I bring my hand up and show him my middle finger. “Can you get us the keg or not?”
“Give me fifteen minutes.” Mitch sighs heavily into the phone. “This is for your house?”
“Yeah.”
“You need to keep it in the yard. And not destroy that fucking house. That’s an original Craftsman home from the thirties. Mom would—”
“Mitchell, can you shut up and just get what I asked and go to my house? We’re not savages.”
“Right.” He scoffs. “Except you kind of are.”
“We will not destroy anything.” I take a deep breath before I hang up the phone. “Invite Misty.”
“I take it that’s a yes?” Colson asks.
“Yeah, he had to give me a whole speech about not destroying anything.”
“Fuck that. Your parents will kill us if anything gets destroyed. Again. We need to keep everyone in check.”
“That’s what happened last time,” I say.
“Don’t invite Reuben.”
“So we can hear him bitch about it for the next week?”
“I don’t care. You want Reuben in our house?”
“No.”
I don’t even want Brian in our house, but that’s for a different reason and I refuse to go down that road.
Chapter Six
Rocky
I’m almost home when I finally look at my phone and find a text and missed call from Maverick.
Mav: Heads up: we’re having a party at the crib
“I hate when people say crib,” Leyla says beside me. “What is this? The year two-thousand?”
“Stop reading my texts.” I roll my eyes and put my phone away. “They’re supposed to consult me before they throw parties.”
“Oh, come on, Barnes, it’s just one party.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re drunk.”
She sets her head against my shoulder. “Totally drunk. You should be drunk too.”
“Someone needs to stay vigilant.”
“If I ever have a daughter, I want her to be like you.” She sighs. “Such a good girl.”
I roll my eyes, but smile. Most of the time, I hate being called a good girl. I hate being the one who never gets drunk or high or walks on the wild side. I hate being the prude and Goody-Two shoes who has virtual dates with her parents on Sundays at the movies. I didn’t always hate those things about myself, but being here, where I see my friends let loose and do all of the things they won’t be able to do later in life, I realize that I’ve been missing out on so much. The problem is, the good girl thing isn’t an act and it’s tough to shed. I think that’s why I’m so good at soccer. I immersed myself in it from early on and leave everything out on the pitch. I exhaust myself in training, in practice, in games, so that by the time I get home, I just focus on studying and getting rest. Mom doesn’t like it. She says I definitely need to live a little. Dad has always been strict, so he obviously loves the way I am.
When the Uber pulls up in front of my house, my mouth drops. Leyla picks her head up from my shoulder with a gasp.
“Oh my God,” we say in unison. “What the hell?”
“I’m going to kill them,” I say under my breath as I exit the Uber and hold Leyla’s hand to make sure she doesn’t fall.
“I’ll help you,” she says. “I cannot believe they didn’t talk to you about this.”
We stay frozen on the sidewalk, on the edge of the lawn that is always meticulously kept, thanks to the landscaper that Maverick’s mom hired. The house is a huge old-school Craftsman, with a porch and thick wood columns painted white. The house itself is a mix of gray rocks and white wooden planks. It’s dreamy and right off Franklin Street, which makes it extremely coveted. Before I was accepted here, I had no idea what a gem this was, but after a year of being here, when Maverick’s old roommate moved out and he asked me if I wanted to move in, I jumped at the chance.
The bars are here, the Greek life is here, every single rich parent who’s an alumnus comes back for home games and has fancy barbecues on their fancy lawns. Basically, it’s a dream, and it currently has at least forty people spilling out of the house and onto the lawn. If it’s this crowded here, I can’t imagine how it is inside or in the yard. My heart speeds up. My room. I grab Leyla’s hand even tighter and start marching up the walkway, shouldering past people as we walk into the house. The living room is crowded, the lights are completely off, and there’s a freaking DJ with a smoke machine and strobe lights. I shut my eyes for a second and try to stop the impending meltdown I feel coming on. This is Colson and Maverick’s house as much as it is mine. More, really. Mav’s parents own the place and are letting us live here rent-free, despite Colson and I trying to pay them. It’s not my place. I’m just happy to be here. I repeat those things on loop and take a deep breath as I open my eyes. If they want to have a party, that’s fine. It doesn’t mean I have to partake.