Natasha put on my blue jeans and looked inadequate. Even her perfect hair and the sneer of her lipstick couldn’t balance out the bland costume. She looked like me, I bet: slightly slouched, a little off-center, ineffectual and something you wouldn’t notice, not unless it was right in front of you. But I looked great. It was exciting to feel like her, and I felt a little smug that she’d be overshadowed tonight. She couldn’t perform as well in that cos- tume. But I looked great. This was going to be a day to be re- membered–a famous day.
When she was looking elsewhere I reached up to the top of my shelf and grabbed a talisman that would complete my Natasha imitation.
Transformation
, I mean. I reached up to the top shelf of the closet: Douglas’s hat, Jenn’s earring, Lily’s glasses–where was it? There it was: the nail file, with the two claw hands at either end. I slipped it into the dress’s one pocket and turned around just as Natasha turned around, like a reflection in the surface of a lake. She smiled and handed me the flask.
We got the baguettes at Basic Bakery where the showy ovens shone red and hot on us like a pit of fire. We had to park two blocks away, there were so many cars, and making out in one of them were Frank Whitelaw and the girl on stage crew who curses like a sailor and can always fix the light board, fooling around.
Hello
. Frank “it just isn’t working between us” Whitelaw, making it work with somebody else. Natasha and I had downed her whole flask on the way here, so we were already loud and obnoxious, weighted down with sheaves of loaves. When we came upon them I lifted my leg and kicked the window of the car, leaving a high-heeled footprint. Then we ran, looking back to see Frank and what’s-her-name peering out the window. Her shirt was unbuttoned and it wasn’t even seven-thirty yet.
The same Tin Can album was on in the house that had been on in the car. Lots of people were there already, but everyone was running around so it was hard to tell. V was on her knees in the front hall scrubbing something out of the carpet. Her face was red and tense but she was glad we had the baguettes. “In the kitchen,” she said, gesturing off somewhere. We walked by a small bathroom decorated in wallpaper patterned to look like bookshelves and with a large framed portrait of Jennifer Rose Milton in it. Why would V ’s parents–wait a second. I gave Natasha the rest of the baguettes–she looked like one of those peasant women loaded with sticks–and doubled back to the bathroom. It was of course the real thing, not a portrait, crying already. It wasn’t even seven-thirty yet.
“Oh, Flan,” she said, and I shut the door behind us. The books loomed in close; the flask’s gin was roaring up strong in my ears like a hair dryer. Jennifer Rose Milton had on a basic black dress and was holding one of those masks on a stick, but all that was shattered by her inelegant, coughy crying. “He’s seeing somebody else,” she said, leaning against the sink. The faucets were little golden swans which spat water when you turned them on, so I did. I hugged her, ducking down so her tears wouldn’t land on my dress because I didn’t know what it was made of and it might stain. “He’s seeing somebody else,” she said again, a little crossly as if I hadn’t said the right thing and I realized that I hadn’t said anything at all.
“There, there,” I decided on.
“He said that things just weren’t working out,” she said, drooling, “but Cheryl just told me–”
“Who’s Cheryl?”
“That
fat
girl,” she spat, “who got drunk at Lily’s cast party last year and threw up all over the yellow rug.”
“Her name is Cheryl?”
“Yeees,” she wailed, grabbing a tissue. The swans kept spitting. “She told me that Frank is seeing
Nancy Butler
. Can you believe it? Nancy Butler?”
I remembered Kate in the courtyard with me the other day, gathering her rosebuds while she could or however that goes. “I thought Kate already told you that.”
“I didn’t believe her,” she said, sniffling. “I thought she was lying. I thought she was wrong. And she’s
here
, of all the nerve. She’s at the party, and she wasn’t even
invited
.”
“Jenn, of course Kate was invited.”
“Not Kate,
Cheryl
. I mean, not Kate,
Nancy Butler
. She keeps wandering around asking where Frank is.”
“Well,” I said, “Frank is outside making out with somebody else in his car.”
“Really?” she said, blowing her nose and looking at herself in the mirror. “You’re just making that up,” she decided, “to make me feel better.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” I said, and I probably wouldn’t. The books on the wallpaper had no discernible spines, like the people in the room. “He’s outside now, in his car. Go see if you want.”
“He doesn’t even
have
a car,” Jennifer Rose Milton said. “Well, then it’s
her
car.”
