Nine Inches

The All-Night Party

LIZ GOT SUCKERED INTO TAKING the graveyard shift at the All-Night Party the same way she’d gotten suckered into every other thankless task in her long parental career — organizing soccer banquets, soliciting donations for the Dahlkamper Elementary School Auction, canvassing against the perennial threat of budget cuts and teacher layoffs, feeding her friends’ cats and turtles and babysitting their kids while they went off on business trips to Vegas or second honeymoons to St. Bart’s. She could’ve just said no, of course — she was a working mother with way too much on her plate — but she could never escape the feeling that everything depended on her, that if she didn’t do it, it simply wouldn’t get done. There would be no money for championship jackets, class size would skyrocket, marriages would crumble, beloved pets would starve. And maybe somebody somewhere would think it was her fault and decide that she was a bad mother, a bad neighbor, a bad citizen. Liz didn’t know why that possibility bothered her so much, but it did.

The All-Night Party Committee knew exactly how to push her buttons. First, they’d softened her up with a never-ending barrage of e-mails, the tone friendly and inspirational in March (Let’s Uphold a Great Tradition; Please Help Keep Our Seniors Safe on Graduation Night), turning mildly reproachful in April (Don’t Leave Us in the Lurch!; Junior Parents, It’s Time to Step Up and Do Your Part!), before reaching a fever pitch of hectoring intensity as May edged into June (ALL-NIGHT PARTY IN DESPERATE NEED OF VOLUNTEERS! NO MORE EXCUSES!! THIS MEANS YOU!!!).

Liz had felt her resolve weakening throughout the spring, but she was determined not to give in. She was swamped at work, she was feeling down (the reality of the divorce finally beginning to sink in), and still nurturing resentment from the soccer season, during which she’d done more than her fair share of the heavy lifting, hosting two team dinners, supervising the sale and distribution of eight hundred boxes of frozen cookie dough for the Booster Club fund-raiser, even manning the ticket booth in a couple of emergencies. And now that Dana had been elected captain for next year, Liz’s responsibilities on that front would only increase. So just this once, couldn’t they leave her alone and throw the goddam party without her? Was that too much to ask?

She knew from experience that the Committee would escalate its recruiting efforts in the home stretch, cranking up the peer pressure, twisting the arms of reluctant volunteers. Liz opted for the time-honored strategy of cowardly avoidance — keep your head down, let the calls go to voice mail, and then, if pressed, claim you’d never gotten the messages. My machine’s been acting up; I really have to get a new one. No one would believe her, but so what? Summer vacation — that blissful season of amnesia and forgiveness — was just around the corner, everyone’s slate wiped clean until September.

Her plan might have worked if the call had come from Marilyn Tresca, the sanctimonious Volunteer Coordinator, or Ken Lorimer, the red-bearded blowhard who headed the Clean-Up Brigade. But the Committee was too smart to lob her a softball like that.

“Liz?” said the wryly apologetic voice issuing from the speaker of her answering machine. “Are you there? It’s me, Sally…”

Oh, shit, Liz thought. That’s not fair. Sally Cleaves was the one member of the Committee she actually liked. Their daughters had been playing soccer together for the past ten years, attending the same skills clinics and summer camps, carpooling to club practices and indoor matches. Liz and Sally weren’t friends, exactly, but they were better-than-average bleacher buddies, thrown together on countless autumn evenings, cheering for their girls, sharing umbrellas and blankets in nasty weather.

“I guess you’re not home,” Sally continued. “I’ll try you ag—”

Liz had no choice but to pick up the phone.

“I’m here,” she said, panting a little for effect. “I was just in the laundry room.”

“Laundry,” Sally commiserated. “It never ends, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Liz agreed, though she was thinking that it actually would, that in a little over a year Dana would leave for college, and Liz would have no one’s clothes to wash but her own, no one to cook for, no one to talk to at the breakfast table. It would just be herself, brooding in the empty nest, bored out of her skull. “How are you, Sally?”

“Good, pretty good. How about you?”

“Okay, I guess. Better than I was a few months ago.”

“I’m glad. I know it’s been a tough year.” Sally let a few seconds go by, marking the transition between small talk and business. “Listen, Liz, I really hate to bother you about the All-Night Party. I know how busy you are.”

“Not half as busy as you,” Liz countered. Sally was a patent lawyer who somehow managed to work full-time, raise three kids, serve on the School Board and Friends of Gifford Soccer, and run at least two marathons a year. Of course, she had a husband who loved her, so that made things a little easier. Or maybe a lot easier. Liz had no way of knowing how much of a difference something like that might make.

“Oh, I doubt it,” Sally said, her voice full of the warmth Liz had been so grateful for during the soccer season, the first one she’d had to navigate as half of a divorced couple. It was horrible, suffering through game after game with Tony sitting just a few rows away, his shoulders rigid with anger, acting like he didn’t even know her, like the mother of his child didn’t merit the common courtesy of a hello.

God, Sally had remarked one night, totally out of the blue. He’s a cold-hearted bastard, isn’t he?

Always was, Liz replied. From the day that we met.

“Anyway,” Sally went on, “we’re in a really tight spot, or I wouldn’t even bother you. You do so much already.”

Liz released a martyr’s sigh. She felt the all-too-familiar, almost-pleasurable sensation of buckling under pressure, surrendering to the inevitable.

