Bring your hammers, your crowbars, your spray paint, and your cameras, because after tonight your pictures and your memories will be all that’s left.
Friday, June 27th, from dusk til dust
Six
We can hear the party long before we see it. The boom boom boom of the music, the hum of hundreds of human voices blended together, it sounds like all parties do from far away, except for the occasional loud, crashing noise, followed by even louder cheers.
We’re near the top of a giant hill, Amanda and I. It’s lined on either side by a thick forest, trees curling over the road, threatening to topple over on the dozens of parked cars. This part of town is only ten miles from Amanda’s house, but it feels like an entirely different world out here. The houses are huge and far apart, and they all look ancient, but perfectly preserved like this place exists outside of regular time. Behind us it’s pitch-black, in front of us tiny points of light blink on and off like fireflies, only they’re cell phone screens and the cherries of lit cigarettes.
“Are you sure that this is a good idea?” Amanda asks.
“There’ll be lots of guys at the party I bet!” I say. I sound so pathetically earnest. I feel a stab of self-pity just hearing myself. And then I swallow that pity back down my throat, because stabs of self-pity are stupid. And incredibly unproductive.
“Just please, please, please, please,” she says. “Please don’t get your hopes up, okay?”
I look away. And then I look back and I give her this small half smile and she shakes her head slightly because we both know it’s already far too late.
To our left, two girls get out of a dented green car. One of them has short white hair, and is taking sips from a Poland Spring bottle filled with purple liquid. She’s wearing silver lamé boy shorts and a silver bikini top. Swirling silver dragon wings rise up out of her back and point toward the sky.
The other girl is leaning over, looking for something in the backseat, her face obscured by the mass of black hair that’s piled on top of her head. She’s wearing what looks like a black rubber tank top that stops right below her butt, a pair of fishnets, and giant black boots.
“Come on, Freshie,” says the white-haired one. Her voice is clear and sweet. It’s easy to imagine what she would sound like singing. “My psychic powers are telling me your boyfriend is this close”—she holds her thumb and first finger up, pressed together even though Freshie can’t see her—“to hooking up with some other girl. If you don’t hurry up, you’re going to find someone else attached to the end of his tongue when we get there.”
“Well, use your psychic powers to tell him he can attach his tongue to whatever he wants!” Freshie laughs. “His tongue is his business. And my business is…THIS!” She stands up, a sledgehammer clutched in her right hand, its gnarled wooden handle is as thick as her skinny arm. “Smashing time, baby. Let’s go!”
“Wait!” The white-haired one reaches down and fishes a tiny digital camera out of her boot. “Excuse me!” She’s looking right at me. “Would you mind taking a picture of me and Freshie?” Her head is tipped to the side. Her bright green eyes are lined in black and silver. She’s holding out her camera.
“Sure,” I say. I take it. I can feel myself blushing in the dark, embarrassed to be caught staring. But they don’t seem to mind.
Freshie comes over and they put their arms around each other.
“Smile,” I say. Their smiles are dazzling. They’re exactly the type of people Nina would have been friends with. The flash goes off. At the last second, Freshie opens her mouth wide and licks her friend’s cheek. Her friend bursts out laughing.
I hand the white-haired girl back her camera.
My heart is pounding.
“Hey,” I say. “Can I ask you guys something?”
I take the photograph out of my pocket, the one I always carry with me. It’s this snapshot of Nina that I found in her room shortly after she disappeared. It might be my favorite picture of her. I don’t know who took the photo, but the way she’s looking at the camera, her green eyes twinkling, her enormous sunny smile taking over half her face, it’s as though she’s sharing ajoke with whoever’s behind it. Sometimes when I look at the picture, I pretend that person is me.
I hold the picture out to Freshie and her friend.
“Have you seen this girl here before? Maybe at another party or something?” Freshie looks at me, and takes the picture from my hand. She leans down so she can see it by the car’s interior light. Her friend leans over her shoulder. They look at it for about five seconds, during which time I do not breathe. Then they stand back up.
“Sorry,” Freshie says, shaking her head. “Never seen her.”
Her friend shrugs. “Yeah, sorry,” and then, “but I like her hair!” As though that’s a consolation.
“Well thanks for looking,” I say. I feel Amanda reach out and squeeze my arm.