Fire with Fire

I’M AT LUNCH WITH EVERYONE ON WEDNESDAY WHEN two sophomore girls nervously approach our table. They look so young, both of them, in jeans that are way too blue and way too baggy, track-and-field fleeces, and Converse sneakers.

“Um, Rennie? Could we ask you a quick question?” the one with the straw-colored ponytail asks.

“If you’re not too busy,” the mousy one adds.

Over the past few weeks I’ve become very adept at pretending Rennie does not exist. Almost as good as she is at pretending that I don’t exist. So I go back to the pages of my history textbook and pretend to be utterly absorbed by a portrait of Eli Whitney.

Plus, I already know what this is about.

The two girls produce a clipping and place it down on the table for Rennie to see. From what I can tell without totally obviously looking, it looks like maybe something cut out of a teen magazine. Or a department-store catalog? “We were wondering if this dress would work for your party.”

Rennie’s New Year’s Eve party is all anyone can talk about. It’s going to be at her mom’s gallery, the last hurrah before Ms. Holtz sells the place. It will be Rennie’s pièce de résistance, her masterpiece. It’s a twenties theme, and she’s pulling out all the stops; she’s been hoarding bottles of gin and champagne from Bow Tie for the past month. It’s been easy enough with all the company holiday parties they’ve been hosting; according to Rennie, there are plenty of bottles at the end of the night. And everyone’s going to be in costume, too. Girls have been coming up to Rennie showing her pictures of their dresses and getting approval on 1920s hairstyles. I actually spotted her, forehead wrinkled with concentration, reading The Great Gatsby during a free period, which is hilarious, because we were assigned that, like, freshman year.

I was the first one Rennie told about this idea, back on the first day of school. Rennie has practically invited the whole school to the party, but she hasn’t invited me. She hasn’t flat-out banned me, but she hasn’t invited me either. I don’t want to go, but it’s not like I have a choice. It’s the final stage of our plan.

Rennie tears into both of the girls. “Are you serious right now? First off, this is a prom dress, not a New Year’s Eve dress. And it is not flapper-esque. See the cinched waist? And that awful-looking poufy skirt? It’s a lame fifties-housewife costume.” She actually crumples up the paper and chucks it on the cafeteria floor.

For as long as I’ve known her, Rennie has been on me to have a party at my house. I’ve always said no, because the kind of party my parents would let me have is not the kind of party any of our friends would be interested in going to—i.e., no alcohol, no loud music, no skinny-dipping, no hooking up in random bedrooms. It would be more like karaoke and a cheese plate.

And the truth is, I’ve never been that into the idea of hosting a bunch of people. It seems so stressful, making sure everybody’s having a good time but also making sure they’re not wrecking the house. It is a perfect party house, though. My mom designed it that way, with an open floor plan and high vaulted ceilings and plenty of room to move around in. And the movie night I had a few weeks ago worked out fine.

I spend the rest of the day wondering why Rennie is the only one to ever throw parties. Why she and she alone gets to be the gatekeeper to all social activities on Jar Island.

That night, an opportunity arises. We’re cooking dinner when my mom suggests the three of us surprise my dad this weekend in New York, where he’s speaking at a medical conference. I remind her how I have to work on my college apps, and she says, “Lillia, you hardly ever get to see your dad. This will be such nice family time. We’ll see a show, go to brunch, check out that new art installation at the Met. Maybe get a massage. We can do some Christmas shopping too! Didn’t you say you need new riding boots?”

I know she thinks she’s going to get me with the shopping, but I stand my ground. “Daddy will be stuck working the whole time. It’s not like he’s going to the spa with us.”

“He’ll be able to meet us for dinners,” my mom argues.

“Mommy, I need to work on my applications. Things have been so crazy with schoolwork that I haven’t been able to concentrate on them the way I need to.” I mean it too.

My mom sighs. “All right. We’ll go another time.”

“You and Nadi should still go,” I tell her. “I’ll be fine by myself, promise.”

I can read the indecision on my mom’s face. She really wants to get off the island; she’ll take any excuse to escape. The winters here drive her crazy. It makes her feel claustrophobic, not being able to leave, with the weather so cold and wet and gray. Plus, she loves New York. She lived in New York when she was in her early twenties, and she gets all nostalgic when she talks about running around the city with her friends.

Nadia’s listening from the couch, and she chimes in, “Please, pretty please, can we still go? I want to go shopping!” Hastily she adds, “And also I want to see Daddy.”

“I don’t know. A whole weekend alone?”

In a strong, firm voice I say, “Mommy, I’ll be okay. I stayed by myself last month and it was totally fine.”

“Well . . . I do love New York at Christmastime,” she says, looking back at Nadia, who squeals. “The whole city is wrapped up like a present.” She looks back at me and says, “You can have Rennie stay over here to keep you company.”

