“I will.” He backs up to the spot where his motorcycle sits on our lawn, half-concealed by a tree’s shadow. If I hadn’t been checking my phone, I’d have seen it when I walked up.
Tom tosses the community gate fob into the grass at my feet so I’ll have to bend over to get it. When I straighten, he gives me a slow smile, the kind that used to melt my insides. “What are you doing this weekend?”
“I have plans with Jordan and Nicky.”
“Plans? What plans?”
I stare him down, pinching my lips tight.
“So you don’t want to tell me. Fine.” He ruffles his shock of wavy black hair. “I’ll figure it out. See you soon, Daisy. Be a good girl.”
With a grin, he kicks off and rides away down the street. The growl of his bike fades into the endless sawing song of the cicadas. The glow of a swelling white moon silvers the lawn, touching the leaves of the bushes with liquid light.
I’ve always loved the soft, mysterious shine of a full moon, maybe even more than I love the bright cheer of the sun. I once knew a boy who loved the moon just as much as I do…who claimed he’d sipped moonlight. When I asked him what it tasted like, he said, “Your smile.”
I haven’t seen that boy in eight years. He probably doesn’t care about moonlight anymore. Probably doesn’t remember me at all.
3
“Don’t add more lip stain now!” Nick leans forward from the back seat of the car to squawk at me. “If Jordan hits a bump in the road, your look will be ruined.”
I ignore him and daub a little more crimson onto my mouth.
“Bump!” warns Jordan, and I lower my hand just before the car jolts.
“All good,” I reassure Nick.
“Thank god.” The leather squeaks as he shifts back again. “I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I’ve been here before. Got the Evite and everything.”
“Evite?” Jordan glances back at him. “I didn’t get an Evite. No one gets an Evite, Nick. People just show up. It’s word of mouth.”
“But—that doesn’t make any sense. I know I got an Evite.” After a few seconds of silence he shoves his phone over Jordan’s shoulder. “Look.”
“Fool, I’m driving.” She glances at the screen and shrugs him off. “So you’re the only person in the county to get an invitation. Lucky you.”
“Isn’t that weird though?” Nick retreats to the back seat again. “I wonder why. It’s not like I’m anyone special.”
I wince inwardly at his words. Nick lives at the end of this very road, in a modest little neighborhood much cheaper than ours, tucked into a rocky cleft. The neighborhood has no view and a stormwater drainage problem, which is why my aunt and uncle were able to afford it. They’re struggling artists with a few patrons in Asheville and Greenville and the surrounding area, and they barely make enough to hold the house. Nick’s Fiat was a gift from my parents for his eighteenth birthday a couple years ago. If they hadn’t been so generous, he’d probably still be taking the bus or riding his bicycle everywhere—and a bike is not an easy mode of transportation in the mountains.
As a kid, before our fortunes changed, I used to envy Nick. When my family would drive up to visit his, it was exciting, glamorous. He had a pool—an old, smallish one, but still, his family seemed unattainably wealthy in comparison to mine. After each visit, I had to return to our tiny two-bedroom in the Ashmore Valley apartment complex.
Ashmore Valley was a drab, treeless maze of tenement buildings in Easley, South Carolina, halfway between the lush, vibrant city of Greenville and the artsy mountain city of Asheville. The owners of the complex cared so little for improvements that the siding had long since faded from hopeful blue to the same sun-blasted gray as the cracked pavement. The apartment interiors were full of cracks, too—thin cracks in the drywall, wider ones along the baseboards, moldering cracks in the grout between the shower tiles, and thread-thin cracks through the porcelain of the sinks. The worst hid beneath the footworn carpets. Earwigs and centipedes slithered up through those crevices, searching for crumbs and respite from the sweltering heat. Since the air conditioning was broken more often than not, the bugs didn’t improve their lives much by crawling into our home. I used to long for the rare weekends when I could play video games in Nicky’s blessedly cool house, or swim in his pool.
Now I have my pick of the enormous, luxurious pools and other amenities in our community, and my parents’ house is twice as big as Nick’s. I enjoy my life, but I’ve always had an itching discomfort over the way our roles have reversed.
“You are special,” I tell Nick defiantly.
“Thanks, precious. But it’s weird, isn’t it? That I’m the only one who was invited.”
“A little strange,” I admit. “Maybe the guy who owns the house has a crush on you. Maybe he saw you last time and decided he had to see you again.”
“But I’ve never met him. And he doesn’t usually show up to his own parties. Or if he’s there, he doesn’t introduce himself to anyone.”
I frown, glancing at Jordan. “Is that true?”
“Yup.” The gold paint on her cheekbones gleams in the light of a passing car. “I asked around. No one I know has actually met him.”
“How strange.”
“Maybe you’ll meet him tonight.” Jordan nods ahead. “Here we are.”
I crane my neck for a better view as she makes the turn. The house is a bonfire of golden windows and smoke-blue shadows. A broad driveway sweeps around it on the right, and Jordan nudges her Jaguar into the line of cars inching toward the parking area at the back. When we find a space, it’s far from the rear entrance of the house, but that doesn’t matter because the party spills into the grounds, too, under white canopies and latticed gazebos strung with Edison-style bulbs. People flutter through the gardens, looking half-translucent as they cross the streaming paths of light. The house looms over it all, an incandescent monstrosity, the pulsing multistory heart of a party that seems to sprawl for acres.
“Wow.” I stare up at the shining windows. I haven’t even stepped out of the car, and I can already feel the beat of the dance music throbbing in my bones. “This is really it?”
“Yup.” Jordan throws the car into Park. “This is Gatsby’s place.”
Shock blazes like cold fire along my veins. “Wait, what?”
“Gatsby’s house. The guy who hosts the parties.”
“Gatsby—what Gatsby? I mean, what’s his first name?”
Jordan quirks an eyebrow at me. “I’m not sure. He likes to go by his last name, I guess. Who cares?”
“I don’t care,” I reply hastily. “I just… I would have liked to know.”
“O-okay.” Jordan drags out the word, a clear sign she thinks I’m being weird.
