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over to where Joelen’s friend Deirdre was standing. He offered her a glass. At first Deirdre shook her head, but after some back-­and-­forth she took the glass, sipped, coughed, and laughed. Tito rubbed her back and then slipped his arm around her waist. She gazed up into his eyes, her cheeks pink. Duane glanced about to see if Deirdre’s parents were in the crowd to witness this scene unfold. They weren’t, but Bunny was watching with bottled rage. With a flick of her finger, Bunny gestured Sterling over and said something in his ear. He stood, shot his jacket sleeves, charged over, and inserted himself between Tito and Deirdre.
    Duane took advantage of Sterling’s absence to pull out his second camera and snap picture after picture of Bunny and Joelen, one seated and the other standing, both of them watching drama play out between Tito and Sterling. Joelen looked increasingly distressed. Her mother’s hand clamped on her arm seemed to be the only thing keeping her from rushing over to her friend. The anger on Bunny’s face faded into uncertainty and finally into grim satisfaction. She pulled Joelen down on the sofa beside her, drew her close, and kissed the top of her head. Mother and daughter. They looked so vulnerable, both of them. Duane almost couldn’t bring himself to take another shot.
    When he lowered his camera, both Tito and Deirdre were gone. Deirdre reappeared about an hour later, wobbly on her pins, her bouffant deflated, laughing and dancing about until she started to slow down like an overwound toy. By then the girl’s parents had gone home. At one in the morning when the party ended, Tito still hadn’t put in another appearance.
    D UANE WAS THE last to leave. He’d packed away his equipment and started to walk down the driveway back to his car when he heard girlish singing dissolving into laughter. Shrieks and giggles.
    Deirdre and Joelen were on the lawn, silhouetted in the spotlights mounted at the corners of the house. Joelen had her arms out and her head pitched back as she spun around. She caught her foot on the hem of her dress and sat down hard. Meanwhile, Deirdre twirled, her arms forming an arch over her head as her skirt floated around her. She looked like an ethereal ballerina.
    Duane rummaged in his bag for his camera, but before he could get it out, Deirdre had staggered to a halt. She doubled over, sank to her knees, and just hung there.
    â€œAre you okay?” Duane heard Joelen ask.
    Deirdre hiccupped. “I’m—­” She put her hand over her mouth. Burped. Spasmed. And threw up, vomit exploding from between her fingers. Even from a hundred feet away, Duane could smell it.
    Doubled over, Deirdre vomited again. And again. Finally she just hung there for a few moments before falling over and lying facedown in the grass. “He said—­” The words came out in a croak. Duane moved closer so he could hear better. “He said they were Shirley Temples.”
    â€œTito?” Joelen said, crawling over to Deirdre.
    Duane couldn’t hear the answer. Only Joelen’s next question. “Were they pink?”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œThe drinks. Were they pink?”
    Duane didn’t need to hear the answer. After long pause, Joelen said, “The bastard. Did he do anything else?”
    Deirdre started to cry.
    Duane fought the urge to rush over and comfort her. If anything like this had happened to Susan, he’d have wanted to be there. To tell her that whatever had happened, it wasn’t her fault. Not that he’d ever let Susan dress up and swan about at a Hollywood party like some ingénue. But now that Susan was turning sixteen, soon she’d be driving and God knew what her mother would let her to get into in the back-­of-­beyond Maine. Reality was, Duane was going to miss the rest of his daughter’s firsts: good and bad, triumphs and traumas. He started to weep, and that’s when