The wall beside my bed was reserved for posters and pictures of things and places that are important to me. There were my medals and certificates, banners of different schools and universities, a world map (the places I wanted to visit highlighted) and other stuffs.
I opened my closet and thought of a good thing to wear. After what seemed to be hours of decisive thinking, I settled for a clean pair of jeans and my favorite green shirt that's the same hue as my eyes. I looked at myself in the mirror. The girl that has been Kit Emerald Sherlock for eighteen years was still the same, just the way I liked it. I pulled my hair up and bound it together with a green scrunchie. I adjusted the bangs on my forehead then took a deep breath. Tonight will change everything.
***
I haven't quite parked Reed's Prius (which he gladly lent me for this occasion) when someone darted in front of the driveway. I immediately hit the brakes and cursed. I've never been a calm driver. I jerkily unclasped my seatbelt and opened my door and found a huge guy I quickly recalled to be someone in the hockey team lying on the curb beside the car. I sighed and thank heaven I stepped the breaks just in time. I haven't hit him; he was just too drunk to get up. I shrugged and put the car's keys in my front pocket.
I never imagined that I would find this lot of people in one house. But then again, this is Tara's house. Everybody who's anybody would be in her party. I remembered when I threw a sweet sixteen party two years ago; nobody from school came, except for Winona and (surprise, surprise) Andrew. It was the best party I had, even if most of the visitors were much younger than me (Wesley's friends) or much older (my mom's and Reed's co-workers).
As soon as I entered the house, I was greeted by a swirling vortex of entropy. There were beer bottles scattered everywhere, pizza slices strewed across the floor, I mean, this place was a mess. I walked carefully to make sure that I wouldn't bump to anyone. Man, I need to see Tara now. I don't know what to do in a party. I looked around and found a decent spot by the sofa and sat there. There were, to my surprise, a bunch of Reader's Digest under the coffee table, so I took one and read it to pass the time.
By now I was aware of people looking at me, as if reading a decent magazine like RD was something you're not supposed to do in a party.
"You're not supposed to read when you're in a party." I heard Andrew's voice behind me and looked up to face him.
"Then what am I supposed to do?" I sighed. He took a seat beside me.
"You shouldn't have agreed to come."
"Yeah." I hate that I have to agree with him.
We were silent for a while, with the noise of the party in the background. A moment later, I heard Tara Olsen's voice.
"There you are," she sounded relieved.
I felt Andrew slumped beside me. Then, it hit me. He has been evading Tara the entire night. I felt like such a bully agreeing to come just to ruin Andrew's night. He could be at home now, reading RD or watching the discovery channel. Could have been the same for me.
Tara was now in front of us. She was wearing a pink tank top with ruffles on it and jeans with rhinestones. I wouldn't be caught dead wearing that outfit. She had her hands on her hips and a smile on her lips.
"Come with me," Tara was tugging Andrew's arm but he won't budge. He glanced at me and told her, "Only if she comes."
What is happening here? Tara shrugged and tugged at my arm too.
"Oh great idea," she said in her princess -y voice, "there's someone I like her to meet."
Unsure of what else to do, I stood up and gave in. Tara could be a little more than persistent. Besides, people like her and Andrew are meant to be together. I could at least do him some good before I walk out of high school and walk out of his life, completely and finally. Tara was leading us upstairs and into a room much larger than mine. I guessed that it was her room. All the pink and ruffles couldn't just be red herrings.
Inside the room, there were several other people. They were sitting on the floor forming a perfect circle. I thought it was some form of a cult but then I realized it was something more dangerous when some girl put out an empty bottle. Tara, Andrew and I took our places in the circle and I got a closer look of the other people. The girl with the empty bottle was Jaden Kirst, we had History and Math back in our sophomore year. Ollie Ander, Jaden's part-Aussie boyfriend, was present too. There was Shenola Bayer, the olive-skinned cheerleader. I gave a kind nod to Grace Thomas, who was living in Lakeview but was studying in Greenvale, and she smiled back. Next to her was, I gave a loud gasp at this, Jason Bland. He was keeping his eyes away from me. I don't care. I'm too good for him, anyway.
