How to Be the

LifeoftheParty
Arrive looking fine as hell. But not too fine. You should be a
disheveled, I just put this together fine. An effortless fine.
Everything should always appear effortless.

Keep up with the heaviest drinker in the room. It’s important to impress
her. You don’t want people to think you’re boring. Plus, you’re funnier
when you’re drunk. And what good is being the life of the party if
people can’t laugh at you?

Make out with your girlfriend because she smells like sweet honey,
because her lips taste like sea salt and sugar, because she’s redwood tree
tall.You want to climb her, crawl inside her, live like this forever. Tell
her she looks beautiful under an arc of neon light. Silence the little girl
in your throat who wants to plead, Tell me you love me, because, con-
fession? Even after four years together, you still aren’t sure sometimes.

Drink something strong and smoke something sweet and light up

the room like a firecracker. Compliment people’s outfits and mean it.
Scream I love this song and prove it by singing every word.

46
Don’t worry. Have a drink, and another. Be chill. Tuck your anxieties
in your bra so no one besides you will notice them poking you like
warped underwire. Ignore the voice in your head that believes every-
one secretly hates you.

Dance. Dance. Dance!

(Your insecurities can’t catch you if you keep moving.)

Glimpse traces of That Feeling whenever you notice yourself in mir-

rors and coffee table reflections. That Feeling of swollen lips, invincibil-
ity, sexiness, power. Belonging. That Feeling is a song, and you are the
maestro. You never want this crescendo to end.

You are not a loser. Not anymore. You have made it. You are one of
Them.

Or . . . you will be.

Soon.

Drink.

That’s right, keep going.

You have an audience to please.

2 | THIRSTY 47
June

48
 Chapter 1
I loved the sound of my own name.
“Dance with me, Blake.”
It wasn’t vanity. Not entirely . . .
“Blaaaaaake.”
Hearing my name reminded me I was here. I existed. I had a witness.
And it felt good to be seen.
“I love you, Bee.”
My girlfriend’s breath was hot in my ear. We were dancing. I loved
dancing with Ella Spencer. This gorgeous statue of a girl who only
had eyes for me. She was electric, and so was I. We were Blake and
Ella, Ella & Blake, the couple Landstown High voted Most Likely
to Still Be Together in Ten Years for yearbook senior superlatives.
Only ten years? A decade sounded insulting when the honor was first
bestowed.
We were going to last forever, I just knew it.
We were on Josiah Winters’s yacht, Byte Me. I didn’t know what
time it was. The string lights looked pretty and so did my girlfriend,
my beautiful, beautiful girlfriend. Someone handed me a drink and I
downed it without asking what was in it. It was pink and it was pretty,
what more did I need to know? I was here and everything was good.

49
 ZZZ
Someone shouted over the music, “You aren’t going to fucking believe
this!” Josiah. Loud-ass Josiah. Ella and I swayed toward the knot of
our coworkers clustered around the bar, and there was Roxanne
Garcia, glowing under a crystal chandelier. She grinned at me over a
martini glass like the Cheshire Cat. She was so pretty she made my
teeth hurt.
“Mr. Peterson hosted a costume party on his boat last weekend and
he showed up in blackface,” Josiah said, and declarations of “Shut up!”
and “I know you fucking lying!” exploded from the group like confetti.
Ella snaked an arm around my waist, and I sank into her.
(My beautiful girlfriend—who chose me!)
Josiah had evidence. He airdropped it to the entire party so we could
see. When Ella opened it, she laughed and called him an asshole, but
when I saw the photo, my anger was scarlet and slingshot fast. I hated
the Petersons. I served Mr. Peterson and his miserable, entitled family all
the time at the Snack Attack Shack. More than once he’d snapped his
fingers to get my attention because he didn’t know my name.
“I hate him,” I spewed, tossing my phone onto the bar with a clatter.
“He’s such a racist piece of shit! Someone . . . someone”—the room
swayed—“someone should teach him a lesson.”
“Uh-oh,” Ella said. “Big Bad Bee’s coming out.”
(You know what’s even better than the sound of your own name? A
nickname someone created just. For. You.)
“I love it when Big Bad Bee comes out!” Josiah cheered, his pale
cheeks ruddied from wine.
“Who’s Big Bad Bee?” someone asked.
How could they not know?

6 | THIRSTY 50
 I sashayed around the bar and plucked the cotton candy vape out
of my best friend Annetta’s hand. She muttered, “Not like I was using
that,” when I took a giant hit. I looked so cool.
“I am Big Bad Bee,” I declared through a cloud of sweet smoke.The
crowd cheered, “Bee! Bee! Bee!” but all I heard was, Me—
Me.
ME!

