You had told Barbara she didn’t have to drink, that she didn’t have to shotgun the stupid beer just because everyone else was doing it, but it doesn’t matter. She feels every stare, every whisper, every snicker from Tommy and Carol as though they’re knives turned in her direction, and the thought of being called a spoil sport for refusing their little game is enough to make her throat tighten with that awful, familiar need to please. Nancy doesn’t help, still insisting she should try it, still smiling that bright, careless smile as though it all means nothing, as though Barbara isn’t standing there with her stomach twisted into knots.

So Barbara tries.

She means to pierce the tin neatly, to prove she can do it, to prove she belongs, but her hand slips at the worst possible moment and the knife bites into her thumb instead. The sharp, startled yelp that leaves her is small and helpless. Blood wells at once and the sight of it sends a wave of hot embarrassment through her.

“I-I’m fine,” Barbara mutters quickly, because that’s what she always does when she is trying not to be a problem. Her pulse hammers in her ears, her wounded thumb throbs, and before anyone can stop her, she pulls away, hurrying off through the house, the bathroom door slamming behind her.