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Then they all pile onto the train, August up front, pointing to Jane and telling Isaiah, “That’s her,” and she guesses she does know. Maybe what she really wants is to be the person across the crowd who belongs to someone.
“You brought me a party?” Jane asks as the car fills. Niko has already started blasting “Suavamente.”
“Technically, Isaiah brought you a party,” August points out.
But Jane looks around at the dozens of people on the train, painted nails and shrieks of laughter up and down her quiet night, and it’s August, not Isaiah, she looks at when she grins and says, “Thank you.”
Someone places a plastic crown on Jane’s head, and someone else presses a cup into her hand, and she rides on into the night, beaming and proud as a war hero.
Myla’s bag of candy starts making the rounds again—August can’t be sure, but she thinks someone has slipped in some edibles—and at some point, maybe after Isaiah and the Canadian Franzia enthusiast have a dance-off, August gets an idea. She convinces one of Isaiah’s drag daughters to give her the safety pin stuck through their earlobe, and she returns to Jane with it, grabbing her shoulders to catch her balance.
“Hi again,” Jane says, watching as August sticks the pin through the collar of her leather jacket. “What’s this?”
“Something we do in New Orleans,” August says, pulling a dollar out of her pocket and pinning it to Jane’s chest. “Thought you might remember.”
“Oh… oh yeah!” Jane says. “You pin a dollar to somebody’s shirt on their birthday, and when they go out—”
“—everyone who sees it is supposed to add a dollar,” August finishes, and the light of happy recognition in Jane’s eyes is so bright that August surprises herself with her own volume when she yells to the crowd. “Hey! Hey, new party rule! Pin the cash on the birthday girl! Keep it going, tell your friends!”
By the time the train loops back into Brooklyn, there are people swinging from subway poles and a stack of bills stuck through Jane’s safety pin, and August wants to do things she never wants to do. She wants to talk to people, shout through conversations. She wants to dance. She watches Wes as he slowly, warily lets himself slip against Isaiah’s side, and she turns to Jane and does the same. Niko bobs by with his Polaroid camera and snaps a photo of them, and August doesn’t even want to duck away.
Jane looks at her through a dusting of confetti that’s appeared out of nowhere and smiles, and August can’t control her body. She wants to climb up onto a seat, so she does.
“I like being taller than you,” she says to Jane, chewing on a piece of peanut and sesame brittle from Myla’s bag of candy.
“I don’t know,” Jane ribs her. “I don’t think it suits you.”
August swallows. She wants to do something stupid. She’s twenty-three years old, and she’s allowed to do something stupid. She touches the side of Jane’s neck and says, “Did you ever kiss any girls who were taller than you?”
Jane eyes her. “I don’t think so.”
“Too bad,” August says. She leans down so Jane has to tip her chin up to maintain eye contact, and she finds that she likes that angle quite a lot. “No memories to bring back.”
“Yeah,” Jane says. “It’d just be kissing to kiss.”
August is warm, and Jane is beautiful. Steady and improbable and unlike anyone August’s ever met in her life. “Sure would.”
“Uh-huh.” Jane covers August’s hand with hers, their fingers tangling. “And you’re drunk. I don’t think—”
“I’m not that drunk,” August says. “I’m happy.”
She sways forward, and she lets herself kiss Jane on the mouth.
For half a second, the train and the party and everything else exist on the other side of a pocket of air. They’re underground, underwater, sharing a breath. August brushes her thumb behind Jane’s ear, and Jane’s mouth parts, and—
Jane breaks off abruptly.
“What is that?” she asks.
August blinks at her. “Um. It was supposed to be a kiss.”
“No, that… the—your lips. They taste like peanuts. And… sesame paste? They taste like—”
She touches a hand to her mouth and staggers back, eyes wide, and August’s stomach drops. She’s remembering something. Someone. Another girl who’s not August.
“Oh,” Jane says finally. Someone crashes into her shoulder as they dance by, and she doesn’t even notice. “Oh, it’s—Biyu.”
“Who’s Biyu?”
