Betwixt by Tara Bray Smith Page B

high schooler
” — Morgan’s voice fell to a whisper — “or were you maybe going to pick up a few bottles of the hard stuff?”
    “The hard stuff?” Ondine was a little shocked. Had the girl just ordered her around? “What? Oh, right. Of course.”
    She grabbed a cart and walked down a bottle-lined aisle, trying to concentrate. The party had been Morgan’s idea, but it seemed
     a good-enough plan. Ondine always wanted to be olderthan she was, vested with more responsibility than she was given. Inside she felt older, always had. A sophisticated party
     with a few of the rising seniors seemed like just the thing to improve her mood.
    But earnest as it seemed, Ondine knew that neither Morgan’s friendship nor their proposed party would make up for the hole
     that had opened up inside her when her parents had left that morning. Why didn’t she go to Chicago? Why was she so determined
     never to get close to anyone — even her family, even her father, who’d brought her into the world? She knew she couldn’t trust
     people to share things she herself had a hard time accepting. She would never tell Morgan, for instance, the way she felt
     about her paintings or how lately she felt she’d been losing her fix on reality. But if not Morgan, her supposed friend, then
     whom?
    Enough. Enough with your creative temperament, Ondine.
    Browsing the aisles, staring at the rows of clear and dark liquor, she could almost hear her mother’s voice, chiding her for
     indulging herself that one step too much.
Fuck it. I’m having a party.
She was determined to have fun and hummed a Flame song she liked, trying to get her spirits up.
    Hurry — hurry — hurry! — ring of fire —
    Ring of fire! Spin round, ring of fire —
    Quick — quick! Wooden doll,
    Hurry, lovely wooden doll, spin round —
    She reached for bottles with her right hand, balancing them in the crook of her left arm. She made her choices by color as
     much as anything else. Vodka with its icy clarity. Warm brown whiskey. And what was it, Pernod — green, and
French.
She was examining a ridiculous bottle of liqueur claiming to taste like chocolate milk when a rustle of black and gray caught
     her eye. Startled, Ondine turned.
    “Hello, Ondine.”
    The lithe older boy with wild dark-brown hair and green sparkling eyes — eyes that matched the bottle of Pernod nestled in
     her arm — laughed. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.” He was scratching a trimmed soul patch with his top teeth. He grinned
     and arched an eyebrow.
    Didn’t soul patches go out like ten years ago? That was about when James Motherwell was in high school. Since then he’d been
     a fixture around Portland’s skate parks, bookstores, coffee shops, and parties. Never seeming to go anywhere.
    “Hey, Moth.” She smiled tightly and turned back to the liquor, which she took up with doubled interest. James Motherwell,
     or “Moth,” as he called himself, had long tried to hit on Ondine and every other teenaged girl in Portland. Though she’d had
     a few conversations with the twenty-something boy, he seemed rather interested in checking out other girls’ butts in between
     speaking to her breasts. An unfortunate tic, and she found him tiresome.
    “You’re looking enticing as ever,” Moth continued, stepping closer. “What are you deciding between, my love?” He took the
     bottle of chocolate liqueur out of her hands. “I suggest something less sweet.”
    “Moth, don’t you have some fifteen-year-olds to hit on?”
    He laughed and raised his eyebrows.
    “I’m
matooring,
Ondine. Everyone’s got to grow up sometime.” He stepped back and checked the black band around his wrist. Ondine could just
     make out the blue tip of a tattoo underneath the strap. She wondered what it was. Something “deep,” like an om? Other than
     the watch, Moth was dressed simply: black jeans and a black long-sleeved T-shirt with a narrow collar, which flattered his
     slim face and high