dad.”
“I know that!”
“Do you?”
“Well . . . obviously.”
“So stop assuming that every guy in your life is going to do what he did! It’s not fair to anyone, least of all you!”
“Wow.”
“Sorry. I just had to get that off my chest.”
Well.
“OK?” Liv’s hand is on my arm, soft and sorrowful. “I just don’t want you to sabotage this Riggs thing, you know? . . . Jose?”
“Fine,” I say. “Point made.”
We stare down at our toes, which are blood red. Sexy or grisly? It’s hard to tell.
Pops and Dodd drive us to the party. Pops is the disciplinarian in the family—the layer-down of laws—and Dodd is the worrier. Between the two of them, all the parental bases are covered.
“Where exactly are this boy’s parents?” Pops asks, almost reprimandingly.
“Who knows?” Liv says. “Aruba? Detroit?” We are side by side in the backseat—Liv in a lime-green flapper dress and cowboy boots, me in jeans and a silver tank top. This is as far as I would go in the outfit department, despite Liv’s best efforts.
“Will there be alcohol?” Pops asks.
“Well, it’s a party, so . . . yeah.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of this,” Dodd murmurs.
“I do,” Wyatt pipes in from the other side of Liv. “Why don’t you send me along as a bodyguard? Keep these fair maidens safe.”
“One beer each,” Pops continues, ignoring Wyatt. “No liquor. And absolutely no drugs. Is that understood? Not even pot, because pot is where it all begins.”
“Smoke grass,” Wyatt quips, “and Pops will kick your ass.”
Pops isn’t amused. “Wy,” he says, “you are not helping. . . . Liv?”
“Aye-aye, Captain,” Liv says.
“Josie?”
“Got it,” I say.
I know Pops is trying to be a responsible parent, but when he was younger and living in New York City, he was a huge partier. It wasn’t until he met Dodd that he stopped going to raves every weekend. Liv and I got the whole story one night when I was sleeping over. Pops and Dodd aren’t like other parents. They’ll discuss anything—drugs, sex, relationship stuff. No topic is off-limits. Liv and Wyatt can ask whatever they want, and they know they’ll get a straight answer.
“You both have your cell phones?” Dodd asks now.
“Yes,” we say.
“If anything happens, call. Call any time .”
Pops pulls up to the house at the same time about fifteen guys are piling out of the SUV in front of us.
Dodd makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Please, please don’t get in a car with anyone who’s been drinking. . . .”
We assure him that we won’t and slide out the door before the condom lecture can begin.
“Hey, kids!” Wyatt calls out the window as we’re running up the driveway. “We’ll be back at eleven thirty! Sharp!”
At the door, Liv reaches out and squeezes my hand, which is already sweating. When I look at her, she smiles. “Your hair looks great.”
“You think?” Dodd did some loose-curl thing with hot rollers. It feels weird—like I’m wearing someone else’s head.
“Yeah,” she says. Then, “Ready?”
“No.”
Liv laughs and rings the doorbell.
The Makeup Mafia is already on the dance floor. They wave us over, and Liv starts right in with her signature move: the Flight Attendant. To the beat of the music she stows luggage, points out emergency exits, distributes imaginary drinks.
Some guy in a Viking helmet walks around with a stack of cups and a pitcher of green liquid.
“The punch is wicked strong,” Schuyler informs us.
From somewhere in the back of the house I can hear the chants. “Chug, chug, chug, chug!” Then, cheers.
Jamie offers me a sip from her cup.
“No, thanks,” I say.
“You’re so good , Josie.” She says “good” like it’s a bad thing.
Whatever.
I start dancing. I don’t love to dance in public, but the lights are dim and the floor is packed, and it’s Madonna’s Immaculate Collection playing—which, come on, how can you
“I know that!”
“Do you?”
“Well . . . obviously.”
“So stop assuming that every guy in your life is going to do what he did! It’s not fair to anyone, least of all you!”
“Wow.”
“Sorry. I just had to get that off my chest.”
Well.
“OK?” Liv’s hand is on my arm, soft and sorrowful. “I just don’t want you to sabotage this Riggs thing, you know? . . . Jose?”
“Fine,” I say. “Point made.”
We stare down at our toes, which are blood red. Sexy or grisly? It’s hard to tell.
Pops and Dodd drive us to the party. Pops is the disciplinarian in the family—the layer-down of laws—and Dodd is the worrier. Between the two of them, all the parental bases are covered.
“Where exactly are this boy’s parents?” Pops asks, almost reprimandingly.
“Who knows?” Liv says. “Aruba? Detroit?” We are side by side in the backseat—Liv in a lime-green flapper dress and cowboy boots, me in jeans and a silver tank top. This is as far as I would go in the outfit department, despite Liv’s best efforts.
“Will there be alcohol?” Pops asks.
“Well, it’s a party, so . . . yeah.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of this,” Dodd murmurs.
“I do,” Wyatt pipes in from the other side of Liv. “Why don’t you send me along as a bodyguard? Keep these fair maidens safe.”
“One beer each,” Pops continues, ignoring Wyatt. “No liquor. And absolutely no drugs. Is that understood? Not even pot, because pot is where it all begins.”
“Smoke grass,” Wyatt quips, “and Pops will kick your ass.”
Pops isn’t amused. “Wy,” he says, “you are not helping. . . . Liv?”
“Aye-aye, Captain,” Liv says.
“Josie?”
“Got it,” I say.
I know Pops is trying to be a responsible parent, but when he was younger and living in New York City, he was a huge partier. It wasn’t until he met Dodd that he stopped going to raves every weekend. Liv and I got the whole story one night when I was sleeping over. Pops and Dodd aren’t like other parents. They’ll discuss anything—drugs, sex, relationship stuff. No topic is off-limits. Liv and Wyatt can ask whatever they want, and they know they’ll get a straight answer.
“You both have your cell phones?” Dodd asks now.
“Yes,” we say.
“If anything happens, call. Call any time .”
Pops pulls up to the house at the same time about fifteen guys are piling out of the SUV in front of us.
Dodd makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Please, please don’t get in a car with anyone who’s been drinking. . . .”
We assure him that we won’t and slide out the door before the condom lecture can begin.
“Hey, kids!” Wyatt calls out the window as we’re running up the driveway. “We’ll be back at eleven thirty! Sharp!”
At the door, Liv reaches out and squeezes my hand, which is already sweating. When I look at her, she smiles. “Your hair looks great.”
“You think?” Dodd did some loose-curl thing with hot rollers. It feels weird—like I’m wearing someone else’s head.
“Yeah,” she says. Then, “Ready?”
“No.”
Liv laughs and rings the doorbell.
The Makeup Mafia is already on the dance floor. They wave us over, and Liv starts right in with her signature move: the Flight Attendant. To the beat of the music she stows luggage, points out emergency exits, distributes imaginary drinks.
Some guy in a Viking helmet walks around with a stack of cups and a pitcher of green liquid.
“The punch is wicked strong,” Schuyler informs us.
From somewhere in the back of the house I can hear the chants. “Chug, chug, chug, chug!” Then, cheers.
Jamie offers me a sip from her cup.
“No, thanks,” I say.
“You’re so good , Josie.” She says “good” like it’s a bad thing.
Whatever.
I start dancing. I don’t love to dance in public, but the lights are dim and the floor is packed, and it’s Madonna’s Immaculate Collection playing—which, come on, how can you
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