“Here,” Kayla says. “You can hold my keys.”
Walking across the street are two boys from school, Carl Thompson and Alan Chen. “Science geeks?” Kayla whispers. “Shouldn’t they be studying at home so they can get into Harvard or wherever they’re going?”
“What’s wrong with that,” I say, bristling and feeling jealous of those guys, who still have their future ahead of them.
Kayla laughs. “We’re cheerleaders, Jas. We’re supposed to have social lives.” We’re at the house now and she eyes a group of boys hanging out in the front yard. She whispers again. “Isn’t that Sam Curry?” She points to our quarterback from last year who graduated.
“You should know. Didn’t you date him?” I tease.
“Oh yeah, right.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder and laughs.
“Anyway, aren’t you here for Dylan?” I remind her.
She giggles. “Just keeping my options open. That dark-haired boy over there with Sam is cute.”
I glance across the yard, but I’m not really paying attention.
“Whatever,” I say.
He’s not even half as cute as Royce. Ugh. I should really stop thinking about him. That’s not going anywhere.
I want to go inside and sit down with a glass of Vitaminwater and listen to gossip, but it’s so crowded that I realize I won’t be able to hear anyone talking. “I thought this was supposed to be a kick back?”
“It is,” Kayla laughs, turning the door handle. “Let’s go find Lo.”
“Okay.” It occurs to me that when we left for this party, I wanted to try to chill and blow off steam. But now I’m just trying to avoid my feelings. I’m a cheerleader. I like peanut butter and pizza. Nicki Minaj and Miley Cyrus. I grew up on Gossip Girl and Sex and the City reruns. I believe in life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Freedom of speech. Every Olympics, my family gathers around the TV and we join the chant: “USA! USA! USA!” I love my country. I love America. Being American is as much a part of me as breathing.
Except it turns out I’m not American where it counts.
On paper.
Kayla and I enter the living room. A drum kit, amps, and mic stand have been set up in a corner of the living room. The band’s name, Bob Marley Lives, is on the kick drum and on a spray-painted banner made from a sheet that hangs on the wall.
Lo sees us right away. “I’m so glad you came, Jas.” She turns to Kayla. “Hey,” she says. “Drinks are in the kitchen and the garage. Help yourself.”
“Thanks,” Kayla says. She’s already not paying attention, I can tell, and is looking for Dylan. She wanders toward the kitchen.
Lo has already turned around. The bass player is asking her whether or not she has some kind of cable or other. Lo smiles at me as she runs past to go find it. She’s so beautiful. Carefree. Focused on music, life and friends. The bassist stands there and sort of smirks and raises his eyebrow like he’s sort of just stuck standing there until Lo returns. I smile back.
There are people here that I recognize from school. Veronica Lucas, who was veep when I was class president last year, waves hello. She’s now senior class president. Darla Anne Tucker, who’s in the California Scholarship Federation with me—the club for kids who have high GPAs—stands next to her. Mark Arias, Billy Ogasu, and Len Anderson, whom I know from Math Club, are all wearing checkered flannel shirts and have round pins on their collars with the band’s logo. Normally, I would join one of those groups, but right now all I want to do is melt into a chair, which I do and sit down by myself.
Julian, Lo’s boyfriend, is sitting on a couch, tuning a guitar. He has it connected to his iPhone. He runs the pick along each string, making minor adjustments until he’s happy. Then he gets up and sets it on a stand and checks the microphone. “Hey! Hey! Check! Mic! One...two... Check. Check. One two!”
People start streaming into the living room and I see Kayla with Dylan. They already look like a couple, giggling and whispering in each other’s ear. She drops a half-filled drink in my hand, winks at me, then turns back to him without getting my approval, which I don’t know if I would have given or not. He’s older than her and I hate to see her sidetracked, because I’ve seen her lose focus before, when her grades dropped last year. I worry she’s burying her feelings about her parents’ separation in yet another new guy.
Kayla can be pretty vulnerable when it comes to looking for affection. She teases me that I’m the only girl on the squad who’s never made out with a guy, let alone hooked up with one. Guys have been interested, but I’ve never been that into anyone before. Which makes me think of Royce again, which is annoying.
It’s not like my parents let me date either. My mom was a chaperone for her own sister when my auntie Riza was already twenty-three years old. It’s a wonder anyone gets married in the Philippines. They force you to have a chaperone on dates even when you’re an adult, then they ask you why you aren’t married yet.
I take a big gulp of the drink Kayla handed me. Some kind of punch-and-whatever concoction. I drink it all and set the cup down. Lo returns with a cable for the bass player. The group of boys who were in the front yard come inside too, and the dark-haired one glances at me as they crowd into the room. There are so many people crowding in that I push myself from the chair and move over to a wall. I look at the boys again. Maybe I should make out with one of them, just because. The dark-haired one is sort of cute.
The music is about to start. Lo takes one of the mics. Kayla is in the front of the room, clapping. Dylan holds a guitar, a sky blue Telecaster. Julian just stands there, and the drummer clicks his sticks together.
“Thanks everyone for coming,” Lo says into the mic. She’s holding a basket. “Yes, I’m taking advantage of my parents being gone. We need your support for Bob Marley Lives. They’re going to play a Greenpeace rally in San Francisco and need some travel money. So pass some cash into this basket I’m sending around!”
I take a few dollar bills from my purse and toss them into the basket. I try not to look at my phone to see if Royce has texted me again, but of course I check. No new texts, probably because I didn’t answer his. I sort of wish I’d invited him to the party now.
The music starts, and I listen to a few songs. But I can’t relax or escape my thoughts, and so I make my way to Kayla and tell her I want to go home. She downs the last of her drink, shoots a glance at Dylan playing guitar, and sets the bottle down on the bookshelf next to us. “Come on,” she says, taking my hand and leading me away from the crowd of partygoers surrounding the band. “We need to talk.”
“What? Why?”
She leads me to the upstairs bathroom. On the way up, I watch a group of guys pushing each other out the front door. The party is starting to get louder and louder. People are yelling drunkenly over the band.
Kayla pulls me inside the bathroom, then closes the door, shutting out most of the sound from the party. “What’s up with you?”
“Huh?”
She lifts up her hair, trying to cool down her neck. It’s stuffy inside the bathroom. “I’m not going to lie. This party is getting a little crazy. But I know you. There’s something else going on. You never go to parties, and suddenly, here you are at a party. You like that guy from the hospital, and you’re never interested in anyone, so that’s a big deal, but then you don’t invite him out tonight. And you’ve been really quiet all day.”
My parents warned me not to tell anyone. It’s too dangerous. I know I can trust Kayla though, and I start to tell her, but right then, we hear a banging coming from the first floor.
“Ugh,” Kayla says. “Hold on a sec.” She opens the door and peeks out.
I don’t hear music anymore. “What’s going on?” I ask.
Kayla