A Season for Fireflies by Rebecca Maizel Page A

Chill the drinks? I have just what you asked for. . . .” I lift the bottle into the air and the applause echoes around me. I bow.
    â€œYou could be famous!” someone calls out from a group of girls that I occasionally sit with at lunch.
    â€œYou’re really good,” a girl named Erica says.
    â€œThanks, Erica,” I say with a smile and a casual wave of myhand. She stands a little straighter because I know her name—she thinks she knows me. No one really does. I still read plays when they get a good review in the New York Times and I watch all the award shows. They think I’m just loud, funny Penny, top ten in the class and the party girl at Kylie’s side who never takes anything too seriously.
    We move into the kitchen, I place the bottle on the counter, and Kylie throws an arm over my shoulder. “What is Wes doing here?” she says in my ear.
    I accidentally knock a cup of limes aside. They fall to the floor and I scramble to pick them up. Please don’t let him come in the kitchen. Just give me a minute. I need to act normal.
    â€œWhat the hell is he doing here?” I whisper when I stand back up.
    â€œI think he came with Panda.”
    I’ve seen Panda at parties but haven’t hung out with him one-on-one in a while. He’s good for weed, so he’s always invited. Since I don’t smoke, it hasn’t led to us talking that much.
    When I stand up, I peer through the people dancing and a group of guys playing cards. Tank comes into the house from outside. Wes follows next with Panda but has to hunch a bit because he’s too tall for the doorway. Adrenaline shoots through my chest. I turn my back to the living room and start to make a drink. Kylie is reluctantly called away by Lila and Eve and I’ve just finished making her drink when the scent of salt-and-vinegar potato chips wafts over to me.
    â€œWhat’s up, Panda?” I say, but my voice is wobbly. When I face him, I expect to see Wes too but Panda’s alone.
    He pulls at the fabric of his T-shirt, right at the stomach area, as he always does. Today’s T-shirt has a picture of a wolf howling at the moon.
    â€œThe famous Penny Berne screwdriver?” he asks instead, and tips his chin to my drink.
    â€œShall I make you a beverage?” I ask, gesturing to the orange juice.
    â€œNah,” Panda says. “Coca-Cola.” He lifts his cup. “My mom is on my ass about alcohol.”
    I’m surprised he’s so open talking to me about his family since that incident happened back in May. I was coming home from the track and Panda and his dad were stuck at the long red light at the corner of Green and Main. I recognized the blue Mercedes. He was screaming at Panda. I stopped in the next lane and could hear Panda’s dad through the open sunroof. Panda’s chin was to his chest and when the light turned green, his dad sped forward to the parking lot at the bottom of the hill to school. His dad slammed the door and I sat at the light watching Panda get reamed. His cheeks were bright red and old tears stained his face.
    Jamie , you make my life difficult! Do you ever do anything you say you’re going to do? Why do I pay for that school?!
    It was so weird to hear Panda called by his real name, Jamie, as I never ever hear it except in theater reviews or in official class documents. He’s always just been Panda.
    That day, I knew he was due to set up for Into the Woods rehearsal. His father yanked at the duffel bag in Panda’s hand. He raised his hand high above his head. I swear he was makinga fist. I revved the engine, sped to the parking lot, and screeched on the brakes, slamming the car door behind me as I got out.
    â€œHey!” I yelled, pointing at Mr. Thomas. He was all out of breath. “You’ll hurt him, Mr. Thomas! Don’t!” Mr. Thomas opened his mouth, but closed it. I think he did it a couple of times before he got into the car,