Well, I don’t know why you’re so scared of being noticed, I responded. It’s like Nick gets power from being totally, inoffensively correct: nice jeans, tight but not too tight, white T-shirt, translucent but not transparent, just enough makeup so it looks like she isn’t wearing any. I bet if Somerville did start mandating hoop skirts, she’d be the first to sign up and grab one. She’d probably add in a pair of ruffled pantaloons for good measure.

I don’t see Nick, or Parker, either. But when the crowd shifts, I spot a keg and a bunch of red Solo cups stacked in the ice.

I feel better, much more myself, once I’ve poured myself a beer, even though it’s mostly foam. The first few sips dull some of my anxiety, and it’s dark enough that I even take off my hood, shaking out my hair. I see Davis Christensen and Ben Morton standing, pinkie fingers linked, on the other side of a small knot of people. Both of them notice me at the same time, and Mark’s mouth forms an O of surprise. Davis whispers something to him before lifting her cup and extending two fingers in a kind of wave.

I slug back the beer, turn to the keg, and refill. When I look up again, Ariana has materialized, just appeared out of the crowd like something spit up on a tide. She’s cut her hair short. In her black shorts, wedge sneakers, and heavy eyeliner, she looks like a deranged pixie. I feel a sudden squeeze of pain. My best friend.

My former best friend.

“Wow.” Ariana stares at me as if I’m a new species of animal that hasn’t yet been categorized. “Wow. I didn’t expect to see you here. I didn’t expect to see you out.”

“Sharon’s had me on lockdown,” is all I say, because I don’t feel like getting into it. It’s an old joke of ours that my mom is a jailer, and I’m expecting Ariana to laugh. But instead she just nods really fast, as if I’ve said something interesting.

“How is your mom?” she asks.

I shrug. “The same,” I say. “She started working again.”

“Good.” Ariana is still nodding. She looks a little like a puppet whose strings are being tugged. “That’s really good.”

I take another sip of my beer. I’m past the foam now, into the flat bitter burn. Now I see that my presence has caused a disturbance, a ripple effect as the news travels from one group to the next. Various people swivel in my direction. Once, I might have welcomed the attention, even enjoyed it. But now I feel itchy, evaluated, the way I do during standardized tests. Maybe this is the effect of wearing Nick’s sweatshirt—maybe some of her self-consciousness is seeping into my skin.

“Look.” Ariana takes a step closer and talks low and really fast. She’s breathing hard, too, as if the words are a physical effort. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. I should have been there for you. After the accident, I should have reached out or done something, but I couldn’t—I mean, I didn’t know what to do—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, taking a step backward and nearly stumbling on a bit of cement half-embedded in the grass. Ariana’s eyes are wide and pleading, like a little kid’s, and I feel suddenly disgusted. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

Ariana exhales, visibly relieved. “If you need anything—”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “We’re fine.” Already, I regret coming. Even though I can’t make out individual faces, I can feel the weight of people staring. I tug on my hood, making sure my scars are concealed.

Then the crowd shifts again, and I see Parker, hopping over concrete rubble, coming toward me with a big smile. I’m seized by the sudden desire to run; at the same time, I forget how to move. He’s wearing a faded T-shirt, but I still recognize the logo of the old campgrounds where our families vacationed together for a few summers. At least Ariana has vanished.

“Hey,” Parker says. He hops off an old ledge into the grass in front of me. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

It would have helped if you’d invited me, I almost say. But that would mean admitting I care. It might even make it seem as if I’m jealous he invited Nick. For the same reason, I won’t, I refuse, to ask whether she’s here.

“I wanted to get out of the house,” I say instead. I shove my free hand into the front pocket of Nick’s sweatshirt, gripping my beer with the other. Being around Parker makes me hyperaware of my body, as if I’ve been taken apart and put together just a little bit wrong—which I guess I have. “So. FanLand, huh?”

He grins, which annoys me. He’s too easy, too smiling, too different from the Parker who pulled over to talk to me yesterday, awkward and stiff-backed, the Parker who didn’t even climb out to give me a hug. I don’t want him to think we’ll be buddy-buddy again, just because I showed up at the Drink.

“Yeah, FanLand’s all right,” he says. His teeth flash white. He’s standing so close I can smell him, could lean forward six inches and place my cheek against the soft fabric of his T-shirt. “Even if they’re a little heavy on pep.”

“Pep?” I say.

“You know. Smells like teen spirit. Drinking-the-Kool-Aid kind of stuff.” Parker raises a fist. “Go, FanLand!”

It’s a good thing Parker was always such a nerd. Otherwise he would have been stupid popular. I look away.

“One time my sister nearly drowned trying to surf a kickboard in the wave pool.” I don’t say I was the one who dared Nick to surf the kickboard, after she dared me to go down the Slip ’N Slide backward.