010. On the Back Porch

At Aquino High, perfection is only a mask.

By seven o'clock in the evening, I would have thought I'd be feeling better, but I feel just as terrible as I had the moment Spencer walked away. I'm standing in front of my mirror in a burgundy bandage party dress, my hair curled and my makeup done perfectly. Somehow, though, I don't feel strong and powerful like I'd expected.

Chewing down on my lip, I reach for my phone and check the clock for the fifth time in the past ten minutes. It's 7:02—Taylor's party started at seven but Cassidy and Brynn insisted they'd pick me up at 7:15. They tell me it's no use showing up at a party when it's just beginning and nobody's really there yet. I agree: I just want to get in and out of the crowded house as quickly as I possibly can.

I try not to think about what happened earlier that day as I slide on my black heels and grab my clutch from my nightstand. Already I'm sweating from nerves, but I push my hair away from my bare shoulders and eye myself regally in the mirror. I look panicked and afraid, so I push my shoulders back a little further and jut out my chin. Better.

Half an hour later, I'm standing in the entryway of Taylor's house with Brynn and Cassidy flanking me on either side. It's hard to picture what the house looks like empty, since right now it's filled with bodies dancing, calling out to each other, and causing a general ruckus. But I know all too well what it looks like quiet and serene—I haven't been inside since before our beach trip last summer, when everything was normal, but I have a feeling it hasn't changed much at all. The same family portraits line the entryway, and I wonder for a second how things would be different if Allison were included inside the frames.

Someone tugs on my arm. "I'm going to go find Taylor," says Brynn. When I turn to her I see she is toying with the palm tree necklace, the charm disappearing just below the neckline of her shift dress.

"Why?" I hiss. I look to my other side for Cassidy's support, but she's already started mingling. "You have nothing to say to each other."

"I should just thank him for hosting it," she insists. Before I can open my mouth to discourage her, she's slipped away, too.

I guess because my friends aren't accustomed to having me tag along at parties, they think it's perfectly normal to leave me stranded in the doorway. But I don't frequent these social gatherings like they do, and even though I've been to my fair share of parties I don't know who I should approach or what I should do. Most of the people surrounding me are strangers or loose acquaintances from some class or another, and I don't want to talk to any of them.

A brush against my arm directs my attention to my right. Spencer is slipping through the throngs of teenagers, his mint green shirt visible even in the dim light. Since I have nothing better to do, I trail after him.

He makes a stop in Taylor's kitchen, where he helps himself to the contents of the fridge as if he lives there. He doesn't notice me until he turns around and leans against the counter to pop open his can of beer.

"I didn't know you drank," I say in place of a greeting.

He holds the can up to his lips and takes a long sip. "We've established that we don't know each other anymore."

I continue to study him and then shift my attention to his drink, watching with fascination as beads of condensation trickle down onto his hand. The silence grows until it's awkward and tangible. I expected that I'd have something to say to him, but now the moment's here and I don't even know where to start.

"I'm sorry," I try vaguely. "About earlier."

He shrugs, swings open the fridge door, and pulls out another can. "Why don't we just not talk about it?" he asks, handing it to me. "You go about your business and I'll go about mine. I don't know what we were thinking, acting like everything could go back to normal between us."

"You hate me for what I did, don't you?"

He's still holding out the beer. As I take it, he leans back again and says, "Hate's a strong word. It's just that you're like a stranger to me now. A stranger that I don't want to get to know."

I'm speechless, so he takes this as prompting to continue. "If I don't talk to you, maybe I can pretend that you're the same person you used to be. It's torture to watch you turn this selfish and ruthless."

I pop open the can, breaking my nail. That small action, compiled with everything else that has happened, is enough to make tears spring to my eyes once again. Lowering my head, I mutter, "Then act like you don't know me."

He doesn't say anything else, so I inhale and walk away, taking with me whatever small shred of dignity I have left.

The bass from the party is throbbing at my headache, but luckily it's so loud and chaotic inside that I'm soon too distracted to think about crying. I pass my drink between my palms as I wander the various rooms, squeezing past chatting groups. It's not that wild compared to some of the stories I've heard, but I figure that's because it's still early. Cassidy has told me that these parties can go on until one in the morning sometimes—I don't think I'll be able to last that long.

I find Taylor tucked in the back of the house playing an unceremonious game of beer pong. He and Brynn are on a team and are opposing, to my enormous surprise, Celia and Liam.

"Brynn!" I exclaim, hurrying up to her. She has just shot a ball and missed—it bounces off the side of the table and rolls onto the floor.

Her head snaps up when she sees me and she murmurs something to Taylor before hurrying over to me. "Don't worry, I'm not drinking," she says. "You know I hate how it tastes."

