12

First thing I saw when I walked into the All-Night Senior Party was Taylor in the middle of a crowd of her friends, throwing her head back when she laughed and hanging like a cape on Nishesh. And he was exactly the kind of douchebag who would wear a cape too.

No, really, he was a good guy. Never saw him in a cape.

I kind of nodded a hello at Taylor. She waved at me, then used that same hand to twist and play with Nishesh’s curls, and, man, that guy needed a haircut.

There were about seventy-five people there already. I heard two hundred were coming, which must have been why I saw about a dozen adults there. Crowd control. All standing in a group, talking, totally oblivious to the smell of beer smuggled in, and all the flasks that were tipped into our yellow plastic cups. I didn’t know. Maybe they were just the neighbors, since they clearly sucked at being chaperones, which was fine by me as I grabbed a beer.

My parents never volunteered for school stuff. Too busy with work. They never even made it to any of my games. Grandma Ruth came to every one we played at home—arrived at the top of the first inning, left at the bottom of the third, and called me at night to learn the score. Last year we made her our unofficial mascot, The Ruthinator. Sam, who played shortstop, nicknamed her. I’d have told her, but I was afraid she’d think it was sarcasm and would quit coming to the games. I planned to tell her one day, after I got her to loosen herself up.

The senior party was at this guy’s house. Jason Hirsch. I knew him the way I knew just about anyone in our class. From seeing him around. I gave him the big handshake and said, “Jason Hirsch,” like it was a better way to say hi. Dad said, in business, it was important to learn a person’s name and have a firm handshake. Mine was so smooth, he said I should go into politics someday.

“Graduation, man,” Jason said. “We did it.”

“We did it.”

“Hey, we’re going to set up some volleyball nets later. You wanna play?”

“Sure.”

“Cool. We’ll catch up later.”

“Later, Jason.”

That was about the longest I’d ever talked with Jason Hirsch.

He and his parents had a massive place on the third fairway of the golf course at Watermark Country Club. We Henrys used to live in a massive place on the thirteenth fairway. Then we moved to the shoebox when I was nine. By graduation, we were halfway between the shoebox and the golf course and headed in the right direction.

It was all part of our game plan, and failure was not an option.

My dad played golf like it was part of his job. Literally. He said it was great for business contacts and insisted I learn. Naturally, he taught me. I was in eighth grade, with $5,651 worth of braces, the first time we played. Since I’m left-handed, the lesson he gave me began like this: Just do everything I’m doing but backward.

It’s not exactly how lefties learn and probably one reason why I hate the game. That and it’s boring as hell, tied for sheer dullness with doing jigsaw puzzles at Grandma Ruth’s. I had a Golf Smile that said Please, God, get me out of this. It wasn’t one of my subtler looks, but subtlety was lost on my dad. Fortunately, by ninth grade, I was working part-time, taking honors classes, was class vice pres, made the swim team in fall, baseball in the spring, so I didn’t have much time for golf. Or anything else, really.

It’s been that way ever since.

“You suck, Henry!” Kennedy shouted at me, and we slapped hands over our heads and shouted, “Yeah!” He was catcher on the baseball team. All muscle, no tact. His voice and huge gestures always cleared a space. Sam was the opposite. Everything about him was long. Long arms, long legs, long hair Taylor always said she liked.

“Although competent in most other areas in life,” Sam said, walking in behind Kennedy like he was some famous actor making his red-carpet entrance, “I would have to agree with our fine friend here that you do, in fact, suck.”

“Hey,” I said, with a slow shrug. “Life is what you make of it.”

Sam and Kennedy had been saying You suck since I got the job with Mrs. B. I tried to downplay it when I first told them. For about ten seconds. I said she was old, couldn’t get around, needed an errand boy. Still, her house was on “the beach, baby! The beach!”

You suck. We laughed.

A couple times over the next hour or so I made eye contact with Taylor, who finally let go of Nishesh. Third time I looked at her she walked over to me like I was the only guy there.

She had on skinny jeans and a gray hoodie over a tight, white T-shirt, and in the sea of skinny jeans and hoodies, she stood out. Those soft curves and intense eyes. As she walked, she pulled her hair out of a ponytail, and it fell to the point of her V-neck tee.

“Where’s Nishesh?” I asked.

“You don’t care.”

“Yeah, I really don’t.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“Why aren’t you with him? And what’s with the selfie?”

“Didn’t you like it?” She couldn’t keep a straight face asking.

“Yeah, I liked it. Why’d you send it?”

She shrugged. That was her answer.

We were outside then. The party spilled from the Hirsches’ huge walk-out basement into their yard, which looked like it had been designed for a magazine shoot. Perfectly cut grass, mulched beds with some kind of sculpted shrubs Grandma Ruth could have identified, and four big flowering crabapple trees. I only knew they were crabapples because we had them at our house on the thirteenth fairway too. Bunch of houses in Watermark did. I had zero interest in botany. ’Course, that was before I owned a Ficus.

“Come talk with me,” Taylor said, grabbing my wrist and walking with me to the edge of the yard where it butted up against the golf course’s cart path. It was quieter there. A little more private too, courtesy of one crabapple tree with dark red blooms all over it.

“Don’t you love that smell?” she asked, taking a big whiff.

“I guess,” I said. All flowers smelled the same to me. I leaned toward the party and copied Taylor’s big sniff. “That’s the smell I love.”

“What?”

“Burgers,” I said, and she kind of slapped my arm.

There were two grills going. Kennedy was on his fourth burger. I’d had three and was still hungry.

“How’s your stomach?” she asked.

“Good now. A little sore earlier.”

“I’ve got antacids in the car if you need any.”

“You still carry them?” I asked, trying hard not to grin too much.

“I do when I know I’m going to see you,” she said. “Only because you won’t.”

“You’re sweet.”

“Sometimes. So when do you go down to South Haven?” she asked.

“In a week,” I said.

“Emily and I are going to come down some weekend. Hannah and Ashley too. It’ll be fun,” she said. A few months earlier, Taylor discovered that she and her three best friends all had Top 10 Most Popular Baby Names from the year we were born and considered it a sign. Also predictive of all future friendships.

“What about Nishesh?” I asked her.

“He can come,” she said, and shrugged again. “If he has time.”

“Time? Isn’t that why you broke up with me?” I asked—half seriously—just as Sam walked over to say, “Pizza’s here. Grab it while it’s hot.”

“I’m going to go find Nishesh,” Taylor said, and walked back toward the house, slowly, so I could watch her. She called over her shoulder, “It was really nice talking with you, Briggs. Maybe I’ll see you in South Haven. If you have time.”

She turned and walked back to Nishesh.

“What was that?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know, but I think she’s trying to kill me.”

He slapped his hand onto my shoulder and said, “What a way to go.”