“It’s okay,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”

SHE ARRIVED at the high school a few minutes before midnight, making her way down the rumpled, confetti-sprinkled red carpet leading to the side entrance. It must have been quite a scene a few hours earlier — a swarm of well-wishers cheering and blowing kisses at the graduates as they paraded in, a fireworks display of flashing cameras — but right now it was desolate, just Liz and a bored-looking cop sitting in a folding chair by the metal doors, beneath a hand-painted sign that said CLASS OF 2011 YOU ROCK!

The cop had his head down — he was watching something on his iPhone — but Liz recognized him right away as the meathead who’d written her a ticket a few years ago for rolling through a stop sign on Whitetail Way. Just a glimpse of his Jersey Shore physique brought it all back to her: the way he’d ignored her when she tried to explain that her daughter was late for practice, and then his crazy overreaction when Dana attempted to get out and walk the rest of the way to the field, which was only a couple of blocks away.

Remain in the vehicle! he’d barked, placing his hand on the butt of his holstered gun. Dana was only thirteen at the time and barely weighed a hundred pounds. If you exit the vehicle, you will be placed under arrest!

And then, out of spite, knowing they were in a hurry, he’d made them wait in the car for what felt like an eternity while he checked Liz’s license and registration, a routine task that should have taken a minute or two at most. By the time he finally strutted over to deliver the ticket — along with a condescending lecture about driving more carefully in the future — Liz had had enough.

Just so you know, she told him, I’m going to be writing a formal letter of complaint to the police department about your rude and unprofessional behavior. And I’ll make sure the mayor gets a copy.

Go right ahead, he shot back, his face flushing pink beneath the bronze of his permanent tan. My name’s Brian Yanuzzi. With two z’s.

Liz never wrote the letter — Tony convinced her it was a bad idea, feuding with the cops in a town as small as Gifford — but she had cultivated a lively private grudge against Officer Yanuzzi in the intervening years, cursing under her breath whenever she caught a glimpse of him directing traffic around a construction site, or sitting in his cruiser in the center of town, monitoring the pedestrian crossings. He was such a vivid figure in her mental universe that she was surprised, and even a bit disappointed, by the bland friendliness on his face when he looked up from the phone, as if she were any other well-meaning taxpayer.

“Evening,” he said.

“Hi.” She made a point of not returning his smile. “I’m a volunteer?”

“Too bad,” he said with a chuckle. “Looks like you got the short straw.”

“Looks like we both did.”

“Least I’m getting paid.”

Liz nodded, conceding the point. She could hear music leaking through the closed double doors, the muffled whump, wah-whump of the beat, a girlish voice floating on top. She wondered if she might be able to get in a little dancing later on, if adults were allowed to join the fun. She hadn’t danced in a long time.

“So how’s it going?” she asked, not quite sure why she was prolonging this encounter with a man she actively disliked. It was almost as if she were giving him a second chance, holding out for a sign of belated recognition — Hey, wait a minute, aren’t you that lady… ? — some scrap of proof that she wasn’t as completely forgettable as she seemed to be. “Everyone behaving themselves?”

“They’re good kids.” Yanuzzi’s face seemed softer than she remembered, a little more boyish. “Not like when I was in high school.”

“Tell me about it. My graduation night was insane. The little of it I can remember.”

“Oh, yeah?” The cop looked intrigued, as if he were seeing her in a new light. “You were a party girl, huh?”

“Not quite,” Liz told him, making a conscious decision to leave it at that, to spare him the details of that disastrous evening, the Southern Comfort and the tears, the fact that she’d made out with three different guys, none of whom she’d even liked, and then thrown up in Sandy Deaver’s kidney-shaped pool, thereby ensuring that her classmates would have at least one thing to remember her by at their upcoming twenty-fifth reunion. “I was just young and stupid.”

Yanuzzi nodded slowly, as though she’d said something profound.

“So were those kids who died,” he observed. “They were just young and stupid, too.”

THOSE KIDS who died.

Liz had been hearing about those kids for the past twelve years, ever since she’d moved to Gifford. The accident was fresh in everyone’s mind back then, five friends speeding in a Jeep on graduation night, open containers, no seatbelts. Good-looking, popu­lar, three boys and two girls, never in any kind of trouble, just a terrible mistake, the kind kids make when they’re drunk and happy.

The memory of those kids was a dark cloud hanging over the town. You’d see people having a hushed conversation on a street corner, or a woman touching another woman’s arm in the Stop & Shop, or a man wiping away a tear while he pumped his gas, and you’d think, Those kids who died.

There were memorial services in the fall, the football season dedicated to the memory of the victims. Everywhere you went you saw their names soaped on the rear windows of cars, usually listed in alphabetical order, along with the date of their deaths, and the phrase IN LOVING MEMORY. The school district increased funding for drug and alcohol education; the cops cracked down hard on underage drinking. And on graduation night the following June, Gifford High held the first annual All-Night Party, a heavily supervised affair at which the graduates could celebrate in a safe, substance-free, vehicle-free environment. Parents loved the idea, and it turned out the kids liked it, too.

