Ruth’s parents are in San Francisco for a week, so at least she will have some time to repair, clean, and explain, but I’m glad it’s not my house all the same. Ruth’s older brother, Jake, has also invited his friends, and altogether there are about a hundred people here and all of them are drunk. There are more guys than girls and I wish I had worn pants and flats, but it’s too late to do anything about it. As I walk into the kitchen to get a drink someone behind me says, “Check out Miss Look-But-Don’t-Touch!” and makes an obscene slurping sound. I spin around and see the guy we call Lizardface (because of his acne) leering at me. “Nice dress, Clare.”

　“Thanks, but it’s not for your benefit, Lizardface.”

　He follows me into the kitchen. “Now, that’s not a very nice thing to say, young lady. After all, I’m just trying to express my appreciation of your extremely comely attire, and all you can do is insult me...”He won’t shut up. I finally escape by grabbing Helen and using her as a human shield to get out of the kitchen.

　“This sucks,” says Helen. “Where’s Ruth?”

　Ruth is hiding upstairs in her bedroom with Laura. They are smoking a joint in the dark and watching out the window as a bunch of Jake’s friends skinny dip in the pool. Soon we are all sitting in the window seat gawking.

　“Mmm,” says Helen. “I’d like some of that.”

　“Which one?” Ruth asks.

　“The guy on the diving board.”

　“Ooh.”

　“Look at Ron,” says Laura.

　“That’s Ron?” Ruth giggles.

　“Wow. Well, I guess anyone would look better without the Metallica T-shirt and the skanky leather vest,” Helen says. “Hey, Clare, you’re awfully quiet.”

　“Um? Yeah, I guess,” I say weakly.

　“Look at you,” says Helen. “You are, like, cross-eyed with lust. I am ashamed of you. How could you let yourself get into such a state?” She laughs. “Seriously, Clare, why don’t you just get it over with?”

　“I can’t,” I say miserably.

　“Sure you can. Just walk downstairs and yell ‘Fuck me!’ and about fifty guys would be yelling ‘Me! Me!’”

　“You don’t understand. I don’t want—it’s not that—”

　“She wants somebody in particular,” Ruth says, without taking her eyes off the pool.

　“Who?” Helen asks.

　I shrug my shoulders.

　“Come on, Clare, spit it out.”

　“Leave her alone,” Laura says. “If Clare doesn’t want to say, she doesn’t have to.” I am sitting next to Laura, and I lean my head on her shoulder.

　Helen bounces up. “I’ll be right back.”

　“Where you going?”

　“I brought some champagne and pear juice to make Bellinis, but I left it in the car.” She dashes out the door. A tall guy with shoulder-length hair does a backwards somersault off the diving board.

　“Ooh la la,” say Ruth and Laura in unison.