Page 28 of Exchanged

“And Kelly only wants you there so you can introduce her to Georgia,” Katrina adds.

“So?”

Her eyes narrow. “All the people you actually care about will be at Ryan’s place. Why are you really going to Dana’s?”

Because I want to do some reconnaissance on Garrett, and I need to prove to him that I belong in my own town as much as he does.

“It could be fun,” I say. “You should come.”

“And let Ryan become Mario Kart champion?” Trevor says. “No way.”

“My mom would kill me if I went to a party where people are drinking,” Katrina says. “Sorry, Enz.”

Great. I’m about to attend my first-ever real party with a flighty flute player who will likely ditch me after twenty minutes.

Kelly ditches me after two minutes.

She parks outside a large home tucked in the woods on the edge of town, and we walk around the side of the house to the backyard. The weather has grown colder since the game, so I slip my hands into the pockets of my denim jacket. The smells of woodsmoke and the first falling autumn leaves hit me like the opening notes of a symphony. Fall is a symphony, full of change and color, so many moving parts coming together to create the perfect season. It’s a Philip Glass soundtrack, mysterious and tantalizing. It’s the dark, pulsing, eighties-style theme song from Stranger Things. It’s the fear and exhilaration of the music behind The Exorcist, Psycho, and It.

Because this is what I think about right before partying. Fall colors and film soundtracks.

When we reach the backyard, the party is … less than I thought it would be. I’m not sure what I was expecting. Keg stands and drinking games? Jell-O shots from cheerleaders’ belly buttons? Couples hooking up to the thudding beats of hip-hop blaring from ten-foot-high speakers?

Mean Girls lied to me, because Dana Hendricks’s backyard looks more like a neighborhood cookout than a hormone-fueled rager. A bonfire illuminates the center of the yard. Several strands of twinkle lights are strung between the trees, giving the whole place a warm, dreamlike glow. Around the fire stand twenty or so people, clustered in groups, holding drinks, talking, joking, swearing.

No Jell-O shots, no kegs, no blaring music.

“I’m just going to say hi to a few friends,” Kelly tells me, “and then you should totally introduce me to Garrett.” She runs off, leaving me alone at the edge of the yard. So I’m not here with Kelly. I’m here on my own.

I’m struck with the horrifying realization that I have no one to talk to.

Trevor was right. There’s no one for me to hang out with at this party, which is very different from not knowing anyone at this party. I know everyone. They’re mostly football players and their girlfriends, and we’ve all known each other since elementary school, long enough for them to understand that I’m supposed to be at the band party in Ryan’s basement, not here.

I’m not doing this. I will not be the awkward person who wasn’t invited to the party and then spends the whole night hovering on the edge of friend groups. I’ll walk to Ryan’s place. It’s not that far. We’ll drink pop, and I’ll lose at Mario Kart to the trombone players and tell everyone about how lame Dana’s party was. This will be a ridiculous memory in half an hour.

But as I’m turning to leave, I realize that several people have noticed me standing at the edge of the yard. Someone points. Well, shit. The only thing worse than being weird at this party is being the Peeping Tom who lurks on the edge of it before slinking away into the night.

Before I can think, my feet begin carrying me toward the bonfire. I fix my gaze in the middle distance, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. There’s a cooler on the way. I bend down, open it up. I pull out a can of something. I feel my hand grab the pull tab and crack it open. My legs bring me to the circle of seven or so people who had noticed me.

My brain begins to register forms and faces. Garrett. Dana Hendricks—she was the one who pointed. Evan Hegge. Tyler Jorgen. A few of Tyler’s friends.

My damn body brought me to the nexus of the party. It could have brought me to a slightly less popular group of popular people, maybe the one with Kelly. But no. I’m standing here. And they’re looking at me. I take a drink from my can to do something that might make me appear as if I belong here. It tastes like asparagus urine, and I have to force it not to come out of my nose.

“Hey, guys,” I say.

“That’s my beer,” Evan Hegge tells me, pointing at the can in my hand. “You gonna fuckin’ pay me for that?”

And I’ve already committed a party foul.

“Why is he here?” Dana asks. Her voice reminds me of a cat, scratchy and cruelly indifferent, and I’m the stray mouse that has wandered into her territory. She’s nestled into Garrett’s side, his arm around her waist, her hand in the back pocket of his pants. They’re not just hooking up—they’re a full-on couple.

The clues I had thought so conclusively pointed to his gayness—the Nassib jersey, the hate crime comment—suddenly feel like ridiculous conjectures against the in-your-face visual of him and Dana holding each other. Garrett wears a letterman jacket, the light from the fire hiding the red in his hair and turning it chestnut. He looks at me strangely for a second, like he’s unable to understand why I’ve appeared in the circle with him and his girlfriend, then tries to smooth things over.

“We were just about to play Never Have I Ever,” he says. “Right, y’all?”

Evan Hegge eyes me for a beat longer, then turns to Garrett and chuckles. “Y’all. Do people from the South really say that?”

“I guess I just did,” Garrett says. His tone is friendly, but the hand that isn’t gripping Dana’s waist tightens around his beer.