Over the past decade the All-Night Party had outgrown its sad origins, maturing into a beloved institution that was the source of genuine local pride. Each year’s cohort of junior parents vied to outdo their predecessors in the lavishness of the decorations and the novelty of the offerings — a Nerf-gun war, a circus trapeze, a climbing wall, sumo-wrestling suits, and, memorably, an enormous Moonwalk castle that had to be deflated well before dawn, due to highly credible reports of sexual shenanigans unfolding within remote inner chambers. More recently, the party had gone thematic — last year was Twilight and vampires, and the year before Harry Potter, complete with lightning-bolt face tattoos, a Sorting Hat, and a Quidditch tournament in the gym. For this year’s theme, the Committee had given serious thought to The Hunger Games — too depressing, they’d decided — before settling on Gifford Goes Hollywood, a more open-ended concept that accounted for both the red carpet outside and the lifelike Oscar statue that greeted Liz when she entered the building, an eight-foot, three-dimensional replica of the trophy with a sign taped to its base: FOR BEST PERFORMANCE BY A GRADUATING CLASS.

SALLY WAS manning the Volunteer Sign-In table along with Jeff Hammer, the presidente-for-life of the Gifford Youth Hockey Association, and a ubiquitous figure at local athletic and charitable events. Hammer didn’t bother to acknowledge Liz’s arrival — he’d been cold to her for the past several years, ever since Dana had quit a promising hockey career to focus on indoor soccer during the winter season — but Sally’s greeting was so warm Liz barely registered his snub.

“Thank you so much for coming,” she said, rising from her chair with a wan but sincere smile. She looked washed-out, as if she hadn’t slept for days. “You’re my hero.”

“Not a problem.” Liz leaned across the table for a quick hug and kiss. “How’s it going?”

“Great.”

Sally glanced at Hammer for confirmation, and he responded with a grudging nod. He was an unpleasantly handsome man with a mustache he couldn’t keep his fingers off.

“Kids are having a blast,” he admitted.

With the indifference of a clerk at the DMV, Hammer slid a blank name tag and a Sharpie in Liz’s direction. After a moment’s hesitation, she scrawled her married name — LIZ MERCATTO — and affixed the white rectangle to her shirt. At least this way everyone would know she was Dana’s mom, instead of some random adult who’d wandered in off the street.

“Ready?” Sally circled the table and took Liz by the arm. “They’re waiting for you at the Chilling Station.”

“The what?”

“It’s a place to relax and hang out, kind of away from it all. You know, if the kids need a little downtime. I think you’ll like it.”

They set off toward the distant clamor of the party, turning right at the library, heading down a long hallway paved with a galaxy of construction-paper stars, each one bearing the name of a graduate.

“This is our Walk of Fame,” Sally explained. “We stayed up until two-thirty cutting out the stars and writing the names. And then it took us all afternoon to arrange them on the floor.”

“How many are there?”

“Two hundred forty-three.” Liz could hear the pride in Sally’s voice. “But who’s counting, right?”

They veered apart, making way for a pack of pretty girls charging by in short skirts and high heels, each one taller and skinnier than the next, glammed up as if they were heading to a nightclub. Not a single member of the posse bothered to glance at Liz or Sally as they passed, let alone say, Hi or Excuse me.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” Sally watched with a wistful expression as the girls clattered down the hallway, talking in loud, theatrical voices. “They have no idea how beautiful they are.”

Oh, they know, Liz thought. The world only reminds them every day.

“They probably think their butts are too big or their boobs are too small,” Sally continued. “That’s how I felt when I was their age. Like I could never measure up.”

“Me, too.” Liz decided not to mention that the feeling had never gone away. “All through high school I tried to be the last person out of the classroom after the bell rang. I didn’t want any boys walking behind me, snickering at my ass.”

The girls stopped midway down the hall to take cell-phone pictures of a star that must have belonged to one of them, or maybe to a boy they liked.

“They’re probably on some ridiculous carrot-stick diet,” Sally said. “But they’re perfect just the way they are, you know? That’s what I keep telling Jamie, but I can’t seem to get through to her.”

Liz nodded, not quite sure how they’d segued from the high-heeled hotties to the entirely different subject of Jamie, an Amazonian three-sport athlete who only ever seemed at home in sweats or a team uniform. Tony always referred to her as a “bruiser,” insisting that he meant it as a compliment.

“It’s hard being a girl,” Liz observed. “Doesn’t matter what you look like.”

“What about Dana? She have any issues like that? You know, body image or whatever?”

“Not really.” Liz flinched as two boys barreled past, one of them trying to bash the other in the head with a pink flotation noodle. They looked sweaty and slightly crazed. “She’s been lucky like that. Never had to worry about her weight or her complexion, none of it.”

Sally nodded, as if she’d figured as much. “She’s always been such a pretty girl. Ever since she was little.”

“It’s a fluke.” Liz added the obligatory disclaimer: “God knows she didn’t get it from her mother.”

They stopped to peek into the cafeteria, half of which had been cleared to make a dance floor. A mob of kids were out there, most of them moving with a confidence Liz could only have dreamed about at their age. A few looked like trained professionals, or at least like they’d spent a lot of time practicing in front of their bedroom mirror.

“I’m glad it’s finally picking up,” Sally said. “When the DJ started, the boys were hiding out in the gym, shooting hoops and beating up on one another. The girls had to drag them over here.”

“Well, it looks like they’re having fun.”

Liz would have liked to stick around, but Sally was in no mood to linger. Her shift was over; she just wanted to get Liz settled, then go home and get some sleep.

“I saw Dana’s prom pictures on Facebook,” Sally said, as they rounded the corner onto a corridor lined with cardboard cutouts of Hollywood stars, Meryl Streep sandwiched by Dirty Harry and Homer Simpson, Jeff Bridges with an eyepatch. “She and Chris looked really happy together. Such a perfect couple.”

“I guess,” Liz agreed without enthusiasm. “I just wish they weren’t so serious.”

“They’ve been together for a while, right?”

