“Dressing up shouldn’t be a prerequisite to get drunk,” I say, pulling out a cheetah-print sweater—but before I can hold it up to my chest, I feel that familiar presence behind me, already knowing it’s Lucy in the door.
I twist around, registering her costume: a black tank top, leather pants, and combat boots complete with felt ears and thin little lines scratched across her face. The outfit makes her mane of curls look even darker, her eyes glow even brighter, and there’s something chilling about the contrast: cold and hard like the silent slink of a panther as it weaves its way through the dark.
“Well,” I say. “There goes that idea.”
“Be a prisoner,” Lucy says, walking toward my closet and plucking a black-and-white-striped dress from the back. “I have some handcuffs you can attach to your wrist.”
“A prisoner,” I echo, tossing the sweater onto the floor and slipping the dress off the hanger instead. “And why do you have handcuffs?”
“Do you really want to know?” she asks, and I fake a gag. “I’ll go get them.”
I twist back around and face the mirror once she leaves, pulling my T-shirt over my head and tossing it on the floor with the discarded sweater. Then I slip on the dress, running my fingers through my hair to tamp down the flyaways.
“Where’s Nicole?” Sloane asks suddenly, her eyes darting around like she just now realized our foursome isn’t complete. “I haven’t seen her all day.”
“She’s already over there,” Lucy says, walking back into my bedroom with a pair of handcuffs hanging from her finger. “She’s doing Tinkerbell again.”
“She did that last year,” Sloane says, and Lucy shrugs.
“She likes the way the dress makes her boobs look.”
I smile, grabbing the handcuffs and slipping one of the silver bracelets around my wrist, hesitating before I close them.
“Do you have the key?” I ask.
“Of course I have the key. And I have this, too.”
She walks over to Sloane first, dropping something in her hand before making her way back over to me. I can already tell she’s up to something. She always gets the same expression: smug, mischievous, an illusionist seconds before her biggest trick. She likes the bated breath, the anxious anticipation, the thought of us all wondering what she could possibly pull out of her hat next.
I watch as she stops in front of my mirror, her body pushed close to mine and an impish smile pulling at her lip. Then she grabs my hand and uncurls my fingers, placing a little white pill in the center of my palm.
I look down at it, a prickle of sweat erupting across my skin. I’ve experienced a lot of firsts in this place, but hard drugs aren’t one of them. I’m not na?ve enough to think they aren’t around: I can see the dusty remnants beneath the boys’ noses, bodies buzzing like a live wire and their pupils stretched to three times their natural size. I can tell by the way their money always has a subtle curl to it; all the crumpled-up plastic bags stuffed to the bottom of the trash can and the flimsy mirror stashed beneath the coffee table. The way they lock themselves in the bathroom in packs before coming back out, alert and alive. I just know they aren’t comfortable enough with me to offer it yet and honestly, I’ve been glad, dreading the inevitable moment one of them beckons me into an empty bedroom. Imagining myself nervous and fumbling like that first cigarette, not knowing what to do.
I look over at Sloane, as if asking permission, and watch as she inspects it, the little tablet pressed between her thumb and forefinger. There’s a certain energy vibrating through the room right now, a dangerous anticipation for a night we’ve been watching unfold through the window for weeks. It feels like the start of something, a new season and semester, but also, somehow, the end of it, too. The four of us so desperately wanting to go back to those dog days of summer, reclaim what was rightfully ours. Live in that little bubble of fantasy we had somehow deluded ourselves into thinking would last.
I watch as Sloane tips her head back and pops the pill into her mouth, swallowing it dry. She grimaces a bit, her jaw clenched tight like she just sucked on a lemon, and before I can think twice, I close my eyes and do the same. It goes down slow, painful, a jagged scrape against my throat that makes my tongue curl. Then I stand silent for a minute, as if waiting for some sudden transformation to take place, and when I open my eyes, I find Lucy staring straight at me like that day on the lawn: a diabolical gaze, a gentle nod of approval.
It only dawns on me later: I never even thought to ask what it was.