by Nessa Morgan
Am I mad?
There’s only one way to answer that.
You bet your sweet ass, I’m damn near pissed the hell off to high heaven about that.
“A little.” I play it down. I don’t want to seem rabid, not right now. I somehow bury the annoyance and anger.
Harley looks to me with a little nod of understanding sent my way. This girl knows me all too well. Then her attention shifts to something over my shoulder, something that—based on her angry expression—she doesn’t like.
This can’t be good.
“‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes,’” Harley quotes, the Shakespeare rolling from her mouth with ease, you’d think she studied it.
“Hey girls,” Alexia purrs like a hungry cat waiting for the lone mouse to walk into its path. She walks up to the railing, leaning against it, her bare arms crossed in front of her. “Enjoying the game?” she asks with no real emotion in her voice or on her face, somewhat like you’d expect a sociopath to act. I expect to see her on the revival of Most Evil later in life, if it ever comes back.
“You know we are,” Harley replies with fake enthusiasm, her body settling straighter, perfecting her posture. She stares at Alexia in the eyes, challenging her. Waiting to strike, waiting to fight.
“Joey,” her attention turns to me briefly before sliding down to examine her red painted nails. I assume that she’s checking for any chips and imperfections in the gloss. “I think congratulations are in order.” Her pale blue eyes flick up, locking on mine. “You are the lowest Ryder has ever slummed. You’ve tricked him and I’m proud.”
“Shove it, Alexia,” Kennie snaps, leaning back to better look her teammate in the eyes. Even though Alexia’s supposed to be Kennie’s friend, Kennie’s not above standing up for me and showing where her loyalty truly lies when given a choice. She always chooses me, Alexia should know that by now.
“I thought you were the one to use tricks to your aid, Alexia,” I tell her, not letting her talk down to me like I don’t matter. “He’s going up, honey,” I bark out, tucking a curl behind my ear. I may not have pretty nails but I do know where to sink my claws when the time comes. Granted, I didn’t have the wittiest retort, but I didn’t just sit back and take it either. “Isn’t that why he’s with me, now?”
Her eyes narrow in disbelief that I just said what I did. I didn’t know it was that hard hitting. The smile falls from her face as she turns her glance to her teammate. “Don’t speak to me like that,” she seethes. “You, Kennie, don’t need me as an enemy.”
“There’s only one thing that we need that only you can provide, Alexia,” I start, staring directly at her. “Your precious absence.”
Alexia scowls, turning to run back to her lackeys as she always does.
“I hope that I accidentally kick her in the face when I tumble tonight,” Kennie grumbles, watching her teammate as she walks away—hips swaying wildly—before joining a group of girls at the nearby railing.
“I’d love you forever if you did,” I tell her, watching her stand up and stretch before she heads back to the field for the second half of the game. She blows us a kiss, winking, before she walks away, her long ponytail swinging from side to side.
Halftime ends—can you sense my excitement?—and Harley and I sit through the rest of the game, fighting the urge to absquatulate and head to the nearest interesting thing, like watching grass grow. We ignore it and talk about school and homework, music, what we saw on television throughout the week and