“Ever since freshman year.”

Sally hesitated, shooting Liz an apologetic sidelong glance before venturing the inevitable question.

“I know it’s none of my business, but are they… ?”

Liz shrugged, trying to hide her discomfort. It was weird how many other parents felt that it was okay to inquire about her daughter’s sex life just because she’d been dating the same boy for the past couple of years.

“I don’t know,” she said. “We don’t really talk about it.”

TECHNICALLY SPEAKING, this wasn’t a lie. The one time Liz had asked her daughter straight out if she and Chris had gone all the way, Dana just rolled her eyes and said, Mom, I’m really not comfortable with this conversation, and that was where they’d left it.

Of course, this exchange had taken place over a year ago, and a lot had happened since then. But what was Liz supposed to do? Tell Sally the truth, which was that Chris sometimes spent the night in Dana’s bedroom and, in fact, was doing so that very night? Because Liz knew exactly how that would go. Sally would pretend not to be shocked and then say, Really? And you’re all right with that? And then Liz would either have to lie and say yes or admit that she hated the situation, but felt powerless to change it.

It was a fait accompli, she would have had to explain. Nobody asked my permission.

Ever since freshman year, Dana had been spending the occasional weekend with Chris’s family at their vacation house in Vermont. It was a lovely second home, by all accounts, just twenty minutes from Killington, and Chris’s parents were lovely people. The dad, Warren, was a financial guy, and the mom, Jodie, a working artist with her own studio and a gallery in Boston, the kind of limber, fresh-faced woman who could let herself go gray and seem all the more youthful and attractive as a result. Both parents thought the world of Dana, repeatedly telling Liz what a pleasure it was to have her as a houseguest, such a polite girl, always helping with the dishes — something she rarely did at home, Liz always wanted to interject, though she never did — and so beautiful, too, such a graceful, fearless skier.

This past winter, Jodie had phoned Liz after Presidents’ Day weekend. She started by reciting the usual compliments, but then her tone changed, turned solemn and careful.

“I thought you should know,” she said. “The kids have been sharing a bedroom. At the ski house.”

“What?”

“Dana said you were okay with it, but I wanted to double-check.”

“She said I was okay with it?”

“More or less. She said you wouldn’t care.”

“Of course, I care.” Liz was glad Jodie couldn’t see the color spreading across her cheeks. “They’re just so young to be—”

“I know.” Jodie’s voice was dreamy and forgiving. “But they love each other. And they seem really responsible. To tell you the truth, Liz, I think they’ve been sneaking around for a while now, playing musical beds in the middle of the night. At least this way it’s out in the open. I just don’t want them to think there’s anything to be ashamed of. As long as you’re all right with it.”

Liz knew the moment had arrived to state her objections. The problem was, she wasn’t quite sure what she was objecting to. She’d slept with college boyfriends when she was just a little older than Dana, guys she’d known for a lot less time than Dana had known Chris, guys who didn’t even pretend to be nice to her, let alone love her. And besides, she knew it wasn’t Dana’s age or the sex itself that bothered her. It was more that she resented her daughter for getting everything all at once, for being so pretty and happy and lucky, skiing all day and then slipping under the warm covers with her ridiculously cute, totally adoring boyfriend. But how could you even begin to talk about that?

“Liz? Are you there?”

“No, you’re right, Jodie. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Just as long as they’re being careful.”

“That’s exactly what I told them.”

At the time, Liz had consoled herself with the knowledge that winter was almost over, that there wouldn’t be many more Vermont getaways before the snow melted and club soccer started up. Pretty soon everything would be back to normal.

The trouble was, Dana and Chris liked sleeping together, and it didn’t make sense to them that they could share a bed in Vermont, but not in Gifford. Before long, Dana was heading out on Friday night and not coming home until Sunday afternoon. Liz made a belated effort to put a stop to the sleepovers, telling her daughter that she missed her and needed to spend time with her on the weekends, but the only result of this intervention was that the lovebirds started switching off, spending one night with Chris’s parents, and the next with Liz, like newlyweds trying to keep both sets of in-laws happy.

It was actually kind of fun to have them around. Sometimes the three of them would watch a movie together or play Scrabble or go out for ice cream; Dana and Chris were less self-centered, a lot more available to Liz, now that they knew they’d have all the alone time they wanted once they went to bed. The only real awkwardness came after lights out, when Liz had nothing to do but lie awake and listen for the telltale sounds of passion coming from down the hall, wondering how two teenagers managed to be so utterly silent, making it seem like the only sex in the house was taking place inside her own muddled, dirty-minded head.

THE CHILLING Station was a smart concept, a makeshift living-room/rest area that glowed like a mirage at the end of a deserted corridor, a cozy, lamplit oasis. It was equipped with a motley array of furniture — couches and chairs, two army cots, even a freestanding hammock — along with a stack of board games and some rickety card tables to play them on. The only thing missing was the kids.

“It’s been dead,” grumbled Craig Waters, the volunteer on the eight-to-midnight shift. He’d been napping on the recliner when Liz and Sally arrived and still looked a little out of it. “There were a couple of chess nerds early on, but nothing for the past two hours.”

“It’ll pick up,” Sally said. “The kids get pretty tired around four in the morning.”

Craig pondered Liz with groggy curiosity. “How late are you staying?”

“Till the bitter end,” she told him. “Six A.M.”

“Wow.” He yawned. “Good for you.”

