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their backpacking trip through Japan last summer.
    On the other side of the pool, they have a grill, lawn chairs, and a picnic table overflowing with food. Sam’s mom has made lemon squares and frosted cookies shaped like caps and gowns. Sam’s dad is sliding hot dogs and hamburgers onto a platter. But everyone is hovering around Sam’s homemade wing dip, scooping the blend of shredded chicken, hot sauce, and cream cheese into their mouths with nacho chips.
    Everyone, that is, except for the aunts. They’re taking turns finding me, whenever I’m alone, and prying about Sam, my life history, Sam, Sam, and Sam. I’ve decided that while this backyard is large by Brockport standards, it’s not large enough for the aunts and me.
    In my first hour here, Aunt #1 wrangled out of me that I met Sam in March. Aunt #2 discovered it was at the hockey game. Aunt #1 circled back and started prying about the prom. Sam was getting us Cokes, but he returned in time to tell her we weren’t into that sort of thing. When he said that, she clucked her tongue as if she were personally invested in dresses and tuxes and cheesy limo rides.
    Around eight Sam and I are sitting by the pool, dunking our feet into the water. Rachel and her friend Janine are sprawled next to us, munching lemon squares and drawing peace signs on their thighs with a red Sharpie.
    “Hey, Sam!” Sam’s dad calls out. “I need some help with the grill.”
    “I’ll be back,” Sam says, touching my arm.
    As soon as he’s gone, Aunt #2 beelines over. “So,” she says to me. “Tell me all about your college plans.”
    I flex my toes in the water. “I’m going to BU.”
    “My friend’s daughter is in her second year at Simmons,” she says. “She loves it! Her sister goes to MIT. So does her cousin.”
    Aunt #2 rambles on about how they’re such brilliant kids, so talented, how Boston is such a great college town. By the time she’s done talking, she’s practically hoarse. I watch her walk over to her sister. They stand close to each other, chattering and nodding, and then Aunt #1 starts my way. I’m just bracing myself when Rachel taps my shoulder.
    “Janine and I are going to go upstairs and drink a little,” she whispers. “Want to come?”
    I’ve been around Rachel enough to know that her drink of choice is Jack Daniel’s, and when she can get someone to buy it for her, she stashes a bottle in her room.
    “Sure,” I say, grabbing my sandals and following her across the moist lawn.
    As soon as we get upstairs, Janine locks the door and Rachel fetches a boot from the back of her closet. She fishes out a half-empty bottle, unscrews the top, and hands it to me.
    I take a sip, swallow the burning in my throat, and then pass it to Janine. Rachel flops onto her bed and massages her temples. “Thank God for Jack,” she moans. “My family is
craaaazy.
”
    Janine hands the bottle to Rachel. “They don’t seem so crazy?”
    I don’t know much about Janine except that everything out of her mouth sounds like a question and, according to Chastity Morgenstern, she once gave head to two football players at the same time, though I’ve never been able to figure out the logistics of that.
    “Are you serious?” Rachel says, tossing back a shot. “If we had a family reunion, we’d have to wear shirts that said, THE ALMONDS: WE’RE ALL NUTS .”
    “Oh, my God!” Janine giggles. “That’s so funny?”
    “When can we leave for this party?” Rachel asks, handing the bottle back to me.
    “Chastity told me it’s not starting until nine or ten.”
    “Goddamn,” Rachel says. “We are arriving at nine on the dot.”
    We pass around the bottle, and Rachel moans about how she’s scared shitless because supposedly there’ll be some hockey players coming to the party, including her ex-boyfriend and the guy she cheated on him with, and, basically, there’s not enough alcohol in the world to settle her nerves in the next forty-five minutes.
    Rachel takes