I know I should go to the kitchen, get a drink (only one), and stay by my boyfriend’s side. But I find myself wandering away from it instead. Steve stumbles past me—he must’ve started drinking early. I say hi. He tells me to make myself at home.
It’s really loud, some bitch-bashing rap competing with all the talking, making everyone louder. I head into the den and see a laptop there, hooked to the speakers. I look at the playlist and find that the song that’s playing is called “My Dick’s Got Rights!” The next song is called “Naked Like U Want Me.” I think about turning it down. I think about putting on Adele. I don’t do anything.
I look around and see Tiffany Chase talking to Demeka Miller. I walk over and say hi.
“Hi!” Tiffany shouts back over the music.
“Yeah, hi!” Demeka says.
I realize the flaw in my plan is that I don’t have anything to say to either of these girls. I almost tell Tiffany that I get now why she likes to take people around the school, but I don’t think that’s the right party thing to say. It’ll sound like I want to be her, when that’s not it at all.
“I love your hair!” I tell Demeka. She recently added a red streak.
“Thanks!” Demeka says back.
Tiffany and Demeka look at each other. I’ve clearly interrupted their conversation. I know I should uninterrupt it.
“See you around!” I say. I drift off, but not that far. Again, I know I should head to the kitchen. But I don’t.
Next to the laptop, there are CDs. Probably belonging to Steve’s parents. (I have no idea where they are right now.) Adele is near the top. Having nothing better to do, I start to flip through.
There’s Kelly Clarkson, which makes me think of the drive to the ocean. And there’s Fun., who we also heard.
“I really like them,” someone says to me, pointing to the CD. “Do you?”
I’m surprised to have been noticed. The boy talking to me looks totally out of place—he’s worn a jacket and a tie to the party, like he’s going straight from here to church in the morning. He looks really desperate to have someone to talk to, and at the same time, I feel this weird sense that he specifically wants to talk to me. Usually this would make my guard go up. But for some reason, I decide not to brush him off.
“Yeah,” I say, holding up the CD. “I like them, too.”
Quietly, he starts to sing “Carry On”—the same song Justin and I sang along to in the car. I decide to take this as a sign. Of what, I’m not sure.
“I like that one in particular,” the boy says.
Strange. There is something so familiar about him. It’s in his eyes, or in the way he’s looking at me.
Harmless. I remind myself that talking to him is harmless.
“Do I know you?” I ask.
“I’m Nathan,” he says.
I tell him I’m Rhiannon.
“That’s a beautiful name,” he replies. And it’s not just something to say, like “I love your hair.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I used to hate it, but I don’t so much anymore.”
“Why?”
“It’s just a pain to spell,” I tell him. And because it’s different. I don’t tell him all the grief I got as a kid for it being so different, how badly I wished my parents had given me something easier.
The fact that he seems so familiar is still nagging at me. “Do you go to Octavian?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. I’m just here for the weekend. Visiting my cousin.”
“Who’s your cousin?”
“Steve.”