Page 59 of The Narrow

It’s always about halfway through that the kids suddenly get into it. It’s like this moment where itclicks—we aren’t just outsiders at this party, we’re part of it. Part of this.Usandthemturning into justus, and we put our arms around them and saywelcome.

That’s why we volunteer every year. Because we experienced that moment—me and Ruth and Veronica—our first year. All of us, for our own reasons, terrified that we would find ourselves the outsiders in this strange country.

Then someone smiled.

Someone handed you a cup of Sprite and swore that it was moonshine, then laughed when your nose filled with bubbles, and you laughed with them.

Someone pushed you, whooping, onto the dance floor.

You joined hands with two girls you barely knew and spun in a circle as the music pulsed, and you shrieked with joy and knew that you were, always and forever, sisters.

That is Little Vespers.

Then, just as suddenly as it begins, it’s over. One hour and that’s it—it’s us and them again, except that all the Littles are their own Us, and that means they’ll make it. They have each other, like we did, and they know we’ll look out for them when they need it. But not for the rest of the night.

“If you are not an Upper School student, you must vacate the premises before the commencement of debauchery,” Remi announces, using his cupped hands as a bullhorn.

Those of us assigned to Littles escort them back to the Lower School dorm. We herd them in with theatric shushing and frantic motions, though their house parents will all be waiting up to do a headcount.

Veronica, Ruth, Zoya, and I arrive back at the chapel at the same time. We stand in a loose knot, silent and awkward.

It’s Vespers. It’s supposed to be the time when we’re unbreakable. It’s not supposed to be like this.

There’s a lump in my throat. I swallow against it. “Hey,” I manage.

“We don’t have to,” Veronica says, and I know what she means at once. We don’t have to talk about it. We don’t have to apologize, analyze, agonize. “It’s Vespers. Let’s have fun together.”

She takes out a small flask. She takes a swallow and passes it to Ruth. It comes to me next, and I drink without asking what it is. Whiskey, it turns out—the stuff Remi likes. It’s not bad, a little smoky and buttery smooth. Remi has firm rules about drinking. Cheap beer is okay. Cheap whiskey is not. And this stuff tastes like money. I take an extra swig before passing it along. I need it tonight.

“Whoa, careful there,” Veronica says. “Or are you forgetting what a lightweight you are?”

I cough into my fist. “Just getting in the Vespers spirit,” I say weakly.

Veronica flashes her teeth and sticks out her hand. “Come on, losers.”

I take her hand, the warmth of the alcohol spreading through my chest. As we walk back toward the bonfire—now flickeringwith anemic light—I look out farther, toward the trees. Toward the path down to the Narrow.

“Dance with me, Eden,” Veronica says as the music kicks in. She draws me toward the flat area where people are already dancing and puts her arms on my shoulders. We dance—me, awkward, both because of my arm and because I’m a terrible dancer at the best of times; Veronica, graceful as always—and maybe it’s the magic of Vespers or just the magic of Veronica, but everything that’s happened seems to drop away. It doesn’t matter. At least for a few minutes. Then the song ends, and reality creeps back toward us—but then Remi is handing me his flask, and Ruth is dragging me over to hear a joke Zoya told her, and then it’s the four of us, and it’s perfect.

We’re whole again, as long as you don’t look too close. As long as you don’t notice the cracks.

I usually never drink at Vespers, but I find myself stealing a few sips here and there, keeping up the mild buzz that holds the illusion together. And helps me forget the other part of the night. What’s waiting for me at the bottom of the path.

It’s past eleven when Veronica staggers off, loudly declaring that she has to pee. Zoya is off getting a refill—nonalcoholic—and leaves me and Ruth alone by the fire for a moment. She holds a red Solo cup. Despite the cool night air, her hair sticks to her skin with sweat from the heat of the bonfire.

“Soooooo,” she says, not bothering to pretend it isn’t awkward. It’s kind of a relief.

“So,” I say. “How’s it going? How’s Diego?”

“Oh. He’s great. We broke up,” she says mildly.

I look at her in surprise. “When?” I ask.

“Monday,” she says, shrugging.

“Are you okay? What happened?” I ask. I’m not used to being this out of the loop.

“I’m fine. Nothing happened. Things had run their course,” she says. “He’s cool, but there just isn’t that spark.” She seems to realize as the words come out of her mouth that it’s exactly what she told me when she broke up with me sophomore year. She cringes. “Sorry.”

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