And then they were gone, leaving Liz alone among the mismatched furniture, with nothing to do except kick herself for not having brought something to read. It was a ridiculous oversight, considering that it was her policy never to leave home without a book, a soccer mom’s best friend when practice ran late. But she happened to be reading The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest, and the library hardcover was massive, not the sort of volume you could easily slip into your purse on the way to a graduation party. So she’d left it on her bedside table, where it was doing no one any good.

She could hear music and voices from the other end of the building, the sound of young people having fun, and it struck her almost like a taunt, a reminder of everything she was missing, not just tonight but every night, the void that had become her life. She felt a minor panic attack coming on — or maybe just an urgent need for fresh air and human contact — and wondered what would happen if she marched back to the sign-in table and demanded a better assignment, something that would at least allow her to join the party, to interact with the kids and the other volunteers. The worst they could do was tell her no.

Oh, come on, she scolded herself. Don’t be such a baby. It’s not even twelve-thirty.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? She still had five and a half hours to go. Five and a half hours. A whole endless night. Just the thought of it was exhausting. She found herself sneaking glances at the beige velour recliner that had been Craig’s undoing, imagining how sweet it would feel to crank back the handle and put her feet up. But there was no way she was going to allow herself to fall asleep in public, to be that vulnerable in front of people she didn’t know, especially teenagers.

Hoping to clear her head, she slipped into the narrow space between the hammock and the fire doors and did a few yoga stretches. She’d been trying to find a regular class for a while now, but somehow the timing was never convenient, or she didn’t like the teacher, or the other students were show-offs. It was too bad, because yoga never failed to cheer her up. She could feel the magic working right away — her muscles warming and loosening, the tension dissolving in waves, her mind emptying itself of negative thoughts — despite the cramped space, the lack of a mat, and jeans that hadn’t been designed for sun salutations.

It’s just one night, she reminded herself. It’s going to be fine.

Arching into upward dog, she was startled by the sound of soft voices and muffled laughter. It was coming from right in front of her.

“Hello?” she called out as the fire door creaked open. “Excuse me?”

The intruders froze in the doorway as Liz scrambled to her feet. They were a couple, a tall boy in a WESLEYAN LACROSSE shirt and a short, plump girl with multiple piercings and too much makeup.

“Where did you come from?” Liz demanded. She’d been told that the fire doors were off-limits, except in case of emergency. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

The boy let go of his girlfriend’s hand. He was clean-cut and preppy, with the bland good looks that were his Gifford birthright. She was more of a townie, in skimpy denim shorts that did her thighs no favors, and an orange V-neck tee that was two sizes too small.

“Mr. Waters told us it was okay,” the boy explained after a moment. He looked Liz straight in the eye, his voice calm and confident. “Jenna needed her medication.”

The girl giggled a little too loudly. She had dirt on her knees and a big pink blotch spreading across her chest.

“I have asthma,” she said. Something about the way she pronounced her ailment made Liz realize she’d been drinking. “Hadda go home for my inhaler.”

Liz knew they were lying. She figured that they’d slipped out while Craig was sleeping and had hoped to slip back in undetected, but what was she supposed to do? Report them to the authorities? It was their graduation night, and they weren’t hurting anyone. And besides, how could she object to a teenaged tryst when her own daughter was home in bed with her boyfriend? She was a lot of things, but she tried not to be a hypocrite.

“Just get outta here,” she said, waving them in the direction of the cafeteria. “Go enjoy your party.”

A FLOCK of artsy girls descended upon the Chilling Station around one o’clock, packing themselves into the couches and chairs, talking in low, animated voices, as if hatching a conspiracy. They were a strikingly multicultural bunch, at least by Gifford standards — there were two Asians in the mix, a tall black girl who looked like a ballerina, and a round-faced, red-lipped Muslim girl in a headscarf. One member of the group was in a wheelchair; another wore a bandanna to conceal what Liz assumed was chemo-induced hair loss. The smaller of the Asian girls — she had an adorable teardrop face, and a streak of purple in her hair — sat on the lap of a butch white girl in a baseball cap.

Liz didn’t recognize any of them from the soccer field; she figured they were denizens of the art room and the dance studio, editors of the literary magazine, officers of the Gay/Straight Alliance, members of the Performing Arts Club. Some of them were cute, but mostly not in a way that a high school boy would appreciate — not that all of them would be equally interested in eliciting the approval of high school boys — and they seemed collectively resigned to their wallflower status at the All-Night Party. Liz’s heart went out to them; she wanted to hug each and every one, to let them know they’d be happier in college, that the world was about to become much larger and more forgiving, at least for a little while.

After they moved on, a handful of other visitors trickled in and out. A pair of identical-twin boys played a cutthroat game of Yahtzee, insulting each other with language so vile Liz had to ask them to tone it down. A scruffy-bearded troubadour — he looked a little too old for high school — strummed an acoustic guitar, serenading his hippie friends with evergreen songs by Cat Stevens and Neil Young. Four football players held a round-robin arm-wrestling tournament, grunting and grimacing like constipated old men while their girlfriends cheered them on from the sidelines.

By two-thirty it was dead again, but at least Liz had a yearbook to keep her occupied, a copy left behind by someone named Corinne. She leafed through the glossy pages, reading the inscriptions, searching for familiar faces. There was a photo of Dana in the section devoted to Girls’ Soccer, an action shot in which she leapt for a header, her ponytail a golden blur: Striker Dana Mercatto rises to the occasion against Rosedale. Liz flipped ahead to the junior-class pictures, locating her daughter’s face among the rows of black-and-white thumbnails. It was a photo she knew well — a color version of it was framed on her dresser — Dana gazing coolly into the camera, so lovely and self-possessed, utterly at peace with herself. Liz couldn’t help remembering her own senior picture, the too-big smile, the desperation in her eyes, as if she were begging the world not to hate her.

