Meg seems really excited about this, so I try not to reveal how terrible an idea I think it is. But really. I would rather drive another hundred miles down cliffs in the dark.
“Maybe we should just watch TV,” I say.
But they are already writing questions, covering their slips of paper with cupped hands like fifth-graders taking a test. So I pick up my pencil and write,
Meg: Is your hair naturally pink?
Alexa: If you could describe your mood in a color, what color would you choose?
Bev: I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.
Once the folded strips are in the hat, Meg feels around for the first strip of paper, and pulls it out with flourish.
She clears her throat. “Alexa, the first question is for you. Are you ready?”
Alexa nods. Her expression turns serious and she brushes her long black hair away from her face and looks at Meg.
Meg reads, “‘If you could go back in time and change your mind about a decision you made in high school, what would you do?’”
Meg looks like the host from a reality show, head tilted toward Alexa with an expression of mild concern and expectation. Bev absentmindedly runs her hand through her newly short hair. Her gaze is fixed above Alexa, through the open window. I wonder which of them asked the question.
“I regret not going to prom,” Alexa says. “Which sounds really stupid, because I know that we all decided that we were over high school and over dances, but I regretted it right away.”
“Oh no, really?” Meg says. The TV host look is gone now, replaced by real concern.
Alexa shrugs. “It’s not a tragedy or anything. I can go to mine next year. But, yeah. I kind of wanted to get dressed up with you guys and wear a flower on my wrist. I bet the energy would have been great. All these people, together for one of the last times ever.”
Bev says, “Everyone said the after-party was the best part, and we made it to that.”
“True.” Alexa nods. “But it would have been nice to see everyone when they still looked all dressed up and pretty. Before all the puking. Don’t you think? Next year I’m going to go. Even if I think I’m over it. Because all there is, is prom and finals and graduation, and then it’s really over.”
“I don’t know, Lex,” Meg says. “This may be sentimentality talking. We’ll check back in with you a few months from now.”
She reaches into the hat.
“Question two is for Bev. ‘Bev, what was the saddest moment of your life?’”
Bev’s position stays the same—her legs extended across the carpet, one arm propped casually on the couch, fingers through hair—but her face darkens. I wonder about these questions, who wrote each and why all of them are so into this game, why they think it’s better than just asking about the things they want to know.
But okay, yeah: I still want to know what Bev will say.
She isn’t answering yet. Instead she’s silent, picking at the worn pink carpet, silent for so long I wonder if it’s possible she didn’t hear the question, or heard it but thought it was for someone else.
“Bev?” Alexa finally says.
Bev looks up.
“Pass,” she says.
“No passing,” Meg says. “Against the rules.”
“What rules? You made this up.”
“Wait a second,” I say. “‘Pass’ because you can’t think of anything or ‘pass’ because you don’t want to tell us?”
“I can think of something,” Bev says.
“Do I know?” I ask. I can think of a couple moments that would make it onto Bev’s sad list, mostly involving death, but for some reason none of them feel like they would be her single saddest thing.
Bev turns back to the rug. She shakes her head, no. And I can’t even contain how much this pisses me off. Bev knows everything about me. Everything.
Meg says, “It’s my game. There’s no passing.”
Alexa turns to Meg and mouths, Stop it. She scoots over to Bev and puts an arm around her.
I watch Bev act as though she doesn’t notice Alexa’s gesture, and think, Who is this girl? And at the same time, under that, is the beginning of a memory. I feel like there was something, once, that happened. Something that she tried to tell me, or almost told me, but never did.
“It’s okay,” Alexa says. “You can pass.”
Meg stops pushing but cuts the consoling short.
“Question three is for Colby. ‘Colby, if you could make out with any of us, who would you choose?’”
She smiles brightly at me. I lock eyes with her and force myself to smile back.
“You, of course,” I say. “I’m going to go outside now and imagine it.”
I grab my music and my headphones and go out onto the balcony. I lie down on top of Alexa’s sleeping bag and look at the stars. Even through the closed glass door I can hear them giggling, reading my question, saying, “Bev, it’s pretty clear that one’s from Colby.” I listen for Bev’s voice but I don’t hear it.
I call Uncle Pete.
“Hey-it’s-me-everything’s-fine,” I say, which is what I’ve said since I was a kid and my mom’s voice was panicked when I would call her from a friend’s house. I’d be calling to know what time she was getting me or if I should wait to eat dinner, and she’d respond by saying something like, Thank God, I thought you might have been hurt.