In the absolute center of it all, standing on the raised edge of the infinity pool, Chloe looked like a teenage goddess. She was wearing her neon-pink string bikini, her flawless, golden skin glistening in the sun. She laughed loudly, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder as a group of boys handed her bright, fruity mocktails. She was holding court, basking in the intoxicating glow of absolute popularity.
I was sitting in the darkest, most isolated corner of the patio awning, feeling like a grotesque alien species that had crash-landed on my own property.
I was wearing the identical neon-pink bikini. But over it, I was entombed in a thick, heavy, oversized white terrycloth bathrobe. It was pulled tight around my neck, the thick cotton belt knotted fiercely at my waist. I was sweating profusely. A single drop of sweat rolled down the nape of my neck, tracing a path down my spine, stinging violently as it hit the sensitive, grafted skin stretching across my shoulder blades. I gripped the armrests of my patio chair, my knuckles white, struggling to breathe through the suffocating heat and the rising, tidal wave of panic.
Through the sliding glass doors of the kitchen, I could see my parents. They were hovering in the background, pacing like caged animals. My mother was wringing her hands, tears continuously pooling in her eyes. My father looked physically sick. They wanted to intervene. They wanted to shut the party down. But I had made them promise, begging them the night before to let this happen. I had told them that Chloe needed to know, that the poison had to be lanced. They were paralyzed by their own anxiety, terrified of the psychological explosion that was about to detonate in their backyard.