“Maybe,” I say, and Nadia raises her eyebrows. I turn away and start filling water glasses.

“What’s going on with you two?” my mom asks. “She hasn’t been around much lately.”

“Nothing. We’re both just busy.”

I can tell my mom was gearing up to ask another question. Time for a subject change. “Mommy, when you guys are in New York, can you pick me up some of that face cream I like from the spa you go to? The one that smells like sugarplums?”

“Maybe Santa will put it in your stocking,” my mom says with a wink.

So this is how I come to be having my first ever party party. I tell everybody at the lunch table on Thursday, and the sour look on Rennie’s face makes the whole thing worth it in advance. “Friday night, seniors only,” I say. “Super exclusive. I don’t want any random sophomores or whatever. Only the people we like.” Which means not you, Rennie.

“Your mom’s letting you have a party?” Rennie looks skeptical.

I’m about to snap at her, but then I realize that these are the first words Rennie has spoken to me in over a month. I force a swallow and say, “My mom won’t be here. Nadia, either.”

Rennie’s face gets pinched. “What about booze? Let me guess, this is going to be a dry party. Diet Coke and lemonade, am I right?”

I ignore her and touch Reeve’s arm. “Reeve? Can you ask one of your brothers to get me a few kegs for tomorrow? I can pay you after school.”

“No prob,” he says, gulping down a carton of milk. He wipes his mouth. “Tommy owes me for helping him move last week. Do you want some liquor, too? Something sweet for the girls, like peach schnapps or whatever?”

Hmm. I don’t want things to get too too crazy. But Rennie’s watching, so I say, “Maybe a bottle of tequila. For shots.” To the table I say, “But I don’t want it to get, like, out of hand. Can you guys please help me keep things under control? My mom will kill me if the house gets wrecked.”

Reeve nudges my foot under the table, his sneaker to my bootie. “I’ll be your bouncer,” he promises, giving me a look. “Only VIPs at Princess Lillia’s party.”

I’m tempted to sneak a peek at Rennie, to see the look on her face, but there’s no need. I know she’s seething inside. Guaranteed. To add more fuel to the flames, I say, “And there won’t be a theme. Themes are so over.”

“Sounds good,” Alex says. “Let me know if I can help. Whatever you need.”

“Maybe you can pick up the pizzas?” I ask.

Alex nods. “No problem.”

After school Reeve texted me and asked me to help him find an outfit for Rennie’s party, and I said yes, only because I hoped it would get back to her. So here we are at Second Time Around, a thrift store near Reeve’s house that his mom told him about. Reeve’s in front of a full-length mirror, trying on a double-breasted pin-striped jacket. “Um, I think that’s a women’s suit jacket!” I say, and I collapse into a fit of giggles.

“No way,” Reeve says confidently. “It’s definitely menswear. It just has a sleeker cut.”

I come up behind and get on my toes to check the label. Ann Taylor. “You’re right,” I say, trying not to smile. “Menswear.”

Reeve gives me a suspicious look and takes off the jacket. When he reads the label, he exclaims, “Ann Taylor! My mom shops there.” He tosses the jacket to me and I put it back on the hanger. “If I can’t find anything else, I guess it’ll work. The man makes the clothes; the clothes don’t make the man.”

I shake my head at him in mock wonder. “I can’t even believe how cocky you are.” I’m giving him a hard time, but the truth is, it’s nice to see him acting like his old self. I hand him a gray checked vest with buttons down the front. “You could wear this with a dress shirt and a tie.”

He unbuttons it and tries it on over his shirt. “Not bad,” Reeve says, checking himself out.

He does look handsome. Very GQ. I take a gray fedora off the hat rack and place it on his head. “Now you look perfect,” I tell him, tilting it just so. “Very jaunty. Very Gatsby-esque.” His cheeks are smooth; he shaved this morning. And he smells good—not like he doused himself in cologne, but clean, like Irish Spring soap.

“Cool, I’ll get it,” Reeve says. I can tell he’s pleased. He looks at himself in the mirror one last time, and then he takes the hat off and puts it on my head. He’s looking down at me, and then he gives my side braid a tug, and I have this strong feeling that he’s about to kiss me.

But behind Reeve, across the store, I spot two girls and a guy from our high school picking through the racks. They’re drama kids, probably looking for costumes or something. I don’t know their names, but I bet they know who Reeve and I are. And if they spotted us kissing, that kind of juicy gossip would be all over the school in a heartbeat.

Suddenly I feel dizzy. I take a quick step back and then dart away from him and head up to the register. Reeve follows, and I tell the girl at the counter, “We’ll take the fedora and the vest.”

Then Reeve pays, and we walk back toward his truck. The sun is bright out, but it’s cold. I tighten the scarf around my neck. I’m about to hop into the passenger side of the truck when Reeve clears his throat and says, “Would you want to come to my family’s open house?”