Ugh! she used to say. I can’t stand that picture. It doesn’t even look like me. But that wasn’t really the problem.

She heard footsteps and closed the book. Setting it down on the coffee table, she turned and saw Officer Yanuzzi heading in her direction, his uniformed figure squat and ominous in the murky light, as if he were coming to arrest her. But when his face finally came into view, he just looked amused.

“Party Girl,” he called out in a friendly voice. “I was wondering where you were hiding.”

“Right here in Siberia,” she told him. “Taking one for the team.”

“Could be worse.” He took a sip of coffee from a paper cup, surveying the furniture with what appeared to be sincere interest. “You could be stuck outside all night on a folding chair.”

“Least you’re getting paid.”

“Good one.” He chalked up a point for Liz on an imaginary scoreboard. “Guess I can’t complain.”

“Not to mention that you seem to be inside at the moment.”

“Just making my rounds,” he said, threading his way between the couch and the hammock. He opened one of the fire doors and peered into the vestibule, checking for suspicious activity. “Though I gotta say, it is getting a little chilly out. I shoulda brought a jacket. But it’s June, you know? I’m not really thinking jacket.”

He took a seat on the couch, directly across from Liz, as if she’d invited him to join her. He set his coffee on the table and held out his hand.

“I’m Brian.”

“Liz.”

“Mercatto, huh?” He studied her name tag with a quizzical expression. “Why do I know that name?”

She was tempted to remind him of their unfortunate encounter on Whitetail Way — You were rude and you scared my daughter — but couldn’t see the point of dredging it up at this late date. Besides, it was three in the morning, and she was grateful for the company.

“Mercatto’s my ex-husband’s name. I usually go by Casey.”

“I’m not too good with names,” he said, reaching for his cup. He paused before drinking. “If I’d known you were here, I woulda brought you some.”

“No worries.”

“They got those little one-cup things. K-Cups or whatever.” He extended the cup in her direction. “You want a sip? It’s nice and hot.”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

“You sure? I could take the lid off. That’s where all the germs are.”

“I’m more of a tea drinker anyway.”

“Well, don’t say I didn’t offer.”

He kept his eyes on her as he brought the cup to his lips. She got the feeling he was searching his memory, trying to locate a file marked Mercatto. She averted her gaze, found herself staring at the gun in his holster, remembering the way he’d touched it when he yelled at Dana.

“I’m glad I found you,” he said, just as the silence was getting awkward. “I was feeling bad about what I said before.”

“What did you say?”

“You know, about those kids who died. That they were young and stupid.” He shook his head, as if pained by the memory. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“It’s okay. No big deal.”

“They were my friends,” he said. “We went to school together.”

She studied his face, performing some quick mental calculations. He was probably about thirty, so the math worked out.

“Oh, God. I’m sorry.”

Yanuzzi shrugged. He took off his hat, ran a hand over his gelled buzz cut.

“The driver was a kid named Jimmy Polito. He was my best friend. We were gonna start a landscaping business.” Yanuzzi closed his eyes for a moment. “Anyway, we were all at the party together, playing quarters, getting drunk off our asses, when everybody suddenly decided to drive to the beach. The only reason I didn’t go is that I was trying to hook up with this girl. She was somebody’s cousin. Didn’t even go to our school.” Yanuzzi laughed softly. His face looked young and defenseless. “They got killed and I got laid. That’s the whole story.”

“I’m sorry,” Liz said again.

“Not your fault.”

A few seconds went by. Yanuzzi rubbed his jaw, as if checking the closeness of his shave. “I didn’t even really get laid,” he said. “We were both too wasted to make it across the finish line.”

IT MUST have been close to four in the morning when she set off for the restroom. Officer Yanuzzi kindly agreed to hold down the fort until she returned.

“No problem,” he said. “I’d stay here the rest of the night if I could. This is a really comfortable couch.”

“Just don’t fall asleep on me, okay?”

“Don’t worry about that.” He had his hands behind his head, his bulky cop shoes resting on the coffee table. “I’ve had at least ten cups of coffee since I started my shift. I’ll be wide awake until noon.”

They’d been talking for almost an hour at that point, not just about the tragedy of his graduation night, but about her divorce, and the engagement he’d broken off the previous summer, the suffocating sense he’d had that he was drifting into marriage because other people expected it, not because he’d made a choice to spend his life with Katie. He’d bailed out two months before the wedding, alienating lots of friends and even a few relatives, but he knew he’d done the right thing.

“Every morning I wake up and thank God I dodged that bullet.”

It was almost embarrassing how badly she’d misjudged him. Brian was a sweet guy, way more thoughtful and self-aware than Tony or any of the jerks she’d corresponded with on Match.com, the handful that would stoop to consider a woman on the wrong side of forty. He was kinda cute, too, if you could get past the gym-rat muscles and the look of squinty irritation that seemed to be his default expression, not that she was suffering from any romantic delusions. What was the point? She was twelve years his senior, a divorcée with a teenaged daughter, and no cougar by any stretch of the imagination. Even so, it was encouraging just to know that she was still in the game, that a guy like Brian would take the trouble to seek her out for a conversation, even if he was just trying to kill some time on the night shift.

