Reaching out, I squeeze his arm. “Hell of a son you’ve got.”
He looks up at the sky, blinking rapidly.
Flora grabs me in a warm hug and whispers in my ear. “Thank you, for what you did — for calling out to him. You’re always there whenever he’s struggling.”
I clear my throat awkwardly. “What are friends for?”
“I don’t know what he’d do without you.”
“I’m sure he’ll be just fine.”
Pulling back, she peers into my eyes. As usual, I’m sure she sees far more than she lets on, but she doesn’t say anything. She merely pats my cheek and murmurs, “Don’t stay out too late celebrating,mija.”
“I won’t.”
With a nod, she turns back to Miguel. He winks at me before they turn to leave. He slides his arm around her shoulders, steering her gently through the crowd toward their junky old truck — stunningly out of place in an ocean of designer vehicles. My heart pangs as I watch them. They fit perfectly together, their edges aligned like two puzzle pieces.
“Were those Archer’sparents?” Odette asks from behind me, her voice laced with incredulity.
I jolt in surprise as I turn back to the twins. I’d forgotten they were there. “Oh. Um… yep, that’s them.”
“Huh.” Ophelia’s eyes are narrowed on Miguel’s truck. “Not exactly what I expected.”
My spine stiffens. “What exactly did you expect?”
Odette giggles. “Personally, I always assumed Archer was the son of Mexican drug lords or something.”
“His family is Puerto Rican.”
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying, I was picturing Pablo Escobar… not the guy who cleans Pablo Escobar’s pool. You know what I mean.”
“No, actually,” I say with overt enunciation. My rage is boiling to the surface, threatening to spill over. “I really don’t know what you mean, Odette.”
Her lips twist into a pout. “Whatever.”
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Josie.” Ophelia sweeps her bangs out of her eyes and starts walking. Her voice drifts back over her shoulder. “By the way, Ryan texted me earlier — he can’t drive you to the party anymore. Apparently, he wants to do shrooms with Andy beforehand or something. So you’re coming with us.”
“Oh.” I take a steadying breath. “Then maybe I should just go home. As long as you guys don’t mind dropping m—”
“Don’t be crazy!” Odette cuts me off. Her arm loops through mine as she drags me toward the bright pink SUV. “You’re coming to the party. Everyone is going to be there!”
“Everyone,” Ophelia echoes.
My teeth grind together as I climb into the backseat. We wind through the tiny downtown area, blasting music as we cruise past the railroad station and circle the harbor. Behind the wheel, Ophelia puffs her vaporizer and bobs her head to the beat. In the passenger seat, Odette chugs a spiked lemonade and howls out the windows until her throat is hoarse.
I try to muster some of my earlier excitement, but it’s vanished on the wind. I stare at the twins, seeing them in a different light than I did mere moments ago.
Ophelia’s judgmental stare.
Odette’s offhand racism.
No matter how many times I tell myself they don’t mean anything by it… that they’re not bad people, merely products of their own privileged upbringing… I can’t shake the apprehension that’s blossomed within me.
I stare resolutely out my window, wishing I was home in my room, sketching out a new sewing pattern instead of on my way to a kegger with people I’m not sure I have anything in common with anymore.
The party’s pounding bass is audible two full blocks before we turn onto Chris Tomlinson’s street. There are at least ten cars already outside, spilling out of the driveway onto the lawn. The second we’re parked, the twins bolt for the house, disappearing inside in a cloud of smoke and perfume. Clearly, they’re eager to locate cold beverages and cute boys as soon as humanly possible.
For a while, I hover on the front porch, staring at the door like a little kid mustering the courage to enter a haunted house. People arrive in an endless stream, carrying cases of beer brazenly across the lawn. No one is worried about underage drinking tonight. Chris’ father is the Chief of Police; his parties never get busted.