Free In Deep by Terra Elan McVoy Page A

door, so I have to get up and do it for her. I’m still groggy from such a long sleep and am absolutely ravenous now, but first I have to find my phone. When I do, I’ve got three texts from Grier. The last one says she’s already on her way.

18
    THOUGH THIS PARTY’S MUCH GRUNGIER than last night’s, it certainly isn’t mellow. High school kids from all over ramble through the house, while stoner college girls and their greasy-haired boyfriends lounge by a giant bonfire in the back. Grier and I have heard about these parties—run by the two college dudes who live out here, and attended by anybody who hears about them and wants to go—but we’ve never come out. It’s a long drive, mainly, from her house. And we’ve never really wanted to before.
    Gavin, however, must’ve been looking forward to the opportunity to run into so many of his old friends now that he’s back in town. He high-fives and chest hugs nearly twenty different people as soon as we walk in, including a couple of leggy girlswho look like they want to practice some things they just read about in Cosmo on him. While he says hello, Grier holds on to his arm and tries to glare toughly, though it only ends up making her look like one of them: jealous and possessive boy-crazy girls who always make parties like these extra-uninteresting. Already I want to leave. I poke Gavin hard in the middle of his bicep to get his attention.
    â€œWhere can we get some drinks?”
    â€œKeg’s in the kitchen. Come on.” He holds one arm over all of us, pointing, and pulls Grier closer to him with the other. Squashed up beside him, she gives me a grateful smile. The girls in short shorts melt into the crowd, and I glare at the back of Grier’s head. Gavin hasn’t said, or done, anything to indicate he even remembers last night in the hall, so I don’t know whether to be wary or irritated or relieved or what.
    At the kitchen door, you can see the wear and tear these weekly shindigs have taken on the house. Even if the two yahoos who live here bothered to clean up between party weekends, it would still be one of those dinge-colored homes built over thirty years ago that needs much more than a coat of paint. The kind Mom and Dad and I used to live in, before. Tucked into the elbow space between the sink and lower cabinets is the keg, and we move in the direction of the people grouped around it. Behind us the rest of the counter juts out to divide the main part of the kitchen from the breakfast nook, where there’s a rowdy game of Beer Pong.
    â€œOh, yay!” Grier bounces on her toes and claps her hands. “I want in.”
    â€œYou suck at this game,” I remind her.
    She scowls. “Not once I get warmed up.”
    Gavin laughs. “Maybe you should just watch for a minute. These guys are pros.”
    â€œWhat, you don’t believe in me?” She pokes him in the ribs. He pretends it hurts then does that lip-bite smiling thing that she must think is sexy.
    â€œYou need beer before you can Pong,” I say, rolling my eyes. Standing around, watching people bounce a ball into a cup is even less of my idea of fun, but I push deeper into the crowd around the keg and grab three cups from the towering stack on the counter. I waggle one at Gavin, making a question with my eyes. He nods an emphatic and grateful yes. Grier smiles at me. I smile at her. We both smile at Gavin.
    It’s going to be a long night.
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    About a half hour later, it’s clear that no amount of warming up is going to help Grier with Beer Pong. Gavin and I stand together by the wall, watching her fail and then fail again, both of us laughing and then trying not to laugh when she looks to us for encouragement.
    â€œYou can do it, baby!” Gavin shouts, hands cupped around his mouth. When he drops them back down, one clearly rests on topof mine. He doesn’t move it, and