“Shit.” I brush off the dust and cobwebs from my jeans. “Looks like it’s too late for me to make the séance.”
Smith holds up one of my CDs from the tub. “Jessica Simpson? You seriously bought Jessica Simpson’s debut?”
“She’s highly underrated.” I reach for the CD and miss it. The tree house is now swaying like a boat on ocean waves. “Plus, her vocals are angelic.”
“You’re uninvited from the—”
“Penelope, I see you up there!” My mother’s voice grates like nails on a chalkboard. “Your father’s friend has been waiting patiently for half an hour for you to make an appearance. Get your butt down here this instant.” She pauses, and I swear I can hear her sniffing the air like a hound on the trail of a missing person. “Have you been drinking up there? Is that Smith’s boot I see?”
“Yes, and I don’t know.” I grab the mostly empty green bottle and toss it in the CD tub with Jessica and the other late-nineties goddesses of pop. “Watch out. We’re coming down.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” she huffs. “You can’t not know if you’ve been drinking, Penelope.”
“I know, Mom. I have been drinking. I don’t know if you can see Smith’s boots or mine.” I point to the rope ladder. Or at least, I think I’m pointing at the rope ladder. Everything is a little fuzzy. “You want to go down first, or should I? If you’re still worried about falling to your death, my mother’s down there now. She’ll break your fall.”
He lifts his gaze to meet mine. A big dopey grin takes shape across his lips for a moment, but it quickly fades. He grabs the CD tub and retches into it. Looks like any hope I had of a goddesses-of-pop karaoke night is long gone. He retches twice more before calling it quits and rolling to his side.
“You go down first,” he groans. “I’ll wait until after this tree house stops spinning.”
I stumble my way down the rope ladder, using the pounding in my head as a guide. When I make it onto solid ground, it’s as if the sun has suddenly decided to turn on its brights and point straight at me. I’m starting to think my girl Vermouth is actually out to get me.
“What are you wearing?” My mother tugs at the sleeve of my hoodie. “Where’s the dress from Saks that I laid out for you?”
“I’m seventeen, Mom. I think I’m a little too old to be wearing the dresses my mommy lays out for me.”
“You picked the dress out, Penelope!” She pulls something that resembles a tiny bird’s nest from the topknot of curls piled on my head. “You look like you just crawled out of a gutter.”
“Silvia!” my father shouts from the patio. My god we do a lot of shouting in this family. “Silvia, where is she?”
My mother and I lock eyes. The lines around her blue eyes soften, along with her painted-on brows, and for a moment, I almost think she feels bad for me. She knows as well as I do that I’m not cut out for Princeton. She’s the one who signed me up for creative writing classes when I was in middle school instead of forcing me to do math tutoring. She’s the one who always let me stop at the bookstore on the way home from school so I could check out the new release section. She knows how much I want to go to Berkeley, and yet here she is trying to force me into a stupid mock interview for a school I don’t want to go to on a freaking holiday. Something inside me hardens, and I shoot her my best drunken death glare.
“I’m right here, Dad.” I belch and don’t even bother trying to hide it. “Is your friend ready to meet me?”
I brush past my mother, doing my best to put one foot in front of the other in a straight line, until I reach my father.
“What on earth?” My father eyes me warily, like I’m a feral cat. “Are you drunk, Penelope?”
“I’m not not drunk.”
“Do you think this is funny?” He shakes his head the way he always does when I’ve disappointed him. Two shakes, followed by running one hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Do you know how many strings I had to pull to get Reginald Yates to join us for Thanksgiving? I flew him out from New Jersey. The man is incredibly influential at Princeton. He likely has hundreds of parents begging for him to practice their kids’ college interviews with him, and yet here you are three sheets to the wind!”
“What exactly does that phrase mean?” I hiccup. “Does it mean bedsheets? Who has three bedsheets hanging out in the wind?”