“I didn’t think I’d see you here.” He sounds surprised.
I’m starting to get kind of offended. Sure, I don’t come to parties often, but it’s not like I’m a social pariah.
“Hannah and I decided to mix things up,” I say, keeping my tone deliberately light. “You can only watch Singin’ in the Rain so many times.”
“That is so not true,” Hannah mumbles.
Grant laughs. “I remember you used to make me watch that movie over and over. I think I still know it by heart.”
I laugh with him, remembering the blanket forts we would make in his living room that left only a tiny window to see the TV. Grant and I used to spend every minute together, just playing and laughing, and a part of me wishes we could go back to that time, before everything became so complicated.
“Do you want another drink?” Grant asks.
I shake my head. “I’ve had my fill of cheap beer for the night.” To make my point I tip my cup over, and the last of the pale liquid splashes to the ground.
Hannah clutches my arm dramatically. “Not the precious beer. We can’t possibly lose the beer!”
Grant laughs and plays at being offended. “You don’t have to waste it.”
Hannah straightens. “I dare you to tell me it accomplishes anything other than drunken hookups and hangovers.”
“I don’t know, what about a little liquid courage?” He holds my gaze before tipping his cup back and taking a sip. I look at Hannah helplessly. She shrugs, trying to contain a smile.
It’s not that Grant isn’t cute. He might have been painfully dorky when we were younger, with his love of Battlestar Galactica and anime, but lately he’s cornered the whole sensitive guy thing. He wears Chucks and skinny jeans and he’s the editor of our school’s literary magazine. He’s tall, so tall that I have to tip my head back to look at his face, and all long and lanky. The goth girls worship him.
“Well, I need a refill.” He shakes his empty cup in my direction. “Let me get you one.” He gives me an intense look, tilting his head to one side and staring at me through a fall of shaggy black hair.
“No, thanks.”
Hannah is quiet as he starts to move away from us. The music has shifted from pounding rap to some shrill popstar. The breeze picks up and I smell the sharp salt of the ocean, the beach only a few miles from here. It’s a familiar smell for those of us who grew up in Montauk, a town so far out on the tip of Long Island it feels as though we’re more connected to the water than the land.
“Is he why you wanted to come tonight?” The way Hannah asks it sounds like an accusation.
My mouth falls open. “Of course not! You know I don’t like Grant like that.”
“You keep saying that, but you don’t seem to be doing anything to discourage him.”
“I don’t want to hurt him.” I turn away, staring at where the fire burns in the middle of the clearing. A drunk guy is pretending to throw a freshman girl into the flames. The girl’s shrieks echo through the night, so that it sounds like the screaming is coming from the woods behind us.
“But you’ll have to, eventually,” Hannah says. “He’ll gather up his courage and then you’ll break his little heart. He’ll have to listen to so much Death Cab to get over the pain.” She pats my shoulder, as though she’s pretending to comfort Grant. “Even if you did like him, you two would never work. You have nothing in common.”
I sigh. “I’m not going to date Grant. But it’s not like we have nothing in common. We both like to write.”
“He writes poetry that makes no sense and you want to be a serious journalist. Not the same thing.” She suddenly straightens and snaps her fingers, pointing at me. “Though you are both hipsters.”
I cross my arms and frown. “I am not a hipster!”
“Lydia, you’ve got bangs that hang in your eyes and you wear funky vintage dresses. I hate to break it to you, but that’s pretty hipster for the Hamptons.”
I look around the woods, at the girls in tight jeans and tank tops, in brightly colored jersey dresses. I do stand out in my red polka-dot dress, with its wide collar and pleated skirt. But I don’t care; I buy almost all of my clothes at thrift stores and vintage shops.
Hannah puts her hands on her hips. “You’re an Aries, Lydia. You’re fiery and independent. He’s a Cancer. A water sign. Sensitive. Meek. You’d squash his spirit.”
I laugh. “Seriously?”
“Say what you want, but we both know there’s truth to the signs.”
I roll my eyes. Hannah, though cynical and sarcastic ninety percent of the time, claims that astrology is her bible. I blame it on her mother, who insists that Hannah call her Jet, owns a used record shop in South Hampton, and does tarot card readings on the side. Hannah’s father is a Japanese artist who lives in Hawaii, where he’s working on becoming a world-class surfer. Hannah says her parents are children she’s sick of raising, and so she spends almost all her time at my house.
But even I can’t get her to shake the astrology.
Hannah waves her hand toward the keg, where Grant is talking to one of his friends. “So if it wasn’t for a boy, then why did you make me come to this stereotypical drunken grope-fest?”
I bite my lower lip, avoiding Hannah’s gaze. “I just wanted to.”
She leans forward and her hair spills over her shoulder. It’s so dark, it’s almost blue-black. “Out with it, Miss