Tara put her perfectly manicured hands on the empty bottle on the center of the circle.
"What am I doing here?" I whispered at Andrew, who was next to me.
"This is the classic game of spin-the-bottle," he whispered back, "it's a kissing game."
"A WHAT?" I forgot to lower my voice due to extreme shock. I could feel eyes on me. Andrew put a hand on mine, which was pressed on the floor.
"You'll survive, Sherlock," he said quite mockingly. I glared at him.
Tara eagerly flicked the bottle and it spun just as enthusiastically. Tara bit her lip as everybody looked intently at the bottle. I could see her stealing glances at Andrew, as if she's secretly wishing the bottle to point at him. To her dismay, however, the bottle pointed at Jason. I bet Tara Olsen was just Jason Bland's type.
She rested her hands on Jason's shoulders, who was still sitting on the floor, and closed her eyes as they locked lips. Their kiss lasted for about more or less five seconds. I could say Jason liked it, but I know Tara was not completely satisfied.
"Okay," she said after she sat down on her spot, "who's next?" She looked around and found me. "Kit?"
I shrugged my head but noticed the other people looking at me. I wrote a whole report about the psychology of peer pressure back when I was in middle school. I just know peer pressure too much not to recognize it.
"You scared, Sherlock?" Andrew smiled crookedly. I glared at him again.
"I'm not scared of anything, Alleyn." I swiped the bottle from Tara. "Gimme that."
I breathed deeply, conscious that I was shaking mildly, and placed the bottle on the center. I spun the bottle half-heartedly. I put so little enthusiasm on the bottle that it only took three whole spins then started to slow down. My heart skipped when I thought it was going to point at me, in which case I would not have to kiss anybody. But it just barely pointed at me, because it was pointing at someone else entirely. I almost melted on the spot when I realized the bottle was pointing at Andrew Alleyn.
I heard Tara gasp. Even Shelona and Jaden. Of all the girls, it was only Grace who appeared to be excited. My head spun. I cannot believe I'm going to waste my first kiss on this guy who I've hated so darn much.
"Well?" Grace inquired. She was waiting for me to do what Tara just did and kiss a guy I barely knew.
"You have to be fair, Kit." Ollie Ander spoke up in a weird accent, which was pretty much surprising for he barely even talks.
I put on my bravest face and looked at Andrew. His expression was as unreadable as ever. I inched in closer. Even closer until all I could see was his deep, deep blue eyes. Our lips weren't touching yet. Not yet. At that brief moment I thought of the time in my room, when I made the prophecy that this night will change everything. I was just about to kiss Andrew Alleyn, something that I didn't think of doing even in my dreams, when we heard a loud thud downstairs. The spell has been broken and now I'm free. The noise was now getting louder and louder, accompanied by rowdy cheering.
Tara immediately stood up and went downstairs; it was her home after all. Being the responsible person that I am, (or am I just finding ways to escape) I followed her. A crowd was gathered in the living room so I have to push my way (oops, sorry) to the center of the commotion. It turned out Bruce Benet and Joe Faulkner, the captain from Jackson High, was having a fist fight. Ugh. Guys and their stupid androgen-powered fights. I caught a glimpse
of Tara on the side, dialing on her phone. She must be calling the authorities. Now I've officially confirmed that I knew better than her, because by the time the police get here, Bruce and Joe must have killed each other already.
I forced myself between Bruce and Joe and put out my hands on each muscular chest. Bruce was surprised to see me but Joe was still violent. He must have drunk, what, ten cans of beer? I don't even think he recognizes anyone anymore. Joe pushed me aside and I stumbled over several bottles of beer. All I sensed next was the sound of beer bottles shattering, a single large shard piercing my skin and the voice of Andrew Alleyn as he pushed his way out of the crowd. Joe and Bruce were still fighting, as if I was not there, trying to stop their senseless brawl, and as if I am not here, with my palm bleeding and all. I did not cry, however. I was never the cry-baby type. I'm stronger than that.
