The skin on the back of my neck prickles with heat. I dig my nails into my palms, biting back the urge to cry. Talking about Dad has become taboo, so it’s difficult to hear this.
“She was totally fixated,” Jill continues. “The two met on the dance floor, Missy Elliot’s Get Your Freak On started playing, and well, the rest is history.”
That’s a mental image I could have lived without.
She keeps opening her mouth, like she wants to say more but doesn’t.
“That doesn’t sound like a bad night,” I say. Mom always told us she met Dad at school. I guess, technically, it’s still true. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me? That I could find love tonight to the tune of early 2000’s R&B?”
Aunt Jill is distant again. “Love isn’t always fair, Lan.”
I stare at her. This isn’t exactly the pep talk I was expecting.
She blinks a few times. “Sorry. I mean, yes. Tonight is full of possibilities for you. Some terrible, some incredible.” Her hand finds my knee, a smile overtaking her glum expression. “Just don’t drink so much you can’t tell one from the other, okay?”
I’m about to ask her what she means, but my phone buzzes. My heart kick-starts when I see it’s West.
“He’s downstairs.”
“Then why are you still here?” Jill’s grin widens, the ghostly sadness forgotten.
I catapult off the bed, double checking my pockets. Keys, wallet, phone. I count them a second time, just to make sure.
Jack is watching cartoons as I walk—and Jill rolls—toward the door. He doesn’t even look our way.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I whisper, resting a hand on the knob. “Can I do this?”
“Only you know the answer to that one, little Lan.” Jill grabs my other hand, wrapping her long fingers around them. “But if you want the opinion of a crazy cat lady, I think you’ll be just fine.”
She releases me, her confidence giving me the courage to pull the door open.
“Lan, wait!”
I stop mid-step, turning back to Jill.
“Want another waffle for the road?”
Lock offers me a waffle from a plastic bag as he climbs into the front seat. It takes me a solid minute to stop laughing long enough to decline the offer. His head sinks as I pull out of the parking lot, and I curse under my breath. I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings, but, seriously? Why does he have a bag full of waffles?
“My aunt made them,” he explains, dropping the breakfast food onto the floorboard.
“Does she make a lot of food in the shape of Mickey Mouse?”
“That’s my mom’s fault actually.” Lock continues to stare down at his hands. “You see, we went to Disney World when I was five, and she couldn’t get on any of the rides because of her motion sickness issues, so she just shopped the entire time. The waffle maker isn’t even the half of it. We’ve got dishtowels, plates, throw pillows, even a Donald Duck toilet paper holder.”
I laugh again, and he looks pleased with himself this time.
“So, wait.” As I stop at the traffic light, I turn towards him. “You didn’t get to ride Dumbo?”
“Are you kidding?” Lock grins. “I rode it like, twelve times. My Dad—” He stops, smile vanishing.
Way to go, West. Add the D-A-D subject to your list of things not to bring up.
The light changes colors and we ride on in silence. Somewhere along the way, I flip on the radio and hum along. Lock just stares out the window, his lips moving silently.
I’m drawn to him, sneaking a glance whenever I can. He’s so tall, his long legs fold so his knees just barely graze the glove compartment. He wrings his hands together in his lap, warm copper skin going pale with the pressure of squeezing.
We turn onto Northside Drive and start up one of the ridiculous hills.
“So, I have to tell you, Chels’s parties can get a little crazy, so I hope you’re prepared to go hard.”
Lock doesn’t answer, just clenches the end of his shirt.
“You good?”
“Y-Yeah,” he tells me, clearing his throat.
The poor guy looks like he’s about to blow chunks. Oh god, please, not in the car. What’s his deal, anyways? It’s like he’s never been—
Wait a second.
“This isn’t your first party, is it?”
He remains silent, but I find my answer.
“Oh, man.” The car tips forward as we start downhill, just like this conversation. “Do they not party in Seattle?”
“I’m sure they do.” Lock’s voice is small.
He doesn’t explain any further.
“Look, dude, we don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable. I won’t judge if you tell me to take you home.”
Lock actually takes a second, like he’s trying to talk himself out of bailing which I hope to God he is. Not only because I want him there, but because turning around means I gotta get back on I-285 and I fucking hate driving on the highway.
“I’m good,” he says to my relief.
“It’s gonna be chill,” I reassure him. “Nothing to worry about.”
I hope for Lock’s sake I’m telling the truth.
Apparently, West and I have conflicting definitions of the word ‘chill’.
Chels’s house sits atop one of the hills on Northside Drive. It looks like it’s straight out of a magazine, windows from floor to ceiling, ridiculously manicured foliage, a three-car garage, a fountain that reminds me I have to pee, and a grand staircase leading to the front door.
There’s a thumping rhythm vibrating in the air and lights strobe from the windows. Is this a house or a club?
“See?” West comes around from the trunk, holding a plastic bag. “Totally chill. Last year there was a bouncy house in the driveway, I shit you not. You don’t want to know how many people ralphed inside. Or fucked for that matter.”
I was right. This is a horrible idea. I should just crawl back into the car and ask West to take me home.
