He’s like, “Sure, sure, Mass. Just wait till we finish.” And he holds up a joint, takes a drag, and then starts laughing for no good reason.
I grab the joint out of his hand and take a drag, because maybe this is the secret of life right here. Maybe this will give me answers. Instead, I end up coughing like an old man for a good five minutes. Someone hands me a drink to wash it down, and then the pool tilts and the ground tilts and suddenly the sky is where the ground should be, and a boy with a Mohawk is leaning over me going, “Are you okay, man?”
I close my eyes because no, I’m not. I want to keep them closed and go to sleep here in the sky where the ground should be, but the world tilts worse with them closed. I open them again, and somehow I get on my feet. My only hope is that maybe Bailey Bishop is here, because she won’t be drinking. But she doesn’t always come to parties, and besides I’ll never find her in this crowd of blond girls. I go back inside, and it seems like the house is even more packed with people, like the student bodies of three more high schools arrived while I was out by the pool.
I don’t know anyone.
I shove my way through the kitchen, the dining room, the living room. People are hollering at me, and one girl makes a grab for me, holding on to my arm like it’s a life raft. She smells like Caroline, but she isn’t Caroline—she’s skinny and white and has curly hair the color of margarine. She goes, “Oh my God, Jack Masselin!” And plants a kiss right on my mouth.
She tastes like cigarettes, and I push her away. “Masshole.” She turns and dances with the people standing next to her.
I’m breaking every rule I’ve ever created for this exact kind of situation—I don’t smile or nod or say “Hey, what’s up.” I don’t flirt with every girl. I make eye contact, as if suddenly I’ll be able to recognize who everyone is. (I don’t.) I stare at one guy so long, he goes, “What the fuck are you looking at?” But I don’t care. I’m amped as all hell because it feels like I’m doing something dangerous, like any second they might figure me out.
The room I’m in now has tripled in size and the walls are miles away. It is just people from here to the moon, and I will never make it through all of them. I feel like a rock star, complete strangers yanking at my shirt, at my arms, at me. I push through harder because the door must be there somewhere, and what I need right now is air. My lungs are filling with the fumes of smoke and booze and my ears are filling with the boom boom boom of the music and my brain is filling with all this information that I can’t process.
I could drive myself home. Except that I’m wasted and I can’t won’t shouldn’t will not drive.
I say to someone, “Where’s the door?”
“What?” He’s shouting.
“Where’s the door?” I’m shouting too.
“Through there, man.” He nods his head.
As I’m turning, a girl stumbles into me, and I nearly lose my balance. She clutches my arm, and she’s laughing and laughing. “Sorry!” She grabs hold of my hand and starts spinning to the music. I let her go.
The air in here is so tight and close that the oxygen may be disappearing. There’s not enough air left, and I picture us all laid out like cult followers after a mass suicide. I need to get to a window or a door, but I’m being swallowed by this room and these people and this music. How are they not panicking? Everyone seems happy, like they’re having the time of their lives. How are they not worried about the lack of air in here?
I don’t remember Kam’s house being this big or complicated, but it feels massive. I say to the guy next to me, “Hey, how do you get out of here?”
“What?”
“Where’s the door?”
“I just fucking told you where the door is.”
It’s like the worst déjà vu, and what if I’m trapped in here forever, trying to find a way out, destined to relive the same conversations and the same interactions over and over again?
In that moment, I want to give up and let the crowd carry me away until we’re all moving as one colossal body with hundreds of arms and legs and mouths and eyes. The weight of it will suffocate me or flatten me until I’m as thin as a paper doll, and then maybe they’ll carry me outside, where I can float off on the breeze or drift under a bush and lie in peace forever.
I close my eyes, and when I open them again I see it, just beyond the crowd—the front door. I’m shoving my way there when I run into Caroline. I mean, it’s her. Same black shirt, same pants. She turns, and I don’t see the beauty mark, but I tell myself it must have rubbed off when she pulled her shirt back on or maybe when she was dancing. Before she can say anything, I grab her and kiss her.
She can drive me home. She will get me out of here and I’ll apologize and she can be the forgiver, and all will be fine.
It’s a long kiss, one of my best, and even as I’m kissing her, I know something’s wrong. But I keep right on doing it, and when I finally push away, I say, “That’s how much I missed you.”
“Is that Jack?” Iris points across the room.
The four of us turn like one person, just in time to see Jack Masselin grab some girl and start kissing her.
One by one, my friends look at me, and I realize that my hand is on my mouth. I am touching the lips that Mick from Copenhagen recently kissed, and all I can think is that Jack is free to kiss anyone and everyone he wants, but I don’t have to stand here and watch it.