ZZZ
I was in the bathroom. Swirling like I was going down a drain. I grabbed
the sink for balance and my eyes snagged on the girl in the mirror.
She looked so good. Wild black curls, straight white teeth, smoky eye
makeup that hadn’t budged all night. No more Little Blake. This was
Big Bad Bee.
“I’m so sexy,” I purred, grabbing my chest and shimmying my
shoulders. Someone giggled. A toilet flushed and Ella—my beautiful
girlfriend—joined me at the mirror. She’d been here the whole time?
“Yeah, you are,” she said, running her tongue along her bottom lip.
Her mouth was grenadine red.

ZZZ
Inside the golf cart bay. It was hot. Summers in Virginia were always
so damn hot, even at two in the morning. Was time was it? Who knew.
Who cared. Not me, Big Bad Bee.
I was drinking something fruity. Watermelon? No, grapefruit.
“You should chill,” Annetta said. She was always popping up like
some overbearing Whac-a-Mole just when the party was getting good.

51 JAS HAMMONDS | 7
 Ella came over with a frosty bottle of rum and topped me off. “She’s
fine, Nettie. My Bumblebee needs her nectar.”
I sipped and winked at Annetta.
Buzz, buzz, bitch.

ZZZ
Someone mentioned Frank Peterson again, and I got riled up again
and told everyone how much I hated him again. When I turned
around, Roxanne Garcia was there. Somehow she was always there.
“You know, Blake . . .” My name fell from her pink-painted lips
like scribbled cursive, impressive for just one syllable. “The Serena
Society fiercely condemns racism and anti-Blackness in all its forms.”
I knew. Of course I knew. I wanted to be a Serena Society girl so
bad it took everything in me to not throw myself at her feet right then
and there. I nodded like a hungry disciple.
Roxanne’s mouth slid into a pout. “So what are you going to do
about it?”

ZZZ
This is where things got hazy.

Outside, the parking lot. It was so hot. Asphalt sizzled beneath my feet.
Why was I barefoot?
Tunnel vision. I was searching for something. I had a feeling I’d
know what it was when I found it. Alcohol surged through my body,
propelled me forward.
At my back, a chorus line: “Big Bad Bee! Big Bad Bee!”

8 | THIRSTY 52
A heavy paint can. Hot tin, liquid gold. It was in my hands and the lid
was off. It was in my hands and my palm was bleeding, but I didn’t care.
I was Big Bad Bee.

A desperate hunt. The wooden dock groaning beneath my feet. So

much laughter. I was the reason.

“Who wants to see me fuck up this white man’s boat?!”

Their cheers lit me up from the inside. There it was: That Feeling!
I was glitter and whiskey and audacity, I was THAT BITCH! A sym-
phony of encouragement. Only one dissenter—
“This isn’t a good idea! Blake, stop—”
Roxanne’s laughter drowned everything. She was the president of
the Serena Society and she was happy. Whatever she wanted, I’d do. I
lifted the paint can over my head.

My target? Frank Peterson’s yacht, La Dolce Vita. I flung the can with
everything. Yellow paint. A neon swirl, lighting up the night. Spraying
and splattering across pristine white.

“Yoooooo!”
“Blake’s fucking wild, bruh!”
“Big Bad Bee! Big Bad Bee!”

I loved the sound of my own name.

53 JAS HAMMONDS | 9
 Chapter 2
I woke up in Ella’s bed, the only mementos from the night a
throbbing headache and yellow paint caked beneath my fingernails.
Ella stirred awake. “Morning, Bee.” She yawned and said, “Last night
was unbelievable.You should’ve seen Roxanne’s face. No one thought
you were gonna do it.”
I rotated my left hand and winced at a large red gash that sliced my
palm in half. I looked at Ella in confusion.
“The paint can,” she explained, propping her head up. Her long
waves, recently dyed fiery red, splayed across her silk pillowcases. “You
cut yourself on the lid.”
My fingers curled over the cut, palm pulsing, raw and tender. Ella
snuggled against my neck and kissed the underside of my jaw. I ran
my tongue over my teeth, still not used to how slick they felt without
braces.
“You are so wild,” she murmured. She sounded pleased, thank goodness.
I sat up, head pounding, and squinted against the honey morn-
ing light spilling through Ella’s sheer ivory curtains. Her chubby tabby
cat, Nina, yawned at the end of the bed. A clock bounced around the
snoozing computer monitor across the room. Nine thirty. We were
about to be late for work. Ella sat up, too.
“You okay, Bee?”