“Whose?”
“I don’t know her name. She’s the one on stage crew who can always fix the light board and swears like–”
“That’s Cheryl.”
“This girl isn’t fat,” I said.
“The girl who can always fix the light board is Cheryl,” she said emphatically.
“Well, then Cheryl isn’t fat.”
“But she is. People call her Fat Cheryl.”
We both sputtered and laughed, loud. It bounced off the swans, the books, the smudgy mirror, the clock. It wasn’t even eight yet and I was already laughing with somebody alone in the bathroom.
“How drunk
are
you?” I asked.
“Fat Cheryl,” she repeated, and we both laughed again, loud. “Not as drunk as I would like to be,” she said. She sat down on the closed toilet and put her feet up on the towel rack, smudging tiny matching towels I bet you weren’t supposed to use if you lived here. “He’s an awful person,” she said meditatively. She stood her mask up on the towel rack and made it do a little puppet dance. We giggled and Adam opened the door.
“Has anybody seen Flan?” he said. He was wearing a tie and clutching a drink. Then he shut the door.
I blinked; Jennifer Rose Milton dropped the mask. I looked in the mirror and for a minute it looked like Natasha was facing me–I saw his mistake. “No, wait,” I said, standing up. When had I sat down? “Wait,” I said again. Jennifer Rose Milton turned off the swans and I opened the door and looked down the hallway. In one direction, nobody. In the other direction, a flashbulb.
“
Shit!
”
“Sorry, Kate,” Flora Habstat giggled, and bounced down the hallway with her camera. “I’m taking pictures!” she crowed, and rounded the bend.
“I’m not Kate,” I said, and this seemed important all of a sud- den. “Jenn, I’m not Kate.”
“You got that right,” she said sloppily. She was pulling her hair back sharply and gazing at the mirror. She looked, suddenly, oddly like Lily. I rubbed my eyes and the real Lily almost stepped on me as she walked down the hallway.
“Flannery!” she said, and hugged me. Her smile was way too wide, and the music was suddenly turned
up
a notch. She pulled me out of the bathroom and down the hall; when I looked back Jennifer Rose Milton looked like decoration again.
“What we need,” she said, pointing at me, “is food. I mean
a drink
.”
The kitchen was wrecked. V ’s family had those copper pots hanging from a rack around the stove like torture devices, and somebody had pulled the rack out–or
half-out
, really, because it was hanging precariously from the ceiling with bits of plaster showering down like fairy dust. The pots had fallen long ago; they looked like dented relics on the kitchen floor. Gabriel was standing blankly in the middle of it looking like an astronaut who’d missed the last shuttle back to the mother ship. He had a clearly forgotten chef’s hat lopsided on his head and was staring in awe at a mountain of pots and pans that were piled in the sink so that the sink itself seemed irretrievable and the entire counter–the whole side of the kitchen–appeared to be made of pots. Everywhere, something was dripping so the whole kitchen was making one big gurgling sound that echoed in my head. The kitchen table was stuffed with bottles of alcohol, full and empty; a punch bowl with sherbet and plastic cups floating in it. Empty beer bottles lined up like choirboys. Lots and lots of plastic cups, mostly overturned; a big bowl of melting ice. One tall cup was lazily drooling something bright red and syrupy onto the white carpet.
“Wow,” I heard myself say. Gabriel turned around suddenly and gave me a big hug, his body sliding against my slippery dress.
“Where have you been?” he said.
“Sorry,” I said. What time was the party supposed to start? It wasn’t even eight yet. “How’s the shindig?”
“This is the best party!” he sang out, waving one arm in the air. I followed the other one to a large glass of punch. Oh. Was
everybody
drunk?
“Is
everybody
drunk?” I asked, but the room started spinning just as I caught the self-righteousness in my own voice. “Including me,” I added sheepishly, and when I closed my eyes I could hear Lily and Douglas laughing. Lily and
Gabriel
. I reached out an arm to steady myself and knocked over a small pile of logs, but when I opened my eyes I saw they were the baguettes. Gabriel handed me a glass of punch. “I brought these baguettes,” I said, as I took a sip.
The punch was strong as death. One sip and the room spun again; I felt those three pieces of toast make a vague threat. Gab- riel had his tongue in my mouth when a little skinny guy walked in.
“Is there any more Douglas?” he said. “What?” Lily said.