She walked quickly past the phalanx of cardboard movie stars — they gave her the willies, all those famous people frozen in mid-gesture, grinning with manic intensity — and then turned left, onto an even more desolate hallway, in search of the faculty women’s room Sally had told her about.

Trust me, she’d said. It’s a lot cleaner than the other one.

She found it on the right, beyond two science labs and a bulletin board dedicated to the subject of “Careers in Health Care: A Growing Sector of Our Economy!” Liz stepped inside. She’d thought the restroom might be single occupancy, but it turned out to be large and well lit, four stalls facing a row of sinks and mirrors.

It took her a moment or two to realize that something was wrong — a sour smell in the air, a barely audible whimper — and by then she was already peering into the first stall, the door of which was slightly ajar.

“Oh, you poor thing.”

The girl was splayed awkwardly on the floor, her forehead resting on the lip of the bowl. Liz couldn’t see her face — too much dark hair was hanging in the way — but she recognized the orange T-shirt and these awful denim shorts.

“Sweetie,” Liz murmured, kneeling down, carefully extracting a strand of hair from inside the bowl. “I’m right here.”

LIZ WIPED the girl’s face and neck with a moist paper towel, as if she were a baby who’d just eaten a messy dinner. Her hair was harder to deal with, the sour smell lingering even after all the visible residue had been removed. A few stray clumps remained on her shirt, but she’d have to deal with those on her own.

“Your name’s Jenna, right?”

“Yeah,” she said, after a long hesitation.

“What were you drinking, Jenna?”

The girl’s eyes were cloudy, her expression somehow pathetic and defiant at the same time.

“Vodka,” she muttered in a feeble voice. “I fucking hate that shit.”

“How much?”

Jenna glanced at the toilet, which was going to spoil some poor janitor’s morning.

“Too much. Obviously.”

“Am I gonna have to call an ambulance?”

The girl bristled at the question.

“I just puked. I’m hardly even drunk anymore.”

Liz remembered the phenomenon from her own drinking days, the sudden bleak sobriety that follows the purge. She knew girls in college who carried little bottles of mouthwash in their purse so they could return to the party and get wasted all over again. She’d done it herself, once or twice.

“Can you stand up?”

Jenna gave a tentative nod and took hold of Liz’s proffered hand. It wasn’t easy to get her on her feet; she was either denser than she looked or drunker than she claimed.

“What about your boyfriend?” Liz asked. “Was he drinking, too?”

Jenna wobbled a bit, using the wall for balance.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Come on,” Liz said. “I saw you with him. When you snuck in?”

“Who, Quinn?” Jenna made a hocking sound in her throat, then swirled her studded tongue around her lips. She didn’t look too happy about the taste in her mouth. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“All right, whatever. I’m just trying to—”

Jenna leaned closer to Liz, as if sharing a secret.

“You know who his girlfriend is?” There was an odd sort of pride in her voice. “Mandy Gleason. Can you believe that? Quinn’s fucking Mandy Gleason. They’re dancing together right now.”

Liz had never seen Mandy Gleason, but she’d heard of her. Her beauty was common knowledge, the gold standard for Gifford girls. She was smart and athletic, too, captain of the tennis team, headed for Dartmouth in the fall. Lots of people said Dana reminded them of Mandy.

“Oh,” Liz said. “So you and Quinn aren’t…”

“She’s his girlfriend,” Jenna explained matter-of-factly. “I just suck his dick.”

She made a brave attempt at a smile, as if to say, That’s how it is and I’m cool with it, but it didn’t work, and she burst into tears. Liz held her while she sobbed, wishing there were something she could say to salvage the girl’s graduation night, a little adult wisdom that would take the edge off her pain, maybe put things in perspective. But when she did finally manage to speak, she found that she was crying, too.

“It hurts,” she heard herself whisper. “It just hurts so much.”

A SUBTLE odor of vomit clung to Liz for the rest of the night, like a badly chosen perfume. It was unfortunate, because the Chilling Station grew increasingly popu­lar as the party wound down. Exhausted kids began trickling in around four-thirty, occupying the couches and chairs, the army cots and the hammock, and then, when all the furniture was spoken for, just giving up and stretching out on the floor like travelers stranded in an airport. There was something sweet about the way they curled up together, bodies innocently touching, heads resting on laps or shoulders. Even the ones who kept their eyes open didn’t have much to say. They seemed content to just pass the time, surrounded by classmates, silently marking the end of an era.

By then Liz was pretty tired herself — light-headed and achy in her joints — but she did what she could, offering bottled water and energy bars to the new arrivals, making small talk with the handful of kids she recognized, mostly from Dana’s soccer team. It was the busiest she’d been all night.

She might have enjoyed herself more if she hadn’t been so worried about Jenna. Liz wasn’t sure if she’d done the right thing, letting her sneak out of the party and walk home half-drunk in the predawn darkness, but that was the girl’s choice. She just wanted to get the hell out of the building, to put high school behind her once and for all, to not have to look at Quinn and Mandy or put on a happy face for a bunch of people who didn’t like her and wouldn’t even remember her name in a couple of months.

Liz felt guilty about lying to Officer Yanuzzi as well, telling him that Jenna was having severe menstrual cramps and needed to lie down for a while. He was suspicious — asked Liz twice if the girl needed medical attention — but Liz had kept her arm tight around Jenna’s shoulder, insisting that everything was under control, that she would take care of it.

