The Alchemy of Forever

the forest, aren’t we? Let’s get you two something to drink.”
    She takes Bryan’s hand and leads him into the kitchen. He swivels his head and looks at me with an expression that says This girl’s crazy , but I can tell he doesn’t mind. I follow them to the keg, where someone places one of the red plastic cups in my hands, and a boy I don’t know fills it with beer. “Hey, Kailey,” he says.
    “Hey.” This is, I’ve realized in the few days since I’ve been Kailey, the most valuable word I know.
    Bryan and Leyla are still chatting away, and with a trace of amusement I realize I am the third wheel. I can tell she likes him, and I suspect the feeling is mutual.
    I sip the beer, enjoying the tingly path it clears through my belly. On the far side of the room, near the sink, I spot Noah. He’s talking to a girl whose back is turned to me, but I recognize the long, shiny brown hair. Nicole. His gaze flits upward momentarily, as though he can feel me looking at him, and he smiles at me. He tucks a loose lock of his hair behind his ear, and I’m struck by how good-looking he is.
    I’m surprised to feel my heart tug across my chest, like a needle scratching a record. I try to return the smile, but feel the unmistakable beginnings of a blush beginning to creep across my face, and I end up giving a curt nod before turning away. I try to appear occupied, studying the lip of my cup with great intensity. I don’t see anyone else familiar in the kitchen, so I open the sliding glass door and step outside.
    The backyard is nothing but wild forest, redwood trees leading the eye upward, beyond their canopy, to the stars beyond. A few hundred feet from the house, up a fern-lined path, is a huge fire pit. An acoustic band plays music that wouldn’t have sounded out of place coming from a traveling Romany caravan. I approach the fire.
    There’s a girl playing the accordion, her dreadlocked hair pulled back in two pigtails on the side of her head. A fake flower is pinned to the strap of her suspenders. She has two bandmates: a boy wearing a battered cowboy hat is playing violin, and another boy with stretched earlobes and a shaved head is picking at a banjo. They’re playing the Grateful Dead song “Friend of the Devil,” but slowed down, and I realize the song isn’t jaunty; it’s a lament.
    Set out runnin’, but I take my time.
    Amen , I think.
    There’s a huge fallen log nearby, and I seat myself on it, watching the fire. Chantal walks up to me, followed by Madison, and the contrast between the two of them makes me laugh. Chantal’s hair is pulled back in a neat chignon, and she’s wearing a spotless pale-blue wool coat. She sits gingerly next to me on the log, gesturing for Madison to sit next to her. Madison’s shaggy hair hangs in her face; she tosses it back as she pulls a flask out of her leather jacket. She smirks at Chantal, who still seems uncomfortable.
    “Just get into it, Chantal. It’s okay to get dirt on your coat.” Madison takes a swig from her flask, offering it to me.
    “Shut up, Maddy,” Chantal says affectionately. “The things I endure for a bonfire.” She sighs.
    Madison pokes her in the arm. “You’re full of it. You just wanted to come out here to see if you could find Dawson.” She turns to me in explanation. “No one’s seen him.”
    “Well, can you blame me? He’s adorable,” Chantal admits, patting her hair. Madison flashes me a smug smile.
    I stop listening when Noah walks up to the fire, Nicole behind him. When she sees me, she grabs his hand. I pretend not to notice, watching the flames.
    When Noah spots me he drops Nicole’s hand. She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she says icily. “But we’re so glad you made it.” Her smile is insincere.
    “Yes, I can tell just how glad you are,” I say, smiling just as insincerely. I don’t know what this girl’s deal is, but I don’t like her.
    Nicole rolls her eyes and takes a seat on a nearby log.
    I lean my head back and watch the tops of the trees. They sway in the darkness and I imagine them creaking and croaking in rusty tones. Oddly, these trees have been around as long as I have. It’s a humbling thought.
    “Can I see the violin?” I ask the cowboy-hatted boy, between songs. He agrees and hands it to me. Nicole looks incredulous.
    I hold the base to my chin and draw the bow across the strings, playing a few experimental notes. “Whoa,” says Chantal.
    “I’ve been