"You think I'm concerned about that? Your partner is twice as toxic as the alcohol."

Narrowing her eyes, she sweeps up her silver hair into a sloppy bun and secures it with a hair tie from her wrist. "I'm just trying to enjoy my Friday night, okay? Do you want to take my place? I don't really want to play anymore."

I really do need to talk to Taylor, and this seems like the only opportunity before he gets too intoxicated, so I nod. She steps aside to watch, still clutching her palm tree pendant, as I approach the table.

"Do you even know how to play?" asks Taylor when I take the spot next to him at the head of the table.

I roll my eyes and gesture for Liam to shoot. "Bring it on."

Liam shoots successfully, scoring an overly enthusiastic and extremely uncharacteristic hug from Celia. While they're busy debating a strategy I pick up the ball from our side of the table and aim for the cluster of cups in the middle. To my surprise, I score.

"Sick, Soto," says Taylor, gesturing for Celia to drink.

She tosses her curls and downs the contents of the cup easily before smacking her lips. "You're next, Erika," she says sweetly.

Ten minutes later, Liam and Celia have won the game. After my first bucket, I didn't score any more, and I could tell Taylor was beginning to consider me a burden more than an ally. He had also insisted on drinking most of the cups on our side of the table, which meant I doubt he'll have a clear head for when I want to talk to him. I've shockingly never seen Taylor drunk, but I doubt he's as useful as when he's sober.

Still, I figure I might as well attempt conversation, so I grab his arm and pull him toward me. "We need to talk."

"Let's go out to the back porch." His eyes still look clear and his steps are steady, so I follow him, keeping one hand on his arm as he navigates through the crowd.

When we reach the porch he shoves open the screen door, allowing in a welcome blast of cool air from the backyard. I don't realize just how hot and stuffy it is inside until I've stepped onto the deck and inhaled the fresh breeze. It's freezing outside and already goosebumps are appearing on my arms and legs, but I sit down on the steps and bear it.

"What's up?" he asks, sitting down beside me.

His body heat is so close that I want to snuggle against him despite myself, just so that I can feel warm. Instead, I cross my arms so that I'm hugging myself and say, "You know what's up. We have to talk about what happened after school at some point."

"What is there to talk about? You think you feel bad; how about me? I was dating my own sister."

It strikes me for the first time that maybe he's feeling even worse about this than I could possibly fathom. What I did was despicable, but at least my entire world hasn't been turned upside down.

"I obviously had feelings for Allison," he continues. He's staring down at his hands, intertwining his large fingers around each other thoughtfully. "You can tell me all you want what a bad person I was for cheating on Brynn, but it's true. If it weren't for what I found out today I would have told you that I loved her."

I chew on the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to remain silent.

His hands fall still and he exhales. "Now that I realize she might be my sister, it's like reality has been flipped over and nothing's the same. It makes me question everything. What kind of person am I, to have fallen in love with my own sister?"

"You didn't know," I tell him. Before I can stop myself, my hand snakes out and settles on top of his. He shuts his eyes against my touch but lets it stay there. For a few moments, we sit in silence and contemplate. Part of me knows he would never tell me any of this if he didn't have a little alcohol in him, but I'm glad he's confiding. It proves to me that there is some human in Taylor Cunningham, that he's vulnerable and uncertain just like the rest of us.

"Now that you know," I press, "You don't still like her, right?"

"No. There's someone else I'm infatuated with, believe it or not. It's something else I've managed to screw up."

I squint my eyes at him. "Brynn?"

"No." He lifts his head again so that he's staring right at me, those dark eyes piercing straight through my skin. Out here in the dark it's peaceful and intimate, like we're the only people in the world. I would never have thought that I'd feel so safe with Taylor, and yet here we are.

He opens his mouth to say something else but shuts it at the last minute. His cheeks have turned faintly red from the cold, and I instinctively want to reach out and press my fingers against the skin. "We'll figure out what's going on with Allison," I promise. I realize belatedly that my hand is still on his, and I retreat it before I do anything I'll regret. "She may not even be your sister. We'll get to the bottom of it."

For a few seconds, he doesn't say anything at all; then he shuts his eyes again and breathes, "I'm such a monster."

A few months ago, I would have agreed with him and added insult to injury. But after what happened with Allison earlier, I feel hyper-aware of the consequences of my actions, of every word I choose to utter. So instead of making him feel worse about himself I try something new.

"No, you're not," I insist. The words feel foreign on my tongue; I haven't sympathized with or reassured Taylor in almost a year. "None of this is your fault. I'm sorry I blackmailed you into telling Allison."

