Page 31 of Furious

Zaynah rolls her eyes at that, which reminds me that I should be inviting the two of them into the house, not standing outside flirting with El.

“Come in, please, and help yourself to punch or anything else.” I step wide to let them walk past. El’s hand brushes mine as she steps through the doorway.

“It’s good to see you,” she whispers, so only I can hear.

Heat flushes through me at her touch. “I missed you,” I admit. And it’s true. Texting has been great this week, but I’ve really just wanted to be alone with El again.

CJ and James appear in the hallway then, and a smug, knowing smile crosses CJ’s face as they catch my eye. “El?” they mouth.

I give the smallest of nods and CJ shoots me a thumbs-up. I can feel a blush rising on my cheeks, and I can’t stop a grin from spreading.

“Uhm, El, Zaynah, this is CJ and James,” I say, wrenching myself a step backward from El. “CJ is my best friend from Charleston and James is their boyfriend and an all-around exceptional human. And this is El and Zaynah, my friends from the volunteer club, who I told you about.”

At this, CJ and James both make elaborate, theatrical bows. A laugh bursts out of El, and she and Zaynah return the ridiculous bows.

We all move through the hallway, talking and awkwardly bumping elbows, and then we’re at the punch table and everyone except Zaynah, who doesn’t drink, fills a red plastic cup with the firecracker punch. Before we can take a sip, Dad shoves us outside as more of Jolene’s and Florence’s friends arrive, letting themselves into the house without knocking.

The next hour is a blur of older hippies and local folks filling the backyard and greeting Grandma Jolene and Flo, my friends all talking to each other, El and CJ cackling over something but I don’t get to find out what because Dad sends me to find more chairs, and then I’m bringing more cups of firecracker punch out for my friends, and then finally, finally, it’s time to eat. Everyone fills a plate and my friends and I sit down at the picnic table under a massive oak tree near the back of the yard. My head swims from my second glass of punch, and sweat makes my T-shirt stick between my shoulder blades, but El’s squeezed next to me, her bare legs pressing against my own.

“Everyone! Settle down for just a minute, please!” Grandma Jolene’s voice rises above the laughter and conversation. She stands on the back deck, her hand in Florence’s. “We just wanted to thank y’all for coming out this evening and for helping us celebrate Florence’s birthday!”

Florence plants a kiss on Grandma Jolene’s cheek, which makes the crowd of people in the yard cheer. Grandma Jolene beams at her and beside me, I swear El scoots closer.

Grandma Jolene continues. “Now, we’re leaving for Italy early tomorrow morning, so we might have to head to bed before the dancing stops, but y’all stay as long as you’d like. We’re so happy you could make it, and cheers to my family and to the friends who have become family.”

It’s her yearly toast and it sounds both sadder and sweeter somehow this year.

Grandma Jolene raises her glass of spiked lemonade and says, “To family!”

We all raise our own glasses, and repeat: “To family.”

The words catch in my throat as a vision of my mom, sitting with my dad and me under this same oak tree, rises in my mind. Beside me, El makes a small noise as she says it, and without thinking, I rest my hand above her knee and squeeze her leg. Because I’d wager good money she’s thinking about her sister, Max.

Family. What a lovely, terrible, messy, heartbreaking, and heart-filling thing all at once.

“We’ll find Max,” I whisper, leaning in close. “Don’t worry, Mom’s car is running great, which means we’re that much closer to getting Max’s info from Riley. If he ever tells us when a race is happening.”

“Thank you,” El says, her voice scratchy. She takes another long sip of firecracker punch, which paints her lips red.

Before I can tear my eyes away from El’s red, red lips, CJ flicks a grape at me from across the table. In one incredibly smooth move, I catch it in my mouth, proving that my reflexes aren’t totally a lost cause after all.

CHAPTER TWELVE

El

I don’t need a full hand to count the times that I’ve been truly tipsy, like beyond a beer in the woods or a plastic champagne flute at New Year’s Eve. They are as follows:

1. The first Passover seder after my bat mitzvah, when Bubbe and Papa decided I was mature enough to handle actual wine instead of grape juice. Except the thing about seders is you refill your glass four times in the first hour or so of the night while barely munching on matzah and parsley and salt water. I was blitzed by the soup course. I threw up in the back seat on the way home, and my parents were boiling mad at my grandparents. It was Welch’s again from there on out.

2. My third date with Abby Bacon. We went to a barbecue at her cousin’s family’s lake house but spent half the night hiding from her (homophobic) grandparents down by the dock, sitting in a pedal boat with the mosquitoes and a bottle of sweet tea vodka for company. We never did find her bathing suit top, which must have floated off into the night while we were, um, pedaling.

3. In Jolene Boyd’s backyard as the afternoon starts to cool toward evening and, two cups of firecracker punch deep, I badly misjudge my cornhole toss, sending my beanbag sailing toward Zaynah’s face.

Thankfully, she uses her sober reflexes to duck and cover the top of her root beer can, keeping it from spilling down her shirt. “It’s not dodgeball, El,” she shouts back at me.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m warming up!”

Zaynah takes her turn, landing a beanbag in the middle of my board for a point.