Free Blackbird by Anna Carey

funny,” he says.
    “It’s an old woman’s name.”
    “That’s why it’s funny.”
    You look outside the passenger window. Kids stumble up the lawn, some with red solo cups, others pulling flasks from their back pockets. The driveway is strewn with crunched cans. Behind the metal gate, you can just see the top of the crowd, heads bobbing, the occasional hand thrown in the air.
    “I shouldn’t have talked to that girl today . . .” you say, picking up your conversation from earlier. You run your finger under the leather wristband. Ben found it in a drawer and gave it to you, the strap now covering the tattoo.
    “What were you supposed to do, ignore her? That would’ve been even weirder.”
    Ben grabs a few plastic boxes from the glove compartment and tucks them in his hoodie. “That news clip ran three days ago; if she hasn’t seen it by now, she won’t,” he says. “I was the one who drove you there and even I had to play it back three times to be sure it was you. Worst thing that happens is someone tells my mom I had a girl over. She’ll probably be relieved I’m not just sitting around in my underwear eating Cheetos.”
    He steps out of the car, waving for you to follow. A girl and boy sit on the lawn, the beer sloshing over the side of her cup as they kiss. “So what’s the story?” you say, leaning in so they can’t hear. “I’m your cousin?”
    Ben laughs. “Yeah, sure. No one will ask, though. We’ll be in and out in ten minutes.”
    You keep your head down as you leave the Jeep, your hand going up to block yourface. The music is loud. The house spreads out on the side of a hill, the city below quiet and calm. Ben walks in front of you. He presses his hand into his jeans pocket, feeling for the tiny boxes you watched him assemble. He’d promised he was just dropping stuff off. In and out, just stopping by, he’d said.
    He slaps hands with a boy in a Dodgers hat. You weave through the crowd, squeezing past girls with heavy eye makeup and stiff curls. “Rex, this is my cousin Rita!” Ben yells. A boy with bloodshot eyes smiles, nods at you. Ben pushes farther ahead, toward a set of sliding glass doors. Beyond them a few kids pass around a bong. Ben spins back, grabbing your hand.
    “I’ll be right back,” he says. “Promise you won’t get into too much trouble?”
    “I’ll try my best.” You turn, taking in the packed yard. A boy has gone into the pool with all his clothes on. Now his sweatshirt balloons out around him, his jeans clinging to his scrawny legs.
    As Ben disappears inside you cut across the patio, under strands of old Christmas lights, to a table covered with half-empty bottles. Two girls are there, squeezing limes into some pink concoction. You pour whiskey over ice, taking the first sip, enjoying how it warms your throat as it goes down. Ben was right. No one seems to notice you. The girls are talking about some friends they met up with in some park, how they go there to drink sometimes (no cops), and maybe they’ll see a band tomorrow at the Echoplex.
    It’s freeing, being lost among so many people. Some guys are playing beer pong beside the pool. Other kids are sprawled out on the grass, hair tangled and wet, their eyes half closed. You’re wearing a baggy T-shirt, a hoodie, and shorts, and that’s its own layer of invisibility. Not a single guy turns to look at you. No one studies your face. You sit down on the patio and take off your sneakers, letting your feet land in the cold, clear water, soaking your legs up to the knees.
    You drain the drink. You watch the party unfold in front of you. The boy splashes over to a raft, resting his arms on it. Girls form a circle in the far corner of the lawn, dancing. You think: This is what normal looks like. Your limbs warm, the pain in your side slips away. You don’t know how much time has passed when Ben comes back. He looks into the cup. “Having fun?”
    “I should’ve made one for you.”
    “Nah, I don’t