“Guys, this is my sister!” Celia called loudly; Gabby winced as a dozen pairs of eyes cut directly to her. “I’m on a mission to convince her that parties aren’t all devil-worshiping ceremonies with ritual human sacrifice.”
Gabby felt herself flush. “That’s not what I think,” she muttered. Everyone was looking at her. She could feel the beginnings of a full-blown panicker, that telltale numbness in her hands and arms. Sometimes it even happened in the tip of her nose, though she’d never told that part to her parents. They’d think she was crazy, and she wasn’t crazy. No matter what Celia seemed to think.
She stood there awkwardly for another endless moment—a total and obvious outsider, even though this was her house where she lived. It felt like she didn’t belong anywhere. It felt like she probably never would.
“Little sister, how come you’ve been hiding upstairs this whole time?” asked some stupid-looking guy friend of Celia’s sporting the shadowy beginnings of a beard. It reminded Gabby of a little kid dressing up as a hobo for Halloween. “Don’t you like us?”
“Not particularly,” Gabby muttered. God, this had been a huge mistake. She should have known better than to put herself in this stupid position. She should have known better than to even try. “I just came down to get a snack,” she said to Celia, hoping her sister was drunk enough not to notice that she hadn’t actually made it to the kitchen. “See you.”
“Aw, where you going, little sister?” the guy called after her. Gabby ignored him. She scrambled back up the stairs so fast she almost tripped over them, like when she was a little kid and her dad used to chase her up to her room for bedtime. Gabby had never actually liked that game, and she didn’t like this, either. She wanted every single one of these people out of her house. She knew Celia would have called her an old lady, a wet blanket, a loser. She kind of couldn’t bring herself to care.
There was no way she was going to sleep anytime soon, but there was nothing left to do but get ready for bed and sulk with the lights off and the door locked. She guessed she might as well brush her teeth. She crept down the hallway, pushed the bathroom door open—
And found a boy kneeling in front of her toilet.
“Whoa, sorry!” Gabby said, holding her hands up as if she was the one who had trespassed. Her heart skittered like a field mouse inside her chest. Then, as she took in the scene in front of her: “Oh my god, are you puking?”
“Um, no,” the boy said, reaching up and flushing, then sitting back on the hexagon tile and looking up at her. “Not anymore. Who are you?”
“Who am I?” Gabby demanded. “I live here. Who are you?”
“I’m sorry,” the kid said, leaning back against the bathtub and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “They were going to make me chug another beer, and then I had to throw up, and—” He broke off.
“So you thought you’d come up here and do it in my bathroom?”
“Sorry,” the kid said again. “I’m good now, I’ll go.” He began the slow, laborious process of getting to his feet, slouchy and stumbling, fingers hooked on the edge of the sink for balance. He looked like he might pass out.
“Okay,” Gabby said, feeling suddenly bad for him in spite of herself. “Just, stop for a second before you hurt somebody. Sit on the tub, I guess.” She looked at him for a moment, curious. He was wearing jeans and a Colson Cavaliers T-shirt with a thermal underneath it; his hair was a wavy mass of washed-out brown shot through with red and gold in the bathroom light. Two of his fingers were held together with medical tape. “Who was it?” she asked, crossing her arms and leaning against the towel rack. “That was going to make you chug the beer?”
“The other guys on my team,” the kid said, sitting on the lip of the bathtub and wincing when he knocked a half-empty shampoo into the basin. “I play hockey?”
“Of course you do,” Gabby muttered.
The boy didn’t seem to notice. “I’m the only freshman,” he continued, “so they kind of like to razz me a little.”
Gabby made a face. “Haze you, it sounds like.”
The boy shook his head. “No no, it’s not like that,” he said earnestly. “I mean, I know you probably think I’d say that even if it was, but it’s not.” He smiled then, lopsided and, Gabby thought, pretty drunk. “I’m Ryan,” he announced, sticking his hand out.
Good grief. “I’m Gabby,” she said as they shook.