A Season for Fireflies by Rebecca Maizel

band for homecoming. Real musicians and not some stupid DJ,” Kylie says as we head up to the house.
    â€œTotally agree,” I say. “Or you could DJ!”
    â€œNow you’re talking!” Kylie grins and loops her arm tightly in mine. “You’re my number one, bitch!”
    I squeeze her arm, which I always note is more muscular than May’s, who has been small her whole life.
    â€œThis house is completely heinous,” I say as we approach the steps.
    Kylie cackles and her angled face shines under the moonlight.
    No matter how many times I’ve been here, I still think Tank’s house is tacky. Pillars abound. Mom would call it “ostentatious” and “trying too hard.”
    â€œYou know Alex is going to ask you to homecoming,” Kylie says. “Are you going to say yes?”
    â€œIf he can keep it in his pants,” I reply, which sends her into laughter again.
    â€œTank hasn’t asked me yet,” Kylie groans. With the crystal chandelier hanging over the door, Kylie takes a second to preen in the reflection of the glass.
    â€œHe won’t get a chance to ask you if we never go in,” I say. “I could use a drink, you know.”
    â€œMiss One and Done?” Kylie says. “You think we don’t notice but it’s obvious.”
    I roll my eyes instead of fighting her on it. “Just because I don’t kill the bottle like you do . . .”
    It surprises me that Kylie notices that I don’t really drink. I thought I hid it pretty well. I usually have one drink and that’s it. There’s no way I’m killing wine bottles like Mom. Either way, Kylie’s been doing this a lot lately; telling me that I’m “holding out on her” or that we’re not close when she’s exactly like that—or she used to be. I’ve tried to blow it off, but these days it’s making its way into all our conversations. She’s told me a lot more about her mom and dad’s divorce lately and how she feels whenever Tank is around. I don’t want to reciprocate—not yet.
    Kylie tosses her hair around in the reflection of the house door before opening it up to the loud noise of the party inside. I notice, even though it wasn’t intentional, that our black dresses are nearly identical. Tonight is probably the last time we’ll be able to wear these minis until next summer.
    â€œHot during the day then cold at night. Or then so hot that our faces melt off. This weather is bipolar,” Kylie says.
    â€œI know, I keep thinking it’s cute boots weather, but it was what? Eighty today?” I ask.
    People love to throw around terms like “bipolar,” “manic,” and “depressed.” They don’t know what it’s like to live with someone who sleeps in a dark room all day and hardly emerges unless she’s drunk. Or what it means when your mother tells you not to touch herthings.
    She can have whatever she wants of mine.
    The music is booming and Kylie and I fall into the party just as the best hip-hop song bounces through the sound system. I couldn’t have timed it better myself. Kylie and I swing our hips to the beat. The hallway to the living room is our catwalk.
    â€œHello!” I cry out to the crowd when we step into the foyer. I spin in the center of the room with a bottle of vodka in my hands.
    â€œPenny!” People call my name from different corners of the room. I take a deep breath and recite a monologue from the play Willow Street. It won an Obie, a Laurence Olivier Award, and a Tony last year. No one here knows that, though. They think I’m just being funny. Kylie’s funny sidekick.
    â€œWell, well.” I bring my hand to my chest. I channel the lead of Carrie Isner, the rich Southern girl who loves elegant parties more than life itself. “Look at all these beautiful people. All the gorgeous smiles and happy faces. Did you ice the cake?