The apology hangs in the air even more awkwardly. I expect him to stand and walk away, but instead he twists his torso so that he's facing me. His black t-shirt contrasts starkly with his tan skin as he lifts a hand and presses it against my cheek. Slowly, he closes the distance between us. I smell beer faint on his breath as he shuts his eyes and lets his nose barely brush mine.

The part of me that told him I was sorry and that held his hand tells me to kiss him, but the stronger, more rational part of me leans away. I stand abruptly, brushing off my dress. Now that I'm away from him, the cold hits me even more acutely.

"I'd better go inside and find Cassidy," I manage, glancing at him one last time. He nods in acknowledgement, but he's back to twisting his hands together. Something about how lonely he looks sitting alone makes me want to join him again, but I refrain.

When I slip back inside the house, my senses go on overload. In my absence, the party has only grown more intense, and I nervously sidestep a recent spill on the floor. I'm not sure who I'm looking for, only that I want to go home. I've had enough for one night.

The first familiar face I see is Brynn's. She's standing in a corner chatting with some girls in our grade; when she sees me, she purses her lips and parts from the group.

"I'm going home," I tell her when she's within earshot.

She leans in to hear me over the raging music, then says, "Okay. Do you have a ride? I'm not leaving yet."

Something about her tone seems cold and abrupt, but I dismiss it in my eagerness to leave. "No."

Shrugging, she starts to head back to the girls she was talking to. "See if Allison's going back yet," is all she says before she's gone and I'm left alone again.

I weave through enthusiastic partiers in search of my sister, narrowing my eyes to distinguish all the figures in the dimly lit house. I don't see Taylor, and I wonder if he's still sitting outside freezing on the porch. While I want to find him a jacket, I doubt I'll be able to make my way to his coat closet in the crowd.

Yelling from the living room catches my attention, and I try to steer my way through. It's like walking in molasses, but finally I'm there, allowed a clear view of Allison standing on the coffee table. Her dress is stained and crooked, but somehow her hair is still impeccable. I can see her mouth moving but at first can't hear what she's saying over all the murmuring in the crowd. Then, slowly, I make it out.

"...supposed to be my sister, but who knows anymore? She's throwing that in my face, too! As if it's not enough that she's fought me for everything my whole life, and now this?"

She teeters on the table in her six-inch heels, and for a second the crowd holds its breath to see if she'll tip over the edge. I push my way between two brawny guys until I'm right in front of her.

"Allison!" I exclaim, standing on my tiptoes so she can see me more clearly. "Come down from there."

"Why should I?"

I see that she's holding an almost-empty plastic cup in her right hand. Gently, I reach forward and pry it out of her grip before setting it on the table at her feet. "We're going home," I say, trying to keep my voice low—the last thing my sister needs is to cause more of a scene.

She almost falls over again, except this time her hand catches on my shoulder for balance. "Why are you helping me?" she hisses.

"I'm your sister." I want to tell her it's because I feel guilty of what I did to her, and even though I know I can never make it up to her, at least this is a start. Somehow it's easier to love her when she's lost and helpless, just like it was with Taylor. I realize I don't really feel threatened by her anymore: she's a person just like I am, and now her weaknesses are destroying her seemingly perfect aura just like mine did. At Aquino High, perfection is only a mask.

For a few tense seconds, she studies me as if she's considering my offer. Then she clenches her jaw and snaps, "You're not my sister."

Someone in the crowd hoots, and I turn around to see the two guys I'd sidestepped grinning from ear to ear at the show. I want to pick a fight with them, but Allison is still shakily maintaining her position on the table, and she has to be my priority.

As I stare past the boys I see Spencer in the back of the crowd, watching us with his forehead wrinkled. I call out to him and his head snaps to attention; he hesitates when he sees me gesturing for him to come closer.

"Spencer, come here!" I shout, desperate to be heard over the music. "I don't care how angry you are at me. Come help Allison."

At first I think he'll refuse, but then he begins pushing his way through until he's standing in front of me.

"Can you carry her out to the car for me?" I ask him.

He avoids looking at me as he scoops Allison up, cradling her bridal-style. I deftly snatch her clutch and take her keys, and we scoot back through the swarm to reach the front door.

We're completely silent as we make our way to the driveway and deposit Allison in the passenger seat of her car. When I climb in the driver's side, I'm surprised that Spencer stops me from closing the door with his knee.

We stare at each other, so many words dancing on the ends of our tongues, but neither of us takes the plunge. His blue eyes flicker with something like regret, and I have a feeling they're mirroring my own. But then he steps back. "Drive safe," he says simply.

I want to respond, but he's already shutting the door.