," Lauren says, clutching her empty cup.
"And this is Evan. He's in my Global Studies class." Will waves hand between them all. "Evan meet Helen and Lauren."
"She's already had the pleasure," Evan says, nodding at Lauren.
Lauren stares at him. "You did not just say that out loud, did you?"
Helen's eyes widen. Lauren cackles. These British folks and their manners. Evan, though, just swipes at his hair with his free hand and grins.
"Global Studies, huh Evan?" Lauren drawls, eyeing the bottle tucked under his arm.
"Yeah, I'm planning on doing law."
"Ew. I mean, great," Lauren says. Helen gives her another look that scuttles between shocked and amused. "Because the world needs more lawyers."
Evan just chuckles. "So, what about you?"
She gives him a teasing smile, hoping her lipstick is still at peak flirt. "Who knows? But right now, I do know my future involves drinking a shot of whatever is under your arm, and then heading in there." She points to the living room and the dance floor.
"Sounds like a plan." He proffers the bottle.
"Good man."
He sits down next to her and pours a slug of clear liquid into each of their beer cups. "I'm not just going to be a lawyer," he tells her. "I'm going to do human rights law, help people who need it.
She knocks down the shot without waiting for him, savouring the stinging slide. "White saviour style, huh?"
He laughs, undaunted. "I worked at a non-profit this summer for and we did a lot of good work."
"And you're very pleased with yourself about it, aren't you?" She grins at him, hoping she hasn't gone too far. Bruised egos might cut access to him and his bottle.
"And you're really quite brutal, aren't you?"
"Well this is a party, Evan, not a job interview."
He laughs. "You're right."
"You'll find I'm right pretty often." She takes the bottle out of his hand and pours a slosh of the white liquor into the bottom of her beer cup and then his.
"So, what would you like to talk about?" he asks her.
"Nothing. I know you can talk, Evan." She waits for him this time. They pour the shot down their throats in unison, wincing. She winks. "But can you dance?"