Chapter 1: Beau 1 Beau How do you give a girl her panties back? Probably not at the party where she''s going to be with her boyfriend. But I''m going to do it anyway. "Will you get out already?" Celine says. "Daniel is waiting for me." "For a supposedly doting big sister, you''re not very supportive." "Shut up, Beau. You should be happy I brought you at all. You could have driven yourself if you hadn''t fucked up.
Stealing the car like a delinquent." "Taking without permission is not always the same as stealing. And I was going to see a girl. Not like I was joyriding or baseball-batting mailboxes. Plus, you''re overlooking the critical fact that I brought it back ." "Like you''re going to do with that girl''s underwear?" "Excuse me," I say. "They were given to me. I didn''t take them.
That would be a weird, perverted crime." Celine makes a face that communicates not judgment but a universal skepticism about all my choices. She''s never approved of any girlfriend I''ve ever had--but maybe that''s because none of the girls who have been in the back seat of this very car have ever been actual girlfriends. "When I want to give someone something, I give them, like, candy," she adds. "Yeah, well, it''s complicated." "So is everything." "Yeah," I sigh. "So is everything.
" The underwear is folded neatly in my pocket. I didn''t want them to be all wrinkled when I gave them back. I gaze at the house, every window already filled with people from school. What the hell am I doing here? "I''m not going to ask why she gave them to you," Celine says. "But why are you giving them back?" "Because I think it''s over. She got back together with her boyfriend." I pause. "Again.
" "Pardon me, her what ? Is she bi?" "No. I mean, maybe. I don''t know. I don''t think she does either." A moment of silence sits between us. I don''t know what Celine is thinking, but I''m thinking two things: (1) I never should''ve thought Maia would stay broken up with Tatum, and (2) I never should''ve told Celine anything about this to begin with. Too often I think I''m talking to my big sister, and then it''s like she does an internal calculation of how many daylight hours our mom has been home this week (like, seven) and decides to fill in. When Celine finally speaks, though, she decides to stay in big-sister territory (for now).
"So she gave you her panties while she was on a break with her boyfriend?" "Something like that," I say, deciding not to share the part where a good percentage of the times we made out were while she was still with Tate. "But she''s not bi? What''s she doing giving you her panties then?" One thing I''ve noticed about myself is that if I have too many feelings at once, they start to feel like missiles. I feel the defense shield creeping up. "What so-called straight girls always do when they''re feeling experimental," I say. "Anyway, it doesn''t matter. I''m over it." "That''s what you always say when you''re not." "Shut up.
" "You said you were over it about drumming, too. Now look. You''re in my band. And you write ninety percent of our song lyrics." " Our band. And I have writer''s block." "Surely not for lack of a muse?" "Oh, shut up ." "Is this girl''s boyfriend going to be here too?" Celine asks, ignoring me.
"Yup." "Jesus. Godspeed, little sis." She leans forward, peering toward Andi''s behemoth house, as if she can already see the mess of my life splattered all over the sidewalk in front of the classy bay windows. That''s my cue to get out of the car, so I do, but even after Celine has driven off, I stand there by the street for a minute, watching people stream into the house, which is already vibrating with music. Everyone shows up to these things with a plan. Dance with that guy; get that girl''s attention; convince everyone there you''re not the loser they thought you were for the past four years. I have a plan too, though Celine''s comments are making me doubt it even more than I already was.
I remind myself of the speech I rehearsed: This has been fun, but I think it''s run its course. You say I''m not just a hookup, but I only ever see you at the bowling alley. We never talk in public. You break up with Tate and say you''re done and then turn around and get back together. Remember the last time you came to my job? We made out in the back room, and when you left, you put your underwear in my pocket and told me to keep them for you. That was months ago. This is going nowhere, so what am I keeping them for? The speech is too long, now that I think about it. Declarations are supposed to be short and punchy.
