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car smells predictably like stale smoke and decaying upholstery.
    I watch Brian from the backseat, desperate for him to notice me.
    “I’m so stupid to leave my own party,” I blurt.
    Brian doesn’t say anything, and I immediately regret having spoken. I think of the rules. Boys like girls who are quiet, mysterious, who suggest but don’t blurt. I know this, but it’s still so hard for me.
    The desperation I feel is always too there, too much. I don’t know how to quiet it, a yappy dog that just won’t shut up.
    At the convenience store, Iggy jumps out, the motor still running, leaving Brian and me alone. Brian turns up the radio as a Jimi Hendrix song starts.
    “I love this song,” I say. Brian glances back at me, and I close my eyes and move my shoulders suggestively to the music.
    “You like Jimi Hendrix?” he asks.
    “Love him,” I say, which is only sort of true. “I can put him on when we get back to my place.”
    “Cool.” Brian nods. My head is light, full of excitement. I’m making a connection with Brian.
    When we arrive at my apartment, it is full with people I mostly don’t know, many of them way too old to be at a fourteen-year-old-girl’s party. But I don’t care. Brian was talking to me. I go straight to the stereo, which someone else has commandeered, find my father’s Hendrix album, and put it on the turntable.
    The guy who was working the stereo looks down at me, pissed.
    “This is my apartment,” I say. He backs off. Once the music starts, I beeline back to Brian. Liz, looking worried, stops me.
    “Do you know any of these people?” she asks.

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29 •
    L o o s e G i r l
    “I’ll deal with it later,” I say.
    “But, Kerry, they’re in your dad’s room. They’re all over. Chris and I can’t control them.”
    “I’ll figure something out,” I say. Anxiety shoots through me. I know Liz is right. I know I need to take control of the situation.
    But . . . Brian.
    This is my chance with Brian.
    I continue toward him. He opens a beer, takes a long sip, and I watch his Adam’s apple move. I follow his lead, open a beer myself, and down a few sips. Just enough to make me fearless. “Come with me,” I say to him.
    I grab his arm and pull him through the crowd of people into my father’s room. There are five people in there, none of whom I recognize. One has a mustache and he’s rifling through my father’s drawer.
    “Hey,” I say. “What are you doing?” The guy looks up and shuts the drawer. He shrugs and he and the others amble out. “Nobody’s allowed in here,” I say as I shut the door behind them, trying not to think about the fact that my father keeps personal things in his drawers, things like drugs and, I was pretty sure, a gun.
    I turn to look back at Brian. Brian, Brian. I am in here alone with Brian.
    He looks at me, his expression mild. I move quickly, before I lose my nerve, and I push him toward my father’s bed. He raises his eyebrows with surprise, but before he can say or do anything I press my lips to his. I force him onto the bed, one leg on either side of his hips. I lose myself, letting myself be a girl I assume boys want, sexual and willing, a girl who will sixty-nine.
    “Hey,” he says.
    I say nothing, just push at his shirt, tug at his pants. I kiss his chest and neck, ravenous as a wild dog. I need to get in there, to show him I’m desirable. I think of Iggy and how he led my hand there. I don’t know a lot about boys, but it’s common knowledge they’re slaves to their penises. I want to show Brian what I know,

    •
30 •
    A H o u s e w i t h N o M e n teach him to want me through my hands. I am vaguely aware of the muffled noises of the party on the other side of the door. Music rever-berates through the wall. I allow it to guide me, give me a rhythm as I work my way down his body. But Brian pushes me off.
    “Jesus,” he says. He straightens his shirt, checks his pants. He gives me a look, a look like I’ve gone over the edge,