54
 I looked at her. She wore no trace of last night on her face. Her pink
lips were moisturized, soft brown eyes bag-free.
“You’re not worried about Mr. Peterson, are you?” Even her breath
smelled fresh. “Because you shouldn’t be. He’s the worst, remember?
He totally deserves it.”
“What did I do?” I asked, and she laughed.
“You threw paint all over Frank Peterson’s yacht because he’s a
racist piece of shit.”
I froze. The night was foggy, but the paint under my fingernails was
real and flaking all over Ella’s lilac duvet.
“Shit,” I said. “Did someone see? What if—” The thought was too
terrifying to finish. I didn’t know how much yacht detailing cost, but
it sure as hell was more than I made at my crappy minimum-wage job.
I couldn’t afford the repair. Would Mr. Peterson go after my parents?
They didn’t have money, either. But—
“Hey.” Ella shook my shoulders. “Don’t freak out.”
“I’m not freaking out,” I lied.

ZZZ
Outside, the humidity amplified my anxieties. Even stopping by our
favorite coffee shop, Perk-U-Later, for large iced mochas didn’t help.
Thoughts of being fired once my boss discovered I’d ruined the yacht of
one of the club’s wealthiest members ran through my mind incessantly.
I’d be out of a job, no paycheck, no longer able to hang out with Annetta
and Ella during the day. And I was 99 percent sure the Serena Society
wouldn’t accept someone who couldn’t keep a simple summer job.
But by the time Ella and I pulled into the employee parking lot of
the Crystal Grove Golf and Yacht Club, she’d convinced me everything

55 JAS HAMMONDS | 11
would be okay. Mr. Peterson had gotten what was coming to him. He
was by far the most pompous member of the club, the most annoying.
He was the kind of man who rattled his empty glasses at waiters and let
the ice cubes ask for another round. He was constantly bragging about
his luxury yacht, La Dolce Vita, boasting about it so often that it became
a running joke between me, Ella, and Annetta. Whenever Mr. Peterson
passed us at the pool, we’d place our hands on our hips, jut our chests
out, and mock him.
It cost 3.9 mil, you know? Before I poured another mil in for renovations,
of course.
She’s 108 feet. Could’ve got something longer, but the wife said no!
The name just came to me. I spent some time in Italy, you know? Let me
tell you all about this beautiful Italian gal I met . . .
I’d been accompanying Ella and her family to the club for four years
and working there for the past two, and not once had I ever heard him
utter a thank-you to any staff member. His wife was also a nightmare,
his son was a brat. He’d been known to drop a racial slur in passing
conversation, even though it was widely known he liked to cheat on
his wife with Black women. He was also running for mayor of Virginia
Beach in the fall, and his ugly face had been plastered on campaign
flyers and television ads for months now.
“He deserved it,” Ella repeated as she backed her Range Rover into
a tight space. “Besides, he’s so rich he could just buy another boat if he
wanted to.”
She was right. Ella was always right. I relaxed against the leather
seat and took another sip of iced mocha. My palm was still throbbing,
even after Ella wrapped it in gauze.
“You’re fine,” Ella said, flipping her visor mirror down to check her
reflection. “You impressed Roxanne. At the end of the day, that’s all that

12 | THIRSTY 56
matters.” She applied a careful coat of kohl to her lashes, taking the time
to flick the wand up at the ends. We were already fifteen minutes late,
but Ella Spencer rushed for no one.
The Crystal Grove Golf and Yacht Club was in its usual Saturday
morning frenzy as we began the long walk to the pool. Ella got on her
phone to wish her fifteen thousand followers good morning. I usually
loved being shown off in her videos, but today I stayed out of the frame.
Instead, I listened to the birdsong drifting from the towering trees that
lined the club’s main road, hoping it would ease my headache. The sun
was blazing hot, and it felt awful after leaving the Range Rover’s glo-
rious A/C. Golf carts whizzed by on rolling hills of emerald, a parade
of old white men. Many of the drivers called out to Ella, undoubtedly
proud of themselves for remembering her name, not that it was hard.
Ella and Annetta were the only Black kids of Crystal Grove members,
so they had a fifty-fifty shot on getting it right.
“Morning, Miss Spencer!”
“Love the new hair!”
“See you at the pool later!”
Ella laughed a tinkling laugh and hollered responses. She had cha-
risma for days, inherited it from her parents. She remembered people’s
birthdays and little facts about their lives, asked you how that doctor’s
appointment went last week. When she talked to you, she could make
you feel like the only person alive. And she’d always been like that, like
Jupiter, the biggest planet in the solar system, the prettiest. I trailed
behind like one of her rocky moons with a name no one could remem-
ber. These white men didn’t care about me. My parents didn’t shell out
the club’s five-figure annual membership fee. I just worked here.
When we entered the pool gates, Ella blew me a kiss and strode
to her lifeguard chair to lord above everyone. I sighed as I took in the

