Ghosting Read Free Page A

with too much time on their hands,
    gotta blow off steam.
    Some girl will end up in the ER
    from too many shots of Jägermeister,
    swearing to her parents it’s the first time she ever tried it.
    And they’ll believe her,
    God help ’em.
    Some boys will go joyriding out on Highway 54
    or drag racing down Central.
    Worst was back in ’86,
    before my time:
    three seventeen-year-old boys dead,
    Dad’s Jaguar wrapped around a century-old oak tree.
    Me, I’ve been lucky,
    knock wood.
    Nobody’s died,
    not on my watch.
    Not yet.

Saturday, August 28, 6:00 p.m.
    MAXIE
    I try on about ten different combinations of
    jeans and shirts,
    skirts and tees,
    which is so stupid,
    because it really doesn’t matter
    what I wear.
    It’ll be lame compared to
    Emma and
    Chloe the gorgeous.
    I put on some old jeans
    and my lavender shirt,
    the one I wore for the unofficial
    good-bye–to–Colorado party
    my best friend Mandy threw together
    at the last minute.
    Which was fantastic
    and sad
    and awkward,
    all at once.
    Dad is just back
    from the grocery store.
    He’s piled all the canvas tote bags
    on the counter
    and Mom is helping him
    put groceries away
    and I’m thinking this is a
    cozy domestic scene,
    tranquil even,
    until Mom pulls out a six-pack
    of amber
    long-
    necked
    beer
    bottles
    with
    orange
    labels.
    What’s this?
she asks, frowning.
    This,
says Dad, with a silly grin,
is some seriously fine summer ale.
    We can’t afford fancy-schmancy summer ale
, says Mom.
    Oh, come on, Glory. We need to celebrate the end of summer.
    He slides an arm
    around her waist,
    but Mom dodges it,
    her lips tight.
    Dad reaches into a drawer for
    a bottle opener.
    The sound isn’t the same as
    the metallic pop-squelch of a can.
    This is more of a
    long
    cool
    hissing
    noise.
    He slips out the back door,
    beer in hand.
    Mom sighs.
    Are you having dinner with us, Maxine?
she asks.
    No, thanks,
I say.
Emma said we’d probably grab a bite somewhere.
    You look nice,
says Mom, her eyes softening.
I’m so glad you’re spending the evening with Emma. Just like old times.
    Did I mention
    how moms can be
    clueless?
    Dad reappears.
    And I can’t help spotting that
    the beer bottle is almost
    empty.
    Already.
    Hey, Dad, can you give me a ride to Emma’s?
I sayquickly, hoping my mom isn’t noticing what I just noticed.
    Of course, Maxie-bean,
he answers.
    Dad has about
    a million nicknames
    for me.
    Mom and I watch
    as he polishes off the rest of his
    fine summer ale.
    Let’s go, bread-face,
he says.
    Honestly, who calls their kid
    bread-face?
    But truth is
    I love it.
    Reminds me of being a kid,
    eating sugar sandwiches
    with squishy white bread and butter.
    That’s when he first
    started calling me
    bread-face,
    when sugar sandwiches were
    my favorite food
    in the entire world
    and I wanted them for
    every meal.
    Have fun, Maxine,
says Mom.
    As we drive
    Dad shoots me
    a sideways glance.
    Don’t worry, bean,
he says.
    About what?
I ask, surprised.
    Anything,
he answers with a grin.
    Dad has always
    been able to read
    my face.
    Okay, who am I kidding.
    Most people can read
    my face.
    Face control is not
    my strong suit.
    But suddenly,
    I have this feeling,
    a shivery foreboding sort of feeling,
    that tonight,
    with Emma,
    I’m going to need all
    the face control I can manage.

EMMA
    Up in my bedroom I can smell
    cinnamon and oats, from the cookies
    Faith baked earlier.
    The AC is on, but I’ve got
    the window open.
    I like the heat.
    Brendan wanted our last Saturday night
    before school to be with his lacrosse buddies,
    so he’s mad at me.
    Too bad. But the best part
    will be after anyway.
    When it is just us two.
    I like it with Brendan, especially
    the way he kisses me.
    He’s good at kissing.
    It surprised me the first time.
    Soft and sweet and kind of eager.
    Not like I expected.
    And I’ve always liked Bren best when
    we’re alone. Otherwise he can be an asshole,
    all Mr. Cool, life of the party.
    I guess that’s because of his