She stood with her back against the kitchen wall, shoulders pinned to plaster, plastic cup of tepid beer held in one hand. A steady stream of huge guys and skinny girls pushed past her, but Sadie’s attention was homed in on Emerson Tate and the long willowy black girl who had her hands all over him. Sadie hadn’t expected to see Emerson after hearing about his brother and the hospital. But now that he was here, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. Not even if she wanted to. The girl he was with was wasted. Beyond wasted: she was a sloppy mess. Sadie could see that the same way she could see male-patterned baldness and a future of divorce and despondency in the asshole who’d just spilled his drink on her good jeans. There were about fifteen shots written in the way the girl’s legs twisted around themselves. Emerson tried holding her up, while at the same time tugging her skirt down. The girl writhed away from him once, throwing her arms in the air and dancing to the music beneath the spinning beam of a projected disco ball.