“Punch?” he said.
Gabriel smiled. “Flannery, this is Rob,” he said, putting his arm around the skinny guy.
“
Bob
,” Rob corrected.
Bob
.
Gabriel leaned in to whisper to me. “Rob is the guy that Douglas, you know–”
“Wanted to invite?” I said.
Gabriel laughed. “Bob, do you want any punch?” “
Rob
,” Rob said.
What?
“Just kidding,” Bob said. We all laughed, except Lily who hugged me suddenly and started to cry. I tried to keep her away from the dress but no dice. Gabriel was explaining something in detail to Bob, who sat down
in a chair and was staring into space and nodding soberly. “What’s wrong?” I said to Lily, finally. How long had she been
crying?
“Come outside,” Lily said. We walked through another blaring hallway where Rachel State was performing a sweeping arm gesture to three other freshman girls, who were watching intently and trying to copy it.
“You’re not doing it right,” I said to them, and Rachel gave me a look of disgust. She was wearing a black leotard and looked like a mime. What was I talking about? “You’re not doing it right, either,” I said to her.
Rachel shrugged, and reached down to the carpet to pick up her bottle of beer. The music was turned up
another
notch. “
You
show them,” she said.
“Come
on
, Flan,” Lily said. I couldn’t believe she was
still
cry- ing. Behind me I heard Gabriel and Bob singing something, or maybe it was Twin Can. I blinked; Rachel and Co. were still staring at me.
“What do you guys
want
?” I asked them, taking another sip of–hold on!–the punch.
“Forget her,” one of them said to Rachel. “She’s drunk.” “Yeah, forget all about me!” I said to them. “Forget I ever exis-
ted!” What was I talking about? “
Natasha
!” Lily whined. “
I’m upset
!”
Rachel and the girls giggled and squeezed past us into the living room. I wasn’t ready to enter the living room yet. Where I wanted to go was–
“Let’s go
outside
, Natasha!” Lily said. Then she blinked and looked at me. “Flan,” she said, and burst into tears. Didn’t this already happen? She led me to a glass sliding door and slid it open; I watched my reflection travel with it. We stepped outside. The air was cool and stingy. We sat on the stairs where I had comforted Kate just a few
days ago.
Yesterday
. The garden was black except for some white ghost of a figure flitting around and some half-visible lawn chairs and croquet mallets–the red mallet in particular was in plain view. Lily was crying. Down a few steps, Nancy Butler was throwing up and it wasn’t even eight-thirty yet. I put my arm around Lily and realized I was holding a baguette.
“There, there,” I said, and started to giggle because Lily’s shoulders were shaking and making the baguette wiggle in a jerking motion that looked like nothing but masturbation.
“Don’t you laugh at me, Flan,” she said, but started laughing herself. “Look at V .”
It was the white figure, V , running around on the lawn picking things up, I couldn’t tell what. She looked like a little bunny.
“What are you doing, Little Bunny?” I called, with both hands cupped around my mouth, so the baguette jerked around my lips like–well, like some other sex act. I took another sip of punch except the cup was empty. Somebody else’s cup was sitting within arm’s reach, though, so I switched them. No one ever knew that. “V , what are you doing?”
“It’s not V ,” Lily said. “It’s Kate.”
“I’m not Kate,” I remembered, and told Lily. “I’m not Kate.” “Of course you’re not,” she said. “You’re Natasha.
Flan
. Kate’s
over there.” She pointed at the white figure, who walked toward us and turned out to be V , after all.
“I can’t find the rest of the croquet set,” she said crossly. “I’m missing balls.”
“You don’t say,” Douglas said archly behind us, and Lily burst into tears. It was getting a little old, this bursting.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. Douglas sat down next to me and Lily cried harder.
“She’s still upset about us,” Douglas said. “But we broke up a long time ago,” I said.
“Not
us
,” he said, waving his wrist between us, “
us
.” He waved his wrist between him and Lily.
“You’ve got to stop all that limp-wristed action,” I giggled, leaning against him. He scowled, smiled, sipped punch from an empty cup.
“Where’d my cup go?”
“Forget about the cup,” V said. “I can’t find half the croquet balls, or the red mallet.”
“The red mallet is right there,” I said, pointing to it. Nancy Butler stood up and staggered back up the stairs wiping her mouth. When she slid open the door I distinctly heard Adam calling, “Flan?”