Andrew angrily stopped the fight somehow. I was paying more attention to my palm and was slowly pulling out the shard. I bit my lip to prevent myself from crying. When I finally pulled out the shard completely, my palm bled like hell. It turned out to be a pretty wretched night. I cannot help thinking of my home, where my family's probably having mom's all-famous lasagna while watching Justice League Unlimited in the living room. And when things were about to get worse, that's when I felt Andrew close to me, even closer than we were back in Virginia. He was whispering soothing words, to help ease the pain I'm feeling. When I could not take anything anymore, I stood up and escaped from it all. Because that was just me, Kit Sherlock, the great escape artist.
I heard people muttering and Andrew saying in that president voice of his, "...the school and your parents will hear of this," and then, probably to Tara, "there were minors drinking in this party..."
That was all I heard of what I left behind. By the door, someone was kind enough to hand me a roll of bandage. Imagine my surprise when I saw that it was Jason Bland. But I left him too, which practically didn't matter, for after I took the bandage, he had his back turned against me.
I ran to Reed's Prius and leaned on the passenger seat door. I quickly unrolled the bandage and covered my palm wound with it. I squeezed my eyes shut to fight back tears. I'm on the verge of crying. I can tell that because my vision's suddenly became blurry. I didn't even realize that it was Andrew who was running after me until I wiped the moisture from my eyes.
"Hey," he said in his low and comforting voice, far from the one I knew.
"I'm fine," I said dismissively but shakily. I hated the way it sounded, as if I'm almost about to cry.
"No you're not." His voice was still firm. "Let me see the gash."
I hesitantly held out my bleeding hand. He shook his head. "This is not how you bandage it."
He removed the bandage and took some from the roll I have on the other hand. He gently wrapped my damaged hand with it without saying another word. All I could do was stare at him the whole time he's doing it. This short moment will remain as the most surreal point in the story of my life.
"That should do it." he said when he finished.
I took my hand back. "Thanks." I mumbled.
He leaned on the car next to me. "No one's stopping you from crying, you know."
I snapped. That does it. He can't just walk right to me and talk to me like he knows me, because he doesn't. He cannot tell me what or what's not to do as if I'm too dumb to know it myself. All my life I've been living behind the shadow of Andrew Alleyn and now he's taking control of me.
"I won't cry if that's what you want," I retorted. "I'm not weak. I'm not a damsel in distress that needs rescuing. Stop thinking that I'm spineless, Alleyn."
I fought back tears harder. I felt that I would cry more because of hatred than of the pain I'm feeling on my hand. To my surprise, Andrew was not angry at me for yelling at him. He was calm and considerate, and I'm beginning to understand why he was president two years and running.
"I don't think you're weak," he said, then added with a short comforting laugh, "I don't think you're weak at all. But even the strongest person in the world should cry. Otherwise they'll end up crazy. Do you want that?"
I was now starting to cry. I sniffled. "I bet you don't cry."
He dug his hands in his pockets and sighed. He was still leaning on the car next to me. "Hate to break it to you, Sherlock, but I do cry."
I looked at him in disbelief. "Humor me."
"Well," he put his hand on the back of his neck and I guessed this would have something to do with his parents, "the last time I cried was the night of my birthday, about three months ago."
I smiled lightly as I remembered that day. September fifth. I sent him a special edition funny LOLcat birthday e-card. I never thought anyone would cry on the night of their birthday, except of course if they were turning forty up.
"Why?" I shouldn't have asked, but curiosity got the better of me. And I was crying because of him, for godsakes.
"My parents decided to split up on the night of my birthday." He said coolly, as if it was no big deal. But I can tell that it means a lot to him. Many kids pretend like they don't give a damn when their parents separate, but they're the ones who were affected the most.
"No way."
He nodded. "I know. It's hard to believe but -"
"But why are they still living together?"
