Read loose for Free Online Page B

want you home by midnight.”
    “Dad.” I cross my arms. “Nothing even happens until ten.”
    Dad takes a deep breath, considering this. “How about one?”
    I scowl.
    “Two?”
    “Fine.” I glance over at Amy, roll my eyes. And we leave.
    “I wish my dad were like that,” Amy says once we’re in the eleva -
    tor. I think of her dad, who owns a chicken-packing company. He leaves every day at four in the morning, so usually when I’m at Amy’s house he’s asleep. When he’s awake, he’s grouchy and distant.
    He calls Amy “Lame-y” as a joke, but I can tell Amy doesn’t think it’s funny. In many ways I do feel lucky my dad is my dad. He’s friendly and funny—really funny, not mean funny—and he smokes pot in the apartment. My friends have always liked him, and I can tell he takes pride in being the cool dad.

    •
35 •
    L o o s e G i r l
    We find the taxi we ordered idling outside my building and get in. Both of us have piles of twenties in our purses, courtesy of our dads. The ride into Manhattan is always the same for me. As we cross the bridge I can see the endless lights that make up the skyline, flickering like a secret code. The sky is pale, starless, no match for the life below. The excitement of the city enters my bones like drugs from a syringe, and by the time we are paying and getting out on the Upper West Side, I am convinced something real can happen, something that can change my life. We walk to the West End, a trendy bar full of underagers like ourselves. The sweaty, bearded bouncer smirks at our IDs, but he leans back to let us through. Amy goes to the bar and orders us sea breezes. Not that it matters to anyone working there, but we don’t really care about the drinks. We’re not looking to get drunk. We just order them to have something to do with our hands in case there are no tables. It’s the same reason we light up cigarettes. We take our drinks and look around the room.
    Sure enough, the tables are full, so we stand against the wall, bouncing our heads just slightly to the music blaring from the ceiling.
    The bar is loud tonight, full of laughter and conversation. Amy and I look at each other, trying to think of something to talk about. This too, looking like we’re engaged in intense conversation, is a part of looking right, like we’re not really just waiting for some boys to approach us and free us from our discomfort.
    These minutes, the waiting, this is always the worst for me. My anxiety peaks, wondering whether I will be picked, like waiting to be chosen for a team in gym class. I run my fingers through my hair, cross one leg in front of the other, hoping that makes me look thinner. I scan the room, doing my best to look available, but not wanting to betray the desperation inside. I talk casually with Amy, but inside I am a jumble of angst and prayers. Please, I think, please let a boy find me tonight.
    This particular night, I see Amy has noticed someone.
    “Look,” she says, pointing her chin toward someone. Then, as I

    •
36 •
    A H o u s e w i t h N o M e n turn to look, “No, not so obvious.” I stop myself and glance back as casually as I can. There are three boys there, two OK-looking and one very good-looking. I recognize them immediately. It’s Peter Rafferty and his friends from our school, seniors. Every girl wants to date Peter. An extremely pretty senior girl did for a few months, but it was over quickly, and as far as I know no one has dated him since.
    “I didn’t know anyone from school came here,” I say.
    “Me neither.” She grabs my arm. “Come on.”
    We make our way toward them, my heart thumping against my chest. They look up with amused expressions.
    “Hello, ladies,” one of Peter’s friends says. “Can we be of service?”
    Peter and the other one chuckle and exchange looks. I swallow, hoping they aren’t making fun.
    “We know you,” Amy says to Peter. “We go to Dwight too.”
    Peter raises his eyebrows and