On an Edge of Glass

heart clenches the minute that his name falls off my tongue.  Ben.
    We’ve barely spoken much more than a dozen words to each other in the past several days.  He did make an attempt to talk to me on Saturday morning and again in the afternoon, but interacting with him is strictly forbidden by my plan.  It’s basically the first and only rule. 
    B oth times he came up to me, I blew him off and made it clear that I wasn’t interested in hearing an explanation about his relationship with Lily.  In fact, what I said when he started to talk was, “Why would I care about you and your ex-girlfriend?  That’s none of my business.” 
    He wore his hurt openly like a badge.  “Oh,” he said, with an edge to his voice.
    I shake off the memory and focus on Payton.  She’s wearing jeans littered with man-made holes and a tight white shirt.  She tosses a crinkly bag of potato chip into the shopping cart and turns to face me.  “He doesn’t mind at all. I actually asked him before he left the house for band practice and he said that he’d talk to the guys about playing at the house on Friday night since they aren’t already booked.”
    My brain is a mess and my heartbeat i s uncomfortably erratic.  “You mean that Ben’s band is going to play at our party?”
    “Yeah.”  Payton t akes a couple steps back to that she can reach a box of microwavable popcorn.  “Do you mind?”
    I shake my head.  “No,” I answer in a clipped tone.  “Why would I mind?”
    The wrinkle on Payton’s forehead deepens.  “I don’t know , but you’re acting weird.  Don’t you think so, Ainsley?”
    Ainsley glances up from her phone.   She blinks.  “Huh?”
    Payton brushes her off and rolls her eyes.  “Never mind.  Maybe it’s just my imagination.”
    I hang back, presumably to examine all of the different kinds of pretzels.  Really, I’m just trying to calm down.  Ben Hamilton, playing guitar at our party, where there are going to be copious amounts of alcohol consumed and lots of half-dressed girls.  Just great. 
    I don’t need to be a genius to know that this is not sanctioned by the plan.

CHAPTER SIX
    It’s Just a Scarf
     
     
                  I’m in a short-sleeved black dress and a cat ear headband.  There’s a long, curving tail made out of black panty hose stuffed with tissue paper trailing behind me.  Ainsley’s idea. 
    F our-inch heels adorn my feet.  Huge silver hoop earrings dangle against my neck.  My eye make-up is so dark that it borders on scary.  Payton’s idea. 
    I’ve got a gin and tonic in my hand, and two shots of something strong and fruity flowing through my system.  Mark’s idea.  
    What’s my idea?  S ticking to the plan.  Even with Ben Hamilton giving a swoon-worthy performance on the makeshift stage situated off of the back porch. 
    I’m all about the plan. 
    While we were getting ready earlier, I made Mark swear up and down that he would stay by me. 
    He’ s true to his word and guards my elbow and virtue for about thirty minutes.  Then Hal Shepherd shows up and all bets are off. 
    Hal is dressed like some department store version of a cowboy.  When Mark sees him, he adjusts his purple polka-dotted bowtie, pushes his taped-together “nerdish” glasses up the bridge of his nose, and promptly tells me that I’m on my own.  I suppose that friendship only goes so far, and poor Mark has been crushing on Hal for months. 
    I shu ffle between two burly guys that I don’t recognize, careful to hold onto the porch railing so that I won’t tip over in these God-awful heels.  Ainsley declared me adorable and Payton deemed me appropriately sexy in this get-up, but my equilibrium is completely thrown by the shoes and I’m freezing.
    “They’re good,” some guy says off to my right. 
    He’s talking about Ben’s band, and he’s right.  They are good. 
    “What are they called?”   A girl asks loudly.  She’s dressed like a zombie—a sexy , push-up-bra-wearing zombie.  So wrong.
    “Accidental Sweet Tea,” I reply, turning my head away from them quickly.  I finish walking up the porch steps, pulling the hem of the black dress down my thighs as I go.
    Against my better judgment, I let my e yes wander over to Ben.  I watch his fingers move across the taut strings of the bass guitar and the way that his long body is curved around the instrument.  His head dips and sways with every beat of the music.  Tiny beads of sweat