It’s been really nice talking to you, she told him, trying to dismiss him and apologize at the same time.

Same here, he said, a bit grudgingly. Guess I better head back.

As soon as he was gone, Liz opened the fire doors and led Jenna through the vestibule to the emergency exit.

You take care of yourself. Liz touched her lightly on the shoulder. Go straight home, okay?

Jenna nodded and stepped outside, into the chilly night. Liz remained in the doorway, following the girl’s slow, unsteady progress across the athletic fields until she was lost to the darkness.

THE SCHOOL bell rang like an alarm clock at six A.M., bringing the All-Night Party to its official close. The kids in the Chilling Station stirred slowly, stretching and rubbing their eyes, then rose and shuffled off toward the main exit. Liz took a moment to straighten the furniture and check the area for lost objects before joining the zombie procession through the hallways.

It was a shock to step into daylight, birds chattering away, the nighttime chill already receding. Even now, the kids didn’t want to leave. They lingered en masse outside the building, engaging in a round-robin of high fives, friend hugs, and weepy farewells. Feeling lost and invisible among the teenagers, Liz searched the crowd for adult faces, but none were in sight. She wondered if the other volunteers had used a different exit or were maybe still inside, toasting each other with cups of fresh coffee. Either way, they hadn’t bothered to include her in their plans.

Smiling and apologizing, she wove through the thicket of young bodies, making her way toward the parking lot. She had almost completed her escape when a glimpse of a shirt — two overlapping lacrosse sticks against a field of gray — made her stop and turn her head. It was Quinn, his arm draped around the shoulders of a girl who could only have been Mandy Gleason. He looked sleepy and happy, utterly pleased with himself, a golden boy on a summer morning.

You little shit, she thought.

Some part of her brain was telling her to be sensible, reminding her that a high school kid’s love life was none of her business, but she was already moving toward him, pushing her way through the bystanders, not bothering to excuse herself. Quinn noticed the commotion and seemed to realize she was coming for him. He let go of Mandy and turned toward Liz, scowling like he’d already been accused of something.

“What?” he demanded, at almost the same moment she slapped him across the face. The blow was harder than she’d intended, and much louder. It cracked in the air like a handclap, a teacher’s demand for silence.

“What the fuck?” cried Quinn.

“That’s for Jenna.”

Mandy stared at Quinn with a look of almost comical bewilderment. “Who’s Jenna?”

“Nobody,” he said, like a sullen little boy. “This bitch is crazy.”

“Jenna’s his other girlfriend,” Liz explained. “The one he treats like shit.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Quinn scoffed. The imprint of Liz’s hand was already blooming on his face. “She’s just a slut.”

Liz looked at Mandy. She was as beautiful as everyone claimed, perfect skin and clear blue eyes, long legs, and a tiny waist.

“Trust me,” Liz told her. “He doesn’t deserve either one of you.”

SHE HUSTLED across the parking lot, her cheeks burning with shame and regret. As satisfying as it had been to wipe the smugness off Quinn’s face, she knew she’d made a mistake. An adult couldn’t hit a kid, even if it was just a slap and the “kid” was more or less a grown man, a high school graduate who outweighed her by forty pounds. She’d heard of teachers getting fired for lesser offenses, coaches getting arrested or sued or publicly humiliated. At the very least, she’d have to apologize to Quinn and his parents, to take responsibility for her actions, to pretend he was nothing but an innocent victim.

I was exhausted, she imagined herself telling them. My blood sugar was low, and I wasn’t thinking straight. I promise I’ll get counseling…

Her hands were shaking as she turned the key in the ignition, her nerves buzzing with adrenaline. She just wanted to get out of there, to go home and pretend she’d never heard of Quinn or Jenna or the All-Night Party. Maybe the whole incident would just disappear like a bad dream.

Oh, fuck, she thought, as the police car appeared in her rearview mirror. It pulled up right behind her, blocking her getaway. This isn’t happening.

The cop who got out was Brian Yanuzzi — who else could it be? — but that didn’t make her feel any better. He circled the hood of his cruiser and swaggered up to her door, all-business, just like the last time. She brought down her window.

“Something wrong?” she asked, trying to play it cool.

“What?” He seemed puzzled by the question, or maybe just her tone. “No, I just… I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed talking to you last night.”

Liz was so relieved she almost laughed.

“Me, too,” she said, after a brief hesitation. “It was really nice.”

He bent down, tilting his head so he could see her better.

“So how’s that girl? The one with the cramps?”

“She’s okay. She just needed some rest.”

“That’s good.” He crouched lower, his hands resting on his thighs. “So, uh… you going home?”

She was about to say yes when she realized that home was the last place she wanted to be. She hated the mornings after Chris stayed over, the young lovers sleeping in, then lazing around in their pajamas, trading secret smiles while Liz swept the floor and emptied the dishwasher and folded the laundry.

“Not necessarily,” she said.

“I was thinking about maybe getting some breakfast.” He straightened up, rolling his neck in a slow semicircle, first one way, then the other. “You hungry?”

Later, in the diner, they had a laugh about how long it took her to respond to his invitation. She just kept staring at him, and he started to worry that maybe he’d made a mistake, that she was trying to come up with an excuse, a gentle way to let him down. She had to explain that it was just a brain freeze, the kind of thing that happens when you’ve been up all night. You’re in the middle of a conversation, and you check out for a few seconds, like somebody flipped a switch. For a little while, it’s like the world just stops, and there’s nothing you can do but sit tight and wait for it to start moving again.