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Dim lights hide the peeling paint and grime of the unkempt bar that lines the back wall. This place serves as both the local pizza place and bar. At one time, the state of the place wouldn’t have bothered me, but today I seriously consider opting for the ten-minute drive to avoid food poisoning. Through the door from the kitchen comes the same weathered woman who’s tended the bar for as long as I can remember.
“Hey, Maggie,” her throaty smoker’s voice calls to me.
I wince at her misstep.
“Marina,” I correct, but she doesn’t seem to care.
“What’ll it be for ya ladies?”
“Can we have one minute, please?” Andrea says. “What does everyone want?”
The girls discuss their choice of toppings. My lips purse, nothing sounding good.
“I could really go for a shot of tekillya,” Jill chimes in.
I internally cringe. Maggie had always called tequilatekillya. Senior year of high school, Jill had tried tequila, and after several hours of holding her hair back while she got sick, Maggie dubbed it tekillya. It stuck with all of us, but it was always Maggie who would yell it loud as we all raised our glasses—typically containing cherry soda—in celebration. It’s a dumb high school memory, but it still causes a pang of longing for my sister.
Andrea rambles off the typical order. One large plain cheese and four side salads. The only difference is the addition of four shots of tequila with chasers.
“I don’t want a shot,” I call to the aged woman. “Just a Coke, please.”
Nobody says a word, but everyone averts their eyes and looks genuinely disappointed. Yet another reason why I’ve avoided these kinds of nights.
The woman rushes off to put in our order, while the bell above the door chimes, indicating more people have entered. By the way Andrea’s eyes light up, I can only assume it’s Jason and his crew.
“Andrea,” Jason says with a smirk, as he passes our table with four other guys. I only recognize two of them. He’s changed since high school. He’s bigger. Cockier. Less boy, more man. Yet one more thing that’s changed.
Our drinks are placed in front of us, drawing the girls’ attention back to our table. Everyone lifts their glasses just like the old days. Three sets of eyes watch me as I sit stone-faced and unmoving. We haven’t so much as mentioned Maggie, and now this? I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to carry on traditions without her.
Looking at my friends, I can see how muchtheyneed this, and I promised myself I’d be there for them too. Slowly, I lift my glass of Coke and with a slight stutter call out, “Cheers.” They all repeat after me with somber faces. They want to memorialize her, but tonight I want to forget. For a brief moment, I understand my parents’ need for numbness.
We don’t talk about Maggie past the salute, and I’m appreciative of that. Our pizza comes a bit later and we eat in silence, all in our own thoughts. When we’re done and our table is cleaned off, Jill turns excitedly toward the table of guys.
“Wanna play a game?” she calls, a wicked smirk plastered on her face.
“What kind of game?” the blond muscle-head with Jason calls back in a flirtatious tone.
She taps her finger to her mouth in mock thought. “Never Have I Ever. Loser takes a drink.”
“You’re on,” Jason calls, standing up and pushing another table against theirs.
“You coming?” Shannon asks, holding out her hand to me. “You don’t have to play.”
Her smile is genuine, with no trace of disappointment or frustration. She just gets me. I nod, smiling up at my friend, before taking her hand and allowing her to help me out of the booth. I squeeze to let her know just how much I appreciate her. We’re not seated long before the game begins.
“Never have I ever played strip poker,” Jill starts, laughing at Andrea as she lifts her drink to her lips.
“You bitch,” Andrea chuckles, wiping the remaining beer from her mouth. “You did that on purpose.”
“Obviously,” Jill snorts.
My eyes volley back and forth, watching the exchange like an interloper. Jill, Andrea, and Shannon all went off to college together, while I stayed back with Maggie, attending community college. These girls have had years together to form memories that I wasn’t part of. It only furthers the divide I feel, but I try my best to not show it. I smile widely and laugh when appropriate.
The game continues and beer after beer is drunk. The group skips over me like I’m not even here. Clearly, I’m throwing out thenot happeningvibe. As much as I should appreciate it, it just drives home the differences. And it hurts. So much of my life has changed and I had secretly hoped that maybe tonight would seamlessly slip back to the good ol’ days. It’s heartbreaking that it didn’t. I feel like more of an outcast than I did before.
An hour later we’re still sitting here and they’re still playing games. The girls talk about college, boys, and parties, shamelessly flirting with Jason and his friends. I continue nodding my head as though I have any experience with any of those things. It’s exhausting and I’m ready for bed.
“I’m going to head home, ladies,” I tell the group, standing to my feet.
