We start with a breakup song that I’m only vaguely familiar with. But it repeats the words “forget you,” oh, about a thousand times. So I let Stella handle the verses, and I chime in on the chorus.
After that we start singing older stuff. Spice Girls. TLC. Boy bands galore. We sing so long, so loud, and so badly that I’m surprised no one kicks us out. But the longer we sing, the less I care about how I sound. I’m having fun.
I’m having fun doing something I’m not good at. And I never thought I’d say that.
Eventually, my throat starts to hurt, and the frog with babies lodged somewhere near my vocal cords starts to sound like it’s been joined by a plague of locusts, so Stella and I vacate the stage in favor of greasy bar food and a corner booth where we can stretch out our legs.
“So wait . . . the cop followed you guys all the way into the library?”
“Yes! I thought for sure we were going to get caught. And then we ended up hiding back in the stacks and—”
“And let me guess . . . bow chicka wow wow.”
I blush, and lean my elbows onto the table to get closer to her. “I have a question. And it’s embarrassing, but honestly, I think I’m past embarrassment with you. Have you heard of a thing called the Sweet Six?”
“OH MY GOD, YOU DID THE SWEET SIX WITH TORRES?!”
I slap my hand over her mouth as her words echo around the deserted bar. “Shhh! Keep your voice down, would you?”
When she nods frantically, I remove my hand. Then in a whisper, she says again, “Oh my God, you did the Sweet Six with Torres?”
“No, I didn’t. But he mentioned it. And we might have messed around a little back in the library, but that was it. I honestly wasn’t even sure if it was a real thing. I thought he might be teasing me.”
“Oh no. It’s a real thing. Trust me. I’ve still only knocked off one myself, but I always planned . . .” She trails off. “Never mind. It’s—that was something—not really in the game plan anymore.”
I have a feeling her sudden silence connects with all that stupid talk from back at the game. I shouldn’t push. I pride myself on not being a pushy person, actually. But I can’t help asking, “Why?”
She shrugs. “It’s complicated. Everything is so fucking complicated.”
I nod, and eat another mozzarella stick while she fiddles with her silverware.
“I wish I could make a list,” she says. “I wish my brain worked that way, and I could just decide what I needed and wanted, and I could write it all up in one place. But I don’t work that way. Because for everything I want, there’s part of me that doesn’t want it. For everything I think, something in me disagrees. I’m like a pair of magnets in one body, and . . . I’m a mess, Nell. A god-awful mess.”
“To messes,” I say, holding up the vodka cranberry Stella ordered me. “May they always get cleaned up.”
“To messes,” she agrees. “And karaoke and keg stands and beer pong and all-nighters.”
I DON’T LIKE it, but under Stella’s direction we end up at Torres’s house. I guess technically, it’s not only his house, but that’s the only way I can think of it.
“It’s going to be fine,” she tells me. “I’d take you to a different party, but the only ones I know of are frat things, and Dallas and I have a deal that we don’t go to that kind of thing alone. This is the only place I knew of to get you your keg stand and beer pong. And trust me, the guys will be so busy celebrating their win that we won’t have any trouble dodging Teo. I got your back. I promise.”
“Okay, but we do the beer pong and the keg stand, and then we go do something else. I don’t want to hang out any longer than necessary.”
“Deal.”
The party is about the same size as the one on Halloween, but it doesn’t feel quite as intimidating. On Halloween, I’d only stayed in the kitchen for a little while before retreating outside, and I spent the rest of the time . . . well.
Anyway, it’s crowded as we move through the living room, and I don’t see Torres anywhere. It’s dim and loud, and he might not even notice me if he walked right past me. Slowly, I begin to relax.
“I think we should do the beer pong first,” I say. “Unlike the keg stand, it requires a certain degree of skill. I’d rather be fresh for it.”
Stella laughs. “You’re competitive, aren’t you?”
“Incredibly.”
“I guess it’s good for you then that I am a master at beer pong.” She mimics throwing a Ping-Pong ball and says, “I’ve got a light touch.”
We find the beer-pong setup in a room toward the back of the house just off the living room. Stella hesitates at the door, shooting me a look. “Oh, come on,” I say. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Okay. If you’re fine with it, I got you.”
I don’t know why she’s so tentative all of a sudden, but I’m just eager to play the game, finish my list, and get out of here. The two of us call dibs on the next game and wait our turn. I survey the room while the current game wraps up. There’s a bed pushed into a far corner, and a few girls are piled on top of it talking.
The Ping-Pong table is situated in middle of the room, and there’s a group of about seven people hanging around it. A small enough group to manage most of the nervousness I’m feeling about playing. I already knew all the rules (thank you, Internet research). Logically, it seemed like a piece of cake. But since I’ve never played, it was impossible to know the weight of the ball and how much force I’d have to put behind it.