“What’s an open house?” Is he moving?

“It’s a thing my parents do every December,” Reeve explains. “My mom cooks a bunch of food, and people stop by all day. Mostly family and neighbors. It’ll be, like, my brothers and their girlfriends and my cousins. We watch football and decorate the tree, hang lights on the garage, nothing special.”

I wet my lips nervously. “When is it?”

“This Sunday. Drop by whenever. We’ll be around all day.”

“Okay,” I say. I’ve known Reeve for years, and I don’t remember him ever mentioning an open house. I can’t believe he’s actually inviting me. It’s really sweet. But it’s also really real. Like, hanging out with his mom and dad and brothers and their girlfriends? That’s something only a girlfriend would do.

Which I guess is a good thing.

Reeve’s face breaks into a relieved smile. “Yeah? Okay, cool. You can stop by whenever. I mean, people start coming in the morning, and my mom makes these kick-ass sweet rolls, so maybe come around ten before my brothers eat them all.”

“Cool,” I echo.

He looks so happy that I wonder if maybe he’ll try to kiss me again.

Reeve opens the passenger-side door for me, and I climb in, my scarf trailing behind me. Before he shuts the door, he picks up the end of my scarf so it won’t get caught in the door, and he winds it around my neck. Then he runs around the other side and starts the car and turns the heater on. “It’ll get warm pretty fast,” he tells me, and I nod. I have to keep telling myself that none of this is real; it’s all going to be over soon. I can’t let myself get swept away because I have feelings for him. I can’t have feelings for him. I have to control it.

Reeve pulls up in front of my house, and before I get out, he says, “Everything’s set with the kegs. I’m going to pick them up tomorrow after school. I can grab the pizzas, too.”

Surprised, I say, “Oh, thanks, but Alex said he’d pick them up.”

“I’ll do it. It’s on my way.”

“Okay. Thank you. I’ll give the pizza place my credit card number when I place the order tomorrow.”

Reeve gives me a weird look and says, “I can afford a couple of pizzas, Cho.”

Great, now I’ve offended him. I’m trying to think of what to say to make it less awkward, and then he goes, “I can come early with everything and help you get set up, if you want.”

I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “People are going to notice, you know.”

Reeve shrugs. “What?”

“Come on, Reeve. I’m just saying that if we want things to stay, you know, between us, we should probably be more discreet.”

Reeve reaches out and tucks some of my hair behind my ear. “We’re not going to be able to hide this forever.”

“I know that. But we can’t, like, throw it in everyone’s faces either. People will get upset.” People, aka Rennie and Alex.

He rubs his eyes. “I’m just going to do what feels right. If people have a problem with that . . . well, then they can go to hell.”

I nod. What else can we do? Then I go with what feels right to

me at that very second. I lean across the center console and give Reeve a peck on the cheek. I do it so quick I don’t get to see the look on his face, and then I hop out and run to my front door.

I’m breathless and flushed by the time I run up the stairs and to my room. I’m brushing my hair in front of my vanity when Nadia steps inside in one of our dad’s big Harvard sweatshirts and her fuzzy slippers. “Hey,” I say. “I thought you were going to the barn.”

“I am, later.” She comes and sits on my bed and watches me, her arms hugging her knees. “You look happy.”

“I do?”

“Yeah. Was that Reeve dropping you off?”

I notice something in her voice. A sharpness. “Yeah. A bunch of us were hanging out downtown and he gave me a ride home because he was on his way over to Alex’s.”

Nadia doesn’t say anything. She knows I’m lying. I know I’m lying. And so the lie just sits there between us. Then she says, “I saw you kiss him.”

“On the cheek!”

She shakes her head, looking at me like I am a stranger. “But you know it’s not right. Whatever you’re doing with him, it’s not right.”

“Why can’t it be right?” My voice sounds weak, desperate.

I hate that Nadia’s looking at me like that—like she’s disappointed in me. Like I’ve disappointed her. “Because you know how Rennie feels about him. He’s hers.”

“No, he’s not. She thinks he is, but he’s not.” I feel tears spring to my eyes as I say, “I don’t even know how you can defend her after the way she’s been treating me. Have you really not noticed? It’s been almost two whole months of her ignoring me in public, talking about me behind my back. And I know you and all your friends have been making decorations and stuff for her New Year’s Eve party. How is that supposed to make me feel? You’re supposed to be on my side, Nadi. You’re my sister, not hers.”

“It’s not about what she’s doing. It’s about what you’re doing.” Nadia looks like she is about to cry too.

“Nadi,” I begin. I’m not sure what I can say to make this better. Before I can figure it out, my sister gets up and leaves. I call out her name again, but she doesn’t come back.