But Jill’s words are ringing in my ears and I can’t make myself turn around. I’ve come too far for that. I’m doing this, even if it kills me. Which chances are, it might.
I follow West up the polished stairs where people are already gathered, drinking from Solo cups and laughing at jokes I didn’t hear. A couple sits on the edge of the porch making out. My cheeks burn as I lower my gaze to the ground.
He pulls the heavy wooden door open and the full effect of the blasting music washes over us. It’s dark inside. The smell of sweat hits me, muddled with wafting clouds of acrid perfume. Lights flash from above, blinding and persistent. I try to blink away the ghostly remnants they leave in my vision. The pulsing beat from the other room resonates in my chest, my heart hammering in perfect time with the rhythm.
West beckons me over the noise. “Come on.”
We move away from the music and the mass of bodies dancing and shouting and living. West glides through like he’s in his own home while I dodge rowdy teens, trying to keep up. I really hope he isn’t planning on abandoning me. If I’m left alone in this place, there’s no telling what will happen.
It’s quieter in the kitchen, and there aren’t any flashing lights, so that’s a plus. The tension in my shoulders eases, thanks to a respite from the noise.
Chels stands by the sink, wearing a skin-tight red dress and filling a cup from the biggest punch bowl I’ve ever seen. She squeals when she sees West, ditching the drink to wrap her arms around his neck. From the way she sways, I’d say that’s not Hawaiian Punch.
I hover awkwardly to the side.
What am I doing here, again?
“You’re late!” Chels yells, like she’s still fighting to be heard over the music.
West laughs. “And you’re drunk. Jesus, Chels. Isn’t it a bit early to be wasted?”
“It’s my party and I’ll get turnt if I want to.”
“Fair enough.” West latches onto her, steering them both toward me. “Look who
decided to tag along.”
“Lock!” Chels’s excitement is foreign and unexpected and her hug is unwelcome, but I shove all that down.
“T-Thanks for having me,” I tell her, pushing her back to arm’s length.
“Can you watch her for a second?” West asks me, and it takes me a second to realize he means Chels. “I’ve gotta go grab her present.”
“Wait.” I panic. “What do I do?”
“Just make sure if—I mean when—she throws up, it’s in a trash can or toilet. And keep her from taking her clothes off. Or from fondling anyone. Or, you know what, the list is too long. Just keep her occupied. I won’t be more than five minutes.”
And then he’s gone, and Chels is looking at me with this dazed smile that probably means she’s about to hurl on my shoes.
I take a cautious step backward.
“You want a drink?” she asks, stumbling back toward the counter and the punch bowl. Someone across the kitchen yells, “Happy fucking birthday!”
She waves like she’s royalty. “Thank you!”
I follow, anxious she’s going to trip and break her neck or something. Leave it to me to let the host die while she’s under my care. I don’t have to be well-versed in parties to know that’s just poor manners.
“Here, cutie.” Chels hands me a cup of red liquid that smells like lighter fluid. I accept it with a smile but set it on the counter beside me.
“You know, I’m glad we have this time alone. I’ve been wanting to ask you something.” She pauses to sip her own drink. “No offense, but like, what are you? We’ve been trying to figure it out for like, a week. There’s a pool going around the lunch table, actually. I won’t tell you what I’m rooting for, but the front runner is some kind of Latino. Dominican, maybe?”
“I’m not Latino,” I tell her. “My dad is…was…white .”
“Oooh! A swirl baby. That explains so much.” Chels smiles, showing teeth so white and straight they’re a shoe-in for congress.
“A what?”
“Swirl baby,” she repeats herself. “One-part vanilla, one-part chocolate. It’s the best flavor if you ask me.”
“Um. Yeah. I don’t really like that.” I grab my cup off the counter because I need something to occupy my hands so I don’t start fidgeting like a spaz.
“My bad.” Chels presses her hand against my chest.
I shrug, taking an absent-minded sip. I cough as soon as the burning liquid hits my throat.
“Everything okay?”
I turn to see West, no longer wearing a button-up but a white t-shirt with “Hotlanta” airbrushed onto it like graffiti. It matches the flat-bill cap he’s wearing.
“You’re fucking kidding me.” Chels laughs, high and sharp, like a hyena. It’s very different when she’s drunk. “I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
“I’m a man of my word,” West tells her. Without warning, his foot is on the counter, modeling a slip-on foam shoe.
“Get those Crocs off my counter, you freak!” Chels is hysterical at this point, and West just beams this goofy smile reminiscent of staring into the sun.
“I hope she didn’t bore you to death,” he says to me, both feet now firmly planted on the ground.
Chels hiccups, giggling again. “Oh, please. I’m the most interesting person in the world.”
“I can see you’ve hit your golden hour of unshakable self-confidence.” West corrals her, arm over her shoulder. “So, why don’t we go find Shay’s hot brother, so you can mark him off your list?” He waves at a girl with a pixie cut by the table. “Erica, can you take her to find Eddie Park and maybe make sure she doesn’t try to unzip his pants right away?”
The girl—Erica—nods, wrapping an arm around Chels. “Okay, birthday girl. Let’s go find you a present to unwrap.”
