Her Name in the Sky by Kelly Quindlen Page B

freaked out over the whole thing. She never even wanted to buy this house just ‘cause of that stupid hill.”
    Hannah crouches down to examine the fence. In the dancing glow of the torch fire, the wood seems pained and helpless, a break in the chain that never full mended.
    “Careful,” Clay says. “It’s not very sturdy. Dad made Ethan and I repair it and we took to it like a couple of girls.”
    “Hey,” Hannah says, kicking dirt at his legs. “Watch it.”
    “I’m just messing with you,” Clay says. “But seriously, we had no idea what we were doing. A butterfly could land on that thing and it would probably fall over.”
    “You two are idiots,” Joanie says.
    “Yep,” Clay says, arching his eyebrows, but there’s a peculiar strain of pride in his voice. “Anyway, let’s get back inside. I want to test the Elixir one more time before everyone gets here. Got to make sure it’s Landry standard.”
     
    The house has swelled with people by ten o’clock. The music is ear-achingly loud, and the air is humid with breath and sweat, and Hannah feels that she might be drunk just by standing in the middle of the party.
    “Let’s get drinks,” she says, touching Baker’s arm, and Baker nods and follows her toward the punch table. They wind their way through a dozen people, all of whom want to hug them and ask how their break has been so far, and scoot past Michele Duquesne, who eyes them warily as they go by.
    “It’s crazy in here,” Baker says when they’re standing by themselves.
    “I know. I didn’t expect it to be at this level already. Do you want some of Clay’s punch?”
    “Sure. Not too much.”
    “I won’t,” Hannah promises, and she makes sure to measure out a small amount.
    Everything starts to look softer and warmer—all yellow and gold and orange hues—and the music starts to get even louder, standing as it is on the shoulders of teens. Hannah’s arm muscles slacken and her vision dims, but the magic of the night, the rawness of it, starts to grow in contrast.
    “You okay?” Baker asks, setting her dark eyes on her.
    “Yeah,” Hannah answers, “just a little tipsy.”
    Baker touches her wrist. “I’ll watch out for you.”
    Clay finds them after a while. His face is ruddy and bright, the way it always looks when he’s in his element like this, walking around and courting people, finding classmates who validate him and smile at all of his jokes. “Let’s get drunk, y’all!” he says, and when Baker gives him a hesitant smile, he places an arm on her waist and says, “What are you holding back for? It’s our last high school Mardi Gras.”
    “I’m not holding back,” she says. “I’m just pacing myself.”
    “Let me make you a drink. I promise it won’t be too strong.”
    “Says Mr. Elixir-de-Landry,” Hannah says.
    Clay shoots her a look. “We’re talking about Baker here,” he says. “I’m not going to get her wasted or something.”
    “I didn’t say you were.”
    “Alright,” Baker says, offering her cup. “Mix me something. But nothing too strong!”
    “You got it,” Clay grins as he turns away.
    “Clay—” Hannah says.
    “Yeah?”
    Hannah hesitates. “Watch out for Michele. She’s had her eyes on you all night.”
    Clay’s expression darkens. “I know. She’s already sneaked up on me twice.”
    “Be careful,” Baker laughs. “She’ll get you.”
    Clay’s happy look returns. “Yeah,” he says, resting his eyes on her, “I guess I do have to be careful, huh?”
    Luke and Wally find them, their smiles eager like little boys’, their temples glistening with sweat. Wally sports an orange stain on his white shirt—“Luke knocked my cup over,” he says, self-consciously following Hannah’s eyes—and Luke wears Joanie’s scarf around his waist, tied low and carelessly like a pirate’s sash.
    “This orange shit is getting to me,” Luke says as he hangs his arms over Hannah’s and Baker’s shoulders. “The hell did Clay put