I could just say, Here''s your panties back, we''re done . But that implies I actually thought there was a "we" to begin with, and there''s no way I''m giving her that satisfaction, let alone admitting it to myself. Ugh. This is ridiculous. I''ve hooked up with a dozen so-called straight girls and never planned a speech for any of them. Not catching feelings was an easy rule--until now. I''m not in love or anything like that, but something about the way she smiles after she sucks on my bottom lip has been haunting me. And her ghost has a switchblade that flicks out and stabs me whenever I see her with Tatum Westbrook.
Speaking of the crew-cut devil, the door to Andi''s garage opens and there he stands, wearing one of those tank tops with the sides cut out so there''s just a thin piece of material between his pecs. Slut-o-rama. And there''s Gary "I Can Drink a Beer Before a Game and Still Win" Bevin backing his car into the garage, Tate directing him, shouting, "LEFT. No, cut LEFT." The trunk, I assume, is full of supplemental booze. The party has been going on for a while, so supplies must be running low. But what''s important here is that this means Tate will be occupied for at least the next ten minutes. I''m doing this.
Now. I walk purposefully up the golf-course-sized lawn to the house, plotting this out. I''ll get her alone, give her my too-long speech before I take her underwear out of my pocket and. then what? I haven''t planned my exit, because it depends on what she says back. I can hear my sister''s voice: What do you want her to say? I hate that kind of question, and it''s the kind Celine loves asking. But what I want the girl to say doesn''t matter--there''s only what she will or won''t say. There''s only what she will or won''t do . And if the past five months are any indication, she''ll do the same thing at this party that she does in the back room of the bowling alley when I''m on my break: run her tongue along my teeth and avoid answering questions directly.
She''s good at that. She knows she can get away with it. That I''ll let her. Because what are you supposed to say when the smell of her is all over your clothes, taking up so much space in your brain there''s no room for rational thought? She floats in my nose for hours after I''ve been close to her. Brown sugar and a smoky smell, like she''s always on the edge of burning. But that''s not going to happen tonight. I''m focused. And also fed the fuck up.
Luckily (kind of) for me: another smell hits me when I step in through the front door of the party. The stinging scent of alcohol and. people. That''s the thing about parties--there are so many people. I haven''t been to one since Kay left in December--RIP. (She''s not dead--just moved to Toledo. Which she says is the same thing.) She enjoyed shit like this.
Everyone in outfits chosen with usually one person in mind. Music like the first few notes of an earthquake. The music, at least, I don''t usually mind. The louder the better. It''s just never loud enough to drown out the sound of. well, people. And the thing about parties at Andi''s house is that there are a certain kind of people. The kind who have the power that comes from popularity and get a little George R.
R. Martin-y from where they sit on their thrones. I muscle past two guys on the football team who are trying to out-bro each other: half fighting, half joking in the entranceway. One starts to tell me off but then sees it''s me and just nudges the other guy, grinning. Their bro-off is postponed for the sake of a little casual homophobia. "Hey, Kitty, looking for fish?" I know humans'' brains don''t finish developing until we''re twenty-five or whatever, but I don''t have much hope for these guys. "Were you addressing me?" I ask. "Because my name is Beau.
" "Are. You. Looking. For. Fish?" he enunciates. "Ohh." I stop now, turning back to face them fully. "Are you talking about.
pussy? Is this a joke about vaginas? Sorry, I didn''t get it, because I actually know what they smell like. Unlike you." He''s already drunk, and I can tell he doesn''t take in much of what I say, but he gets that it''s an insult, so he reddens in the face and neck and fires off some sloppy-mouthed slurs before his friend tells me I''m a bitch, etc., etc. Finally they drag their knuckles toward the kitchen to bond over more beer. Healthy masculinity on display. Jesus, why isn''t the music louder? And why isn''t the music better ? When Andi and Maia were still actual friends, she would let Maia have the aux, but this current selection has Andi writt.