“Totally,” Hannah said, but her stomach twisted with nerves. How could her party be wild when Hannah had the strictest, most vigilant mother in the Bay Area? Her mom had set out the birthday-party decree: no booze, drugs, boys, unsupervised Internet, or R-rated movies. Were PG videos and pizza going to cut it for Lauren and Ronni? Would they giggle and gossip about Hannah’s dull, juvenile party? She could almost hear them. “It was like she was turning twelve. Pizza and a Hunger Games movie? Seriously . . . ?”
“We got you a present,” Lauren said in a teasing voice.
Ronni added, “For you and for Noah.”
It had to have something to do with sex . . . A box of condoms? Some kind of sex toy? Flavored lube? Oh God. “What is it?” Hannah asked gamely, but her voice came out strained and tight.
“We’ll give it to you tomorrow,” Lauren said. “What did Noah get you?”
Hannah’s cheeks burned. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him yet. And I told him I didn’t want anything.”
“Can we help you?” Ronni suddenly snapped. It took Hannah a moment to realize the pointed question was directed at Raymond Sun, Hannah’s locker neighbor.
Nerdy Raymond stood in the hall, separated from locker seventy-one by Hannah’s companions. “I just . . . wanted to get my math book.” He sounded nervous, intimidated.
“We’ll be done in a sec,” Lauren said dismissively. She turned back to Hannah. “What are we drinking tomorrow night?”
Hannah felt a bubble of panic. “I was thinking vodka, maybe? Or do you guys like rum?”
“Vodka has no calories,” Ronni said.
“Ummm . . .” Raymond took a tentative step forward. “The bell’s about to ring. I have math.”
“Chill, loser,” Lauren snarled.
“You’ll get your fucking books when we finish our conversation,” Ronni spat.
Lauren leaned her back against Raymond’s locker and addressed the girls. “I don’t care what we drink or what we take . . .”
“As long as we get fucked-up,” Ronni finished.
“Absolutely.” Hannah had grinned her agreement while, out of the corner of her eye, she watched Raymond Sun shake his head and storm off.
Even now, as she tilted her head back to rinse the conditioner from her shoulder-length hair, she felt queasy at the recollection. Was it pity? Or guilt? It’s not like that mathlete Raymond was her BFF or anything, but they had been hallway neighbors all year. They didn’t talk much, but Raymond was always polite, always picked up her lunch bag when she dropped it, once even chasing her pen when it fell and skittered away down the hall. . . . Hannah did not feel a similar sympathy for Sarah Foster, who had also been subjected to the popular girls’ derision. Obviously, Sarah had it coming; she had been stupid enough to cross Lauren and Ronni, so she deserved what she got. But Raymond was harmless, an innocent, his only offense possessing the locker adjacent to Hannah’s. It was like a pack of wolves attacking a Chihuahua.
But Hannah didn’t have time to worry about Raymond Sun’s hurt feelings. She shook it off and focused on her mission. She knew what she had to do—Lauren and Ronni’s decree was absolute—she just wasn’t sure how she would do it. She turned off the shower.
Her hair still slightly damp, Hannah jogged down the open staircase into the silence of the house. “Hello?” Her voice reverberated off the stark walls, the stretch of glass windows, the smooth, polished floors. . . . She moved toward the modern, spacious kitchen. Empty. That’s when her younger brother loped into the room, a skateboard under his arm and earbuds stuffed into his ears. “Where are Mom and Dad?” she asked.
“I think Mom went shopping. Dad’s running. Or swimming.” He reached into the fridge, grabbed a carton of orange juice, and put it to his lips.
“You’re a pig.”
Aidan gave her a self-satisfied smirk and put the juice back in the fridge. “Tell Mom I went to the skate park.” He moved toward the door. Hannah trailed after him.
“You’re not going to be here tonight, right?” She did not want Lauren Ross to be exposed to her thirteen-year-old brother. He was childish and annoying and he smelled like a pungent combination of BO, mushrooms, and farts.
“I’m sleeping over at Marcus’s.”
“Thank God.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you, too.” The siblings reveled in foul language when their mother wasn’t within earshot. It was a benign rebellion, but a rebellion nonetheless.
Aidan knelt to tie his skate shoes and Hannah watched him. Could her kid brother help with her predicament? Was she desperate enough to ask him? She took a small breath. . . . “Do people sell weed at the skate park?”
The boy stood, removed his earbuds. “You want me to get you some weed?”
She did, desperately, but she wasn’t sure Aidan could be trusted. She took in his shaggy hair, his droopy pants, his poor hygiene . . . all the trappings of badassery, but it was just surface stuff. When she looked into his eyes, she could see his innocence and naiveté. She could see he was still firmly trapped under Mommy’s heavy thumb. No way was Aidan cool enough to buy dope from a dealer. And worse, he’d probably rat her out to their parents for even asking.
“Of course not. I was just wondering if you were, like, a stoner now.”
“Yeah,” he scoffed. “Huge stoner.” He reached for the door handle.
“Aren’t you even going to wish me a happy birthday?”
“I was going to.”
“No, you weren’t. You were leaving.”
“I’m still here, aren’t I?” He turned the handle and muttered as he exited, “Happy birthday, bitch.”
“Go to hell!” she screeched, but the door closed on her words.
She was heading back to the kitchen to make a smoothie when the phone rang. Hannah moved to the dock near the double fridge and picked up the handset. Her mom’s number showed in the display bar.
“Happy birthday, sweet sixteen . . .” Her mom’s corny term and singsong voice chafed. Of course, Hannah’s irritation was probably due to stress and the fact that she hadn’t eaten anything yet, but the cliché didn’t help.
“Where are you?”
“I’m getting birthday supplies: chips, soda, a birthday cake . . . And a little something special for you, but you can’t open it until Daddy gets home.”
Chips. Soda. Daddy. The words solidified the fear in the pit of Hannah’s stomach. Her birthday party could not destroy her new social standing, could not turn her into a pariah or a laughing stock. She was turning sixteen, for God’s sake, and she would not let her parents’ denial of this fact ruin her.
“When will you be back?”
“A half hour or so. I’ll make you some brunch. Pancakes with chocolate chips?”