57 JAS HAMMONDS | 13
crowded deck full of sunning housewives and bratty preteens. I was late
and bound to hear about it, so I slapped on my Good CGGYC Staff
Member smile and headed for the Snack Attack Shack.
Inside, Annetta was cleaning the blender. Our boss, Todd, hovered
over her shoulder like an unhelpful gnat, scolding her on proper sani-
tation techniques.
“Good morning,” I trilled. I snatched my name tag off the counter
and pinned it to my lime-green polo. “Todd, the pleats on your shorts
look impeccable today.”
Annetta bit back a grin. Todd’s face pinched.
“What time is it, Blake?” he asked.
I zeroed in on his splash-proof G-Shock watch. “Why don’t you
tell me, Todd?”
“It’s 10:20. As in, twenty minutes after your shift began.”
I flashed him my most dazzling smile.“Isn’t time merely an illusion?”
“Don’t start with me,” Todd said with a sigh, and Annetta laughed,
grateful to no longer be the focus of his constant scrutinizing. “You girls
think this is a joke? Mr. Donohue is on edge this morning. I’m sure he’d
have no problem firing you if I marched you over to his office.”
“Awww, what’s wrong with Daddy Donohue?” I was pushing it, but
the comment made Annetta laugh again, so it was worth it.
“There was an act of vandalism last night,” Todd said, resting a
hand on the slushie machine, bracing himself. “Someone defiled Frank
Peterson’s yacht.”
Annetta averted her gaze, and my stomach churned. I shoved my
hands in my pockets. I thought I’d scrubbed away all the evidence, but
my palm throbbed in protest.
“What happened?” I asked, desperate to find out how much the

14 | THIRSTY 58
club knew. Were there cameras around? Was Mr. Peterson about to
burst into the Snack Attack Shack and fire me himself?
“That’s none of your business,” Todd said with a smug little grin.
“Your business is to be on time, Ms. Brenner.”
I nodded at his pleated shorts. “I’ll try to be on time, Todd.”
“CGGYC staff members do not try,” Todd said, enunciating every
syllable.“CGGYC staff members do. Can you do for me, Ms. Brenner?”
“Yes, Todd.”
He straightened his visor, satisfied. “I’ll be back before the lunch
rush. Blake, you’re on register.”
I groaned. Todd knew I hated working the register. “We’ll discuss
putting you on expo when you show up on time,” he said. He pulled
the dreaded Snack Attack hat off the back of the door and placed it on
top of my head. It was an embarrassing thing, shaped like a shark with
a tail pointing skyward. Its jaws clamped over my curls.
“Why doesn’t Annetta have to wear this when she’s on register?” I
protested.
“Annetta is never twenty minutes late,” Todd said. When he was
halfway out the door, he added, “And don’t forget to use the official
Snack Attack Shack greeting!”

ZZZ
“Welcome to the Snack Attack, what are you munchin’ on?”
Someone cleared their throat, and I looked up from the register to
see Frank Peterson. My stomach somersaulted—less than ten minutes
at work and I was already face-to-face with the man whose yacht I’d
thrown paint all over twelve hours earlier.

59 JAS HAMMONDS | 15
 “You should really look at people when you’re serving them,” Mr.
Peterson said. His eyes were hidden behind douchey Oakley shades, but
I still felt myself withering beneath his glare.
I swallowed. “Sorry about that, Mr. Peterson,” I said. “What can I
get for you?”
“An order of fries. And a chocolate milkshake.”
“Member number?” I asked, even though I really should’ve had it
memorized. Club members hated being asked mundane questions.
“This one’s on the club,” Mr. Peterson said, now distracted by his
phone. “After what happened to La Dolce Vita last night, it’s the least
they can do.”
“Right,” I said. I glanced at the cook,Tristan, and he dropped a fryer
into sizzling grease. The blender whirred to life as Annetta started on
the shake. “It’ll be right up, sir.”
Mr. Peterson grunted and picked up a call. I quickly looked at my
hands, making sure there wasn’t any paint left under my fingernails.
My heart pounded, sure he was going to see guilt written all over my
face. But he was rambling on the phone, making plans for an afternoon
round of golf.
Past his shoulder, I had a perfect shot of Ella perched in her life-
guard chair. She was scanning the water carefully, red hair cascading
down her back. She’d always taken her job seriously, even though
she’d never needed the money. She claimed having a job would look
good on her application to Jameswell University, the most elite col-
lege in the Southern Ivy League. I need to convince the admissions depart-
ment I wasn’t raised with a silver spoon, she’d told me and Annetta when
she convinced us all to apply for jobs when we were sixteen. She’d
lucked out with the cool lifeguard position while Annetta and I got
stuck with the Snack Attack Shack. While we’d sweated in a grease

