What I’d give to be high right now. Pills are so much better than this. Only one swallow, no flavor, and hours of melty goodness. A waft of skunky smoke rolls past us and I observe a circle of kids passing what I assume to be a joint. I mean, hey. Maybe if I wanted to branch out…
Across the room another group of boys—all in letter jackets—get rowdy and a shout comes too late, not enough time for me to get out of the way as a body slams into me. I lurch forward, a big wave of punch leaping from the side of my cup. It hits the floor with a messy splat by my feet.
“Oh god,” I groan. Smooth fucking move, Vandy. I stare at the red mess, knowing my cheeks are just as bright, semi-frozen. I look around. “Is there a rag? Uh, paper towels?”
I have a moment of silent, chest-clenching panic. I can feel it, sense it. Someone ran into the crippled girl. Everyone is staring at me, down at my leg, back at my face. This is why I’m not invited anywhere. I’m a liability. A buzzkill.
I search for Elana, but predictably, she’s nowhere to be found. I can’t just let people drag toxic punch through her parents' house.
“Here.” A roll of paper towels suddenly appears, offered by George, the guy from my art class. “Let me help.”
He yanks off a stretch of sheets and hands them to me, then pulls off another bunch. We both drop to the ground and start mopping up the mess.
“Thank you,” I breathe.
“Sure,” he replies with an easy grin. George is one of those guys that have been in my classes for years, but I know very little about him. He seems nice enough. He’s the best in the class with pastels. He’s a bit reserved, like his sister, and has a really unfortunate acne issue, but that’s about the extent of my knowledge. Like everyone else, I’ve kept him at a distance. He holds the soaked towels in his fist and offers, “I think there’s a trash can in the room off the kitchen.”
He stands and I follow him, walking past a series of increasingly curious eyes. Oh, nothing to see here, folks. Just the loser limping around with dripping paper towels. Ugh. When we arrive in the kitchen, he pushes a pedal on the floor. A silver trash can opens and he dumps in his wet towels. I toss mine in next. The room is quiet, dark, and I take a moment to catch my breath. I don’t know why it bothered me so much. I know it’s dumb. I know it’s not as bad as it feels. But for some reason, my body is just not getting with the program.
I feel like I just ran ten laps.
“You okay?” he asks, watching me closely.
“Yeah.” I nod, pressing my palms to my warm cheeks. “I just feel stupid about making such a mess. Way to make an entrance, right?”
He laughs. “Well, you know the saying, ‘it’s not a party until someone spills the punch’.”
I stare at him. “Is that really a saying?”
He laughs again. “No, but it is now.”
I drop my head in my hands. “Oh god, what a disaster. My first party and I’m a punch-line.”
He bursts out laughing, but when he sees my not-so-amused expression, he stops abruptly and frowns. “Wait. That wasn’t a joke? The punch-line thing?”
I grimace. “Unfortunately, no.”
“It’s really not that bad.” George rolls his eyes, leaning back against the counter, next to me. “Jason Floyd puked all over Campbell Clarke’s pool table last year at one of her parties. That was a disaster.”
An image of Jason Floyd, lead in all the Preston Prep musicals, hurling on Campbell’s pool table appears in my mind. Then, a picture of Campbell losing her shit. That makes me smile. “Okay, yeah, that beats me. But still, I think I’ve confirmed the party scene isn’t for me.”
I cross my arms over my stomach, inhaling carefully. My heart has been racing ever since we got here, and the spilled punch only made it all worse. Obviously, I need to find Sydney or Emory and get out of here, cut my losses.
George places a hand on the counter between us and says, “I can hang out with you for a while, if you want.”
“That’s okay—” Another commotion comes from the other room. Someone shouts “Thistle Cove can suck my dick!” which is met with a round of cheers and applause. “I think I should probably just—”
Without warning, George swoops in, eyes falling closed, hand cinching around my waist. I throw up two hands and shove him back before our mouths connect. “Dude, what the hell?”
“What?” George blinks at me, gesturing at the space between us. “I thought there was some chemistry.”
“You thought wrong, dumbass.” The words come out fierce, but inside I’m crumbling. I push past him to get out of the small, secluded room, and reenter the kitchen. At least two dozen more people showed up while I was with George and I skim the crowd for Sydney or Emory. I can’t find either of them.
Too many people. There are arms everywhere, and it’s loud—so loud—and the air feels thick with smoke and sweat, and is it just me, or does this room seem smaller than it had ten minutes ago?
Spinning on my heel, I make for the front door but slam into a hard body. I look up into Ben Shackleford’s surprised face. Peeking out of the top of his shirt is the black cord. Now, all I can think about is how he knows the truth about me—my secret. The feeling of being exposed is so overwhelming, it’s like I’ve been flayed open.
Fuck. I need to get the hell out of here. Now.