“Oh my god,” Chels starts, “I just love you all so much. You’re the best friends I could ever—”
They leave the kitchen, and West is back to grinning at me with his ridiculous outfit.
“Hotlanta?” I question.
“Yup. Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten about being part of the Hotlanta squad!”
“I don’t think I could ever forget that, even if I tried.”
That just makes him smile wider, and I take another sip of the nasty drink, my throat growing numb. It’s not an unpleasant feeling. The tight sensation between my shoulders is almost completely gone.
“I hope she wasn’t too much trouble,” he says, scooping his own cup of the punch. I want to warn him it tastes horrible, but I’m probably the only one who didn’t already know that. There’s heat in my face, but I tell myself it’s from the punch.
“Not really. She told me about the pool going around the lunch table.”
West scowls—a weird look for him. I much prefer his smile. “I told her to cut that shit out.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” I assure him. “I’m kinda used to it.”
West tips his cup, wincing as he swallows. “That doesn’t justify it. People around here are just so obsessed with labels. They have to know what you are and who you fuck and where you fall on the food chain, so it’s easier to determine whether or not they can eat you.”
“And you don’t care about those things?”
“Hell no.” He tips his cap to scratch behind his ears. “My parents are the most judgmental people on earth. I want to be as opposite them as I can.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard him mention his parents. I count the ridges on the side of my cup until I can think of something to say.
West finishes his first cup off, refilling it.
“So, tell me how a cool guy like you never got invited to a party back west?”
I bite my bottom lip. “Who knows?”
Oh wait, I know. It probably has something to do with my social awkwardness and paralyzing anxiety.
“I mean, really.” West steps towards me and he’s closer than he’s ever been. “You must have had some shitty friends out there.”
Actually, I didn’t have any friends. None that have tried to contact me since the move. So, were they really ever my friends?
“There weren’t really many opportunities,” I say. “I mean, sure there were a couple of birthday parties for the kids in my homeschool group, but that doesn’t really—”
“Wait, wait, hold the fucking phone.” West leans in, and I can smell the booze on his breath. “Did you just say homeschool group?”
I nod, suffering through another sip of punch. The more I drink, the tastier it gets.
“You poor, innocent bastard. No wonder you seem so lost!” West grabs my shoulder, and I quickly realize I don’t mind people touching me as long as those people are West. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You never asked.”
He gives a somber nod. “Touché. My bad.”
“And I thought you didn’t care about labels?”
“I don’t! But this is juicy context. Suddenly, everything makes sense! Well, maybe not the bag of waffles, but the majority.”
I’m regretting telling him this.
“Wait, your family isn’t a bunch of religious nut-jobs where there’s like five wives per husband are they?”
“That’s illegal. And no.”
“Oh, good.” He wipes imaginary sweat from his brow. “Here, I was thinking I was going to be brainwashed into a cult where I’d have to cut my hair and kiss girls.” He shivers at the thought.
“My parents just wanted me to learn at my own pace,” I defend. “The only reason I’m in public school now is because my mom wants me to socialize. I tried to tell her it’s a bit late for me to be developing social skills, but she wasn’t going for it.”
“I think you have great social skills,” West says, but he can’t keep a straight face. “Okay, maybe not ‘great.’ But definitely passable. I mean, you could be Silent Steve.”
We’re both laughing now, and it feels so nice I don’t think about pulling my vibrating phone fro
m my pocket. My thumb swipes the call before I can stop myself.
“Lachlan?” Mom’s voice comes through the speaker.
“H-Hey, Mom.” I raise the phone to my ear, setting my cup down so I can plug my other ear. “H-How’s th-the conference?”
“Where the hell are you?”
“At a party,” I say.
I don’t lie to her. Except about that one thing.
“What?!” she must be around her coworkers because she keeps her voice hushed. “Where is Jack?”
“With Aunt Jill.”
“You left him—Lock we’ve talked about this! She’s not capable of—”
“They’re fine,” I find myself interrupting.
“We don’t know that. Jesus, I can’t believe you would abandon your brother—”
“Like you’ve got room to talk! You abandon him on a regular basis.”
I don’t know where this courage is coming from, but my sneaking suspicion points toward the curious red liquid I’m sipping.
“I cannot believe you,” she continues.
“Look, if you want to know if Jack’s all right, then just call her, Mom. And while you’re at it, maybe trust that I wouldn’t leave my little brother with someone incapable of taking care of him.”
“Trust you? How am I supposed to do that after this little stunt, Lachlan?”
There’s a certain disappointment in her voice that would have crushed me this time last year. Now it just flames the fires of my anger.
“You don’t really have a choice, now do you?”
“Lock, I don’t have time for this. You go home right now and—”
I end the call, my ears burning. It’s brash, but she has to understand that I’m not an idiot.
“You good?”
I almost forget West, who’s standing next to me looking far too concerned.
“Yeah,” I tell him, even though I’m far from good. My phone lights up again with my mother’s face, but I ignore her call and turn my phone off. She has no right to tell me to go home when she runs away every chance she gets. Aunt Jill is right. I need a night of fun. A night free of the crushing responsibilities I’ve been saddled with.
Lock & West Page 4