16 | THIRSTY 60
pit for two summers, Ella chilled under a large umbrella and soaked
up attention. Annetta and I always joked that Ella still ended up with
a silver spoon while we’d been handed sporks. Nevertheless, she was
right about hard work paying off—the three of us were bound for
Jameswell in the fall.
“Order up!” Tristan called as Annetta slid the milkshake down the
counter. I handed Mr. Peterson the striped paper basket of fries and his
shake. He walked away without saying thank you.
“Well, he’s got my vote,” Annetta joked. “Seriously, he’s going to be
the worst politician. He can’t even pretend to be nice.”
“Someone should teach him a lesson,” I replied. “Oh, wait.” I gig-
gled as I met Ella’s gaze across the pool. She held her hand up in a
backward C, and when I mimicked her, we formed an entire heart.
“How’s your hand?” Annetta asked, concern etched on her dark
brown face.
I lowered my hand. The gash throbbed beneath the gauze.
“It’s fine,” I lied.
“Fine,” she repeated dully. Her raised bushy eyebrow sent a hazy
snippet from last night bubbling to the surface—a smear of blood and
Annetta using her own T-shirt to apply pressure.
“It hurts a little,” I admitted with a sigh. “But it was worth it, right?”
She drummed her fingers over her pocket, itching to pull out her
vape. She always did that when she was uneasy. Annetta Jones and I had
been friends for nearly four years, and working side by side for two, so
I knew her every tell. Ever since her parents’ divorce, her anxiety had
been through the roof. Ella and I jokingly called her Nervous Nettie.
Now it seemed like the only thing that truly calmed her down was her
colorful assortment of vapes.
“I just worry about you,”Annetta said, and I laughed at how genuinely

61 JAS HAMMONDS | 17
afraid she sounded. Like I was about to go to war or some shit. I flicked
a dishrag her way.
“Okay, Nervous Nettie, I get it,” I said. “I’m a clumsy bitch.”
“Clumsy bitch or not, you need to watch it around Todd. He’s look-
ing for any excuse to let you go.”
“Do you promise?” I asked, and Tristan laughed without looking
up from his phone.
Annetta shrugged. “Just trying to look out for you.”
I swiveled on my stool just in time to see the pool gates open.
Roxanne Garcia strutted in, her curves barely contained in a rainbow
string bikini. She was surrounded by her usual gaggle of college friends,
and Ella waved and blew them all kisses. I tried to swallow my jealousy.
Stop, I told my anxious brain. Ella loved me. Sure, Roxanne was
beautiful, older, Serena Society president and Jameswell University’s
self-proclaimed Big Lesbian on Campus. But Ella took me home last
night. We’d been together four years. I didn’t have anything to worry
about.
While her friends set up camp near the diving board, Roxanne
headed for the snack shack, her flip-flops thwacking the concrete. I
straightened on the stool as I took in her tall Coke-bottle figure and
honey-brown skin. She was drop-dead gorgeous, and she knew it. As a
member of the wealthy Garcia family, Roxanne had been a fixture at
Crystal Grove for as long as I’d known Ella, but our age gap had kept her
at a distance. That was all changing this summer.
A few weeks ago, Mrs. Spencer threw me, Ella, and Annetta a
huge graduation party at Crystal Grove and formally introduced us to
Roxanne. Roxanne was immediately smitten with us, especially when
she found out we were all queer, too. Lesbians are taking over the Serena
Society, Roxanne had joked before inviting us to a party on her family’s

18 | THIRSTY 62
yacht, the Bewitched. Thus began our unofficial induction as Serena
Society hopefuls. We’d been anxiously waiting for the official pledge
process to start ever since.
“Hi, Blake,” Roxanne said silkily. Her gaze skipped to Annetta. “Hi,
Annetta.”
“Hi,” I said breathlessly. Annetta muttered a hello and drifted over
to the sink to wash dishes. Roxanne looked amused.
“Someone must still be hungover from last night,” she said, pushing
her oversized sunglasses up into her brown hair. “How are you feeling,
my little wild one?”
Honestly, I felt like shit.The caffeine from my mocha was fighting a
losing battle with my hangover. But I knew Roxanne didn’t like light-
weights, so I shrugged.
“Great. Ready for the next one.”
“That’s my girl,” Roxanne said, and I melted under her proud smile.

ZZZ

63 JAS HAMMONDS | 19