Sweeter Than Summer

8 | double dutch

Jackson Marcus was already drunk when we showed up, even though it was only nine pm and his party had only allegedly started half an hour before. We had to park down the street, but even there you could hear – and feel – the thump-thump-thump of the bass. We walked by two different people puking into his plants and a couple aggressively making out before we even reached the front porch.

"You're here!" he spluttered as soon as we walked up to the front door, and I automatically blushed, even though it was obvious he was talking to Martha.

"Duh!" Her voice was unnaturally high. "Wouldn't miss it."

I was expecting her to say more, in typical Martha fashion, but she just beamed at him.

He reached out, snaking an arm around her waist, and pulled her close enough for his mouth to get lost in her wild mass of hair. It was only then that he seemed to notice that I was there, standing awkwardly to one side, pretending like my cheeks weren't an uncomfortable shade of pink.

He stepped away from Martha, but kept one hand resting on her hip. "Hey, I know you. January."

"Yeah," I said, "I work with your sister."

For a second, it looked like he didn't understand. But pretty soon his face lit up with recognition, and he gestured with his free hand towards the open doorway. "Come on in, party's just getting started."

I glanced at Martha, hoping she would give me some kind of cue. But she wasn't even looking at me, her lips extremely close to Jackson's ear, her hip still clenched in his hand.

So I went inside.

I didn't want to be at the party. If it were up to me, I would be at home, watching Wild Roses reruns and eating my way through the pan of tamales Rosa's mom had brought over. I wasn't even going as a favor to Martha, who made me her wingwoman without even asking – I was going for Rosa, who was Carter's self-proclaimed babysitter for the night.

"I don't need a babysitter. Babysitters are for babies. That's why they're called that," Carter had protested the day before, when Rosa had stopped in at the end of our shift for a couple pints of mocha ice cream.

"They're also for eighteen year old boys who cannot be trusted to get themselves home after parties," she had retorted.

"Bullshit. I can get home just fine."

Rosa gave him a doubtful look, before saying, "Fine. Consider it an over-glorified designated driver."

I was secretly glad Rosa was there, somewhere, as soon as I stepped inside. Seeing his living room – packed wall-to-wall with sloppy drunks – just made me glad that there was someone else who was sober.

Me (9:09): Where r you?

Some guy jostled my shoulder, and my phone almost slipped from my hands. I was busy watching his retreating back when it buzzed.

Rosa Jimenez (9:11): kitchen

Rosa Jimenez (9:11): trying to convince carter that shots are a BAD idea

Rosa Jimenez (9:13): and failing

I read her message, then looked back up into the crowd, wondering why Jackson's house didn't come with signs, or a map. I had walked through two rooms to get where I was now, and already I was borderline lost. I hadn't even attempted to find the kitchen yet.

I stuck my phone into my back pocket, then tapped the shoulder of the guy standing next to me, who was bobbing his head to the music.

He looked over, surprised.