the lying days

Alex and Brianna broke up after Thanksgiving. Brianna had taken Alex home to Westchester to meet her parents. She told me about the fight that precipitated the break-up over drinks soon after we got back to school. I couldn’t really follow—something about three years and him not caring and she was the most beautiful she would probably ever be. Brianna always spoke quickly, but between sips of her vodka soda, she was babbling so rapidly that I hadn’t the faintest. Brianna darling, I haven’t the faintest, I told her. She sighed, impatient. Then she scanned the bar, looking for a suitable guy to give her number to. Excuse me, she said.

Anyway, because of the break-up, everyone had to pick sides for all of December, though we knew that on New Year’s Eve, Alex and Brianna would get back together. She’d be in a sequined dress, with thick black eyeliner swooping out past the edge of her eyes, and he’d be especially fucked up for the occasion, and as we counted down to another goddamn year, they would sneak off into a bedroom. The next day, after brunch, but still horribly hungover, Brianna would call her mother and tell her that the whole issue with Alex was forgotten, and that he was a great guy, always was. I don’t know what I was thinking, she would say.

I went to this awful Christmas party with Brianna and the guy she picked up to replace Alex. His name was Keats (for the poet, he said, and I rolled my eyes), and he worked at the record store downtown. Brianna’s mother would absolutely kill her if she knew Brianna was dating a townie. We usually spent Saturday nights at Alex’s apartment, a well-appointed three-bedroom where he threw the best parties. He kept expensive champagne on ice for the girls, and he and his friends drank scotch and played poker. Brianna always sauntered over just when Alex had his best hand of the night. She had a peculiar knack for that. Sweetheart, the girls want to go downtown. Aren’t you almost ready? And she’d pout and sit down on his lap and he’d call the game over. Shall we? he’d say, and the guys would begrudgingly throw their cards down.

Here, in some random apartment, girls in slutty Santa outfits were drinking wine coolers and keg beer out of red plastic cups. Hip-hop music blared through someone’s laptop. I poured myself a drink—cheap vodka and orange juice—and downed it.

Hey, a voice said from behind me as I poured another drink. I spun around. A tall guy with brown hair hanging over his eyes was looking at me expectantly. I hadn’t the faintest. Hi, I answered back. You’re in my English Lit class, he said. Suddenly it clicked—he was vaguely familiar. I’m not taking English Lit, I told him. It was a lie. I didn’t want to be talking to the sort of boy that chips in for a keg at a party like this one. You’re a little overdressed, don’t you think? he asked. I was wearing a black cocktail dress and red tights. Festive, classic. Jeans and t-shirts aren’t really my thing, I said, looking pointedly at his shirt, a tee that told me he played baseball for our school. I get it, he said. Have a nice night, okay?

I found Brianna laughing with Keats at some doubtless awful joke he had told. Brianna, we need to go, I said. She shot me a look. We’re having a good time, she said. No, I’m not, I told her.

Why don’t you call a cab, darling? she asked. Keats’ll pay for it. Won’t you, Keats?

I don’t think she realized that boys like Keats don’t pay cab fares for their dates’ friend.

Keats reached for his wallet. Don’t worry about it, I said.

I walked outside, my head throbbing from the loud music. I fished through my bag for my phone and called for a cab. I hated it when Brianna and Alex broke up.