And that was just the beginning.
As soon as I’d turned double-digits, my parents warned me of the hazards that could happen with a loss of inhibitions. Whenever some poor, pathetic girl got something slipped into her drink at a drunken keg party and wound up as News at Eleven, I got an hour-long lecture about personal vigilance and looking out for my friends. Even my thirteenth birthday: while most of the other girls got gift certificates for piercings and highlights, my present included a can of pepper spray and a six-month voucher to work with a personal trainer.
But my parents didn’t get it. I would never become a cliché. I wasn’t anything like those “poor, pathetic girls.”
Or so I believed.
But I believed a lot of things back then that have since proven untrue. One of my biggest lessons: There’s no such thing as a “poor, pathetic girl.”
Unless, of course, you’re talking about me.
It started with a party.
The Theta Epsilon sisters were hosting a sorority mixer on the Friday before spring vacation, and my friend Jessie’s older sister, the acting sorority president, had given Jessie and me the green light to go.
“Consider this an early graduation gift for the both of us,” Jessie said.
Except I still had another year of high school. I’d stayed back in middle school, after the world as I’d known it had gone up in flames. My guidance counselor said that giving myself extra time would translate into less stress and more healing. But repeating my eighth-grade year, not advancing with my friends … It just made everything worse.
Jessie flashed me her phone screen; her sister’s big, fat YES was typed across it. “You can thank me later.”
I thanked her then, on the spot, because I really wanted to go. The high school that Jessie and I attended didn’t exactly have the vibrant social scene that you read about in books or see on TV. To out-of-towners, the Tremont Academy name conjured up images of plaid school uniforms and ivy-covered buildings. But to everyone else, we were Emo students—and for good reason. TrEMOnt prided itself on catering to those with “social and emotional challenges.” Long story short: There wasn’t much socializing that went on outside our therapeutically structured school day, so the green light to this college party …
It was a really big deal.
I dressed accordingly, in a sleeveless top, a pair of dark-washed jeans, and the wedges I’d been coveting at Dress Me Up; they’d finally gone on sale.
“You look amazing,” Jessie said as we headed up the walkway to the sorority house. “What I wouldn’t give to have your killer golden highlights and sun-kissed skin.”
“You look great too,” I told her. “I love that dress.” A short black number, paired with strappy heels.
“Fingers crossed my sister lets us crash here tonight.”
“Wait, what do you mean?”
“I mean, wouldn’t it be fun to spend a night or three, get a preview of what college life will be like?”
Jessie didn’t even give me a chance to respond. Instead, she stepped up to the door, paid the five-dollar cover charge, and led me inside. The Theta Epsilon house looked practically like a mansion with its marble-tiled floors; fancy columns and pillars; and high, vaulted ceilings. Still, despite the size, the place was packed that night.
Jessie and I maneuvered among clusters of people until we got to a makeshift bar: two bookcases pushed together. One of the Epsilon sisters stood behind it, guarding the punch bowl. She ladled us cups full of sparkling purple punch, and Jessie and I made a toast.
“To never looking back.” Jessie tapped her cup against mine.
I took a sip. It tasted a little like freedom—like something I wanted to guzzle from a jug, which prompted me to ask the question: “Do you really think your sister will let us crash here tonight?”
At the same moment, Jessie’s phone went off. She checked the screen. “Speak of the devil. That’s her. She needs my help upstairs. Are you good for a sec? Or do you want to come?”
“I’m good.”
“Okay. I’ll be right back.”
After she went off, I sent my aunt a text: I may stay over at Jessie’s sister’s tonight. Then I pocketed my phone and waited like a wallflower, taking more of the party in: the dart game in the corner, the drunk girls playing hopscotch (using a lipstick to draw the squares), and a group of boys watching soccer on a big-screen TV. Rule number one on my parents’ list of survival tips: Be aware of your surroundings. Make a mental checklist of all you see.
But nothing appeared off. So why couldn’t I relax? My neck itched. My feet were already aching.
I moved to the staircase and gazed up the steps. The smell of something sweet hung heavy in the air, reminding me of candy canes. I took out my phone and sent Jessie a text: Where are you?
Meanwhile, music pounded—so loud and hard, I could feel it in my ribs; it bounced off the bones of my skull. The lead singer sounded like he was gagging on a chicken bone.
“Looking for someone?” a male voice asked from behind.
I whirled around, startled by how good looking the guy was: tall, with rumpled dark hair; deep blue eyes, framed by artsy black glasses; and just the right amount of facial scruff. I forced myself from gawking by glancing away toward the hopscotch-playing girls. “I’m looking for a friend,” I told him, shouting over the music. “She went upstairs.”
“Do you need some help finding her?”
My phone vibrated with a text—from Jessie: Im upstairs helping Sarah and her friend with a party game. Be down soon. Or come join. Third door on the right … Or left? Lol!
“All okay?” the guy asked.
“It’s fine. I mean, she is, rather.”
“You sure?” He squinted as though examining me under a scope. “Because I’m pretty much an expert in finding people.”
“Oh yeah?” I