He gave a mild chuckle, "No one wants to give up the house. It's funny, really, when you think about it."
Yes. Hilarious. "Your parents are weirdly immature."
He put his hands on the back of his neck. "Tell me about it."
Nobody said something for a moment. Me, I'm just enjoying the way everything feels. Maybe it's not bound to be a wretched night after all. The moon lit up the world tonight and I could smell the scent of the pine trees carried by the night breeze.
"We'd better get home." He said after a while. "The authorities were on their way here."
I nodded at him and felt my pockets for the keys.
"Can you drive?"
I winced when I tried to move my damaged right hand. I shook my head at him. "No. I won't let you. You've done more than enough for tonight."
He held out his hand, palm up. "Keys, Sherlock."
I rolled my eyes and surrendered the keys. I'm in too much pain to argue with him. Besides, he's just trying to be nice. This rarely happens between him and me. He was too much of a gentleman for tonight.
He grabbed the keys and immediately ran to the driver's seat and left me leaning on the passenger seat door. Okay, so not much of a gentleman. He's still the same Andrew Alleyn. I sighed and opened the passenger seat door with my good hand. That ride home was the longest journey I ever had in my entire life.
***
You know what's the worst thing that can happen to a right-handed person? Not being able to write down notes because their right hand is injured. But I'm glad that'll never happen to me, even if I'm a right-handed person and my right hand is, in fact, injured. I've prepared for this moment, just to make sure that I can keep taking notes and keep my grades from faltering. Back when I was still a freshman in Greenvale, I spent every Saturday nights practicing writing using my left hand. Now I can write with my left hand with the same efficiency as my right hand.
I was walking back to my locker from my last subject, World Politics, when I noticed that everyone was looking at me. But not just at me, they're looking at my bandaged hand. By now, they must have heard of what happened at Tara's. Ironically, Bruce earned more admirers than ever. He's now top two in this virtual list of Hottest Guys in Greenvale High. Bruce toppled Sam Gunderson (the mysterious skater boy) and Dante Cruz (the hunky exchange student) respectively. But he never got over Andrew Alleyn, which was, of course, still number one. You can ask anybody in school (except me, I think I might have voted for Jason, who's at five).
Anyway, football season's coming up and everyone (and I do mean everyone) is really excited. There are banners on the wall already, stickers (despite prohibition by the student council) on locker doors and more
practice than ever before. That could only mean more work for me, Kit Sherlock, as a cheerleader.
I opened my locker and I was greeted by that familiar sight of books and schoolwork. I had my books arranged by subject and alphabetically, although sometimes, just for fun, I would arrange them in reverse alphabetical order. You know, just to make things a little edgier and chaotic. I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I closed my locker and faced the person who just tapped me. I was now face to face with Hottest Guy in Greenvale number two: Bruce Benet. He's not even hot at all. He was just this more-than-six-feet-who-likes-to-terrorize-people kind of guy. I don't even know why girls swoon as they talk quietly about his six packs. Don't they even find that, I don't know, disgusting?
Anyway, he was looking at me with intense expression. I stared at him not unkindly but with the same power. Moments later, he dropped his gaze and sighed.
"I came here to apologize about what happened the night at Tara's." he mumbled. I cannot believe a large guy like him was this much of a coward. Jon Dover was just five-feet-four but he looks me in the eye and talks clearly when he apologizes for late report. And to think this guy in front of me has always bullied Jon since middle school. Go figure.
Good for him I just got an A plus from World Politics that I'm in a good mood for accepting apologies. I looked up at him. "It's fine. You're drunk. I guess the pressure of winning the championships got the better of you." It's that or the beer got the better of him.
He has to smile at that. You may not realize this at first, but I've noticed that football players were sensitive to football issues. They're really proud of what they're doing. I don't even think they're just playing ball just so they could bully smaller people, but so they could finally be accepted for what they're good at. It brings a frown to my face when people demoralize those who're just doing what they're good at or doing what they like to do. But me, I don't care what people think of me. I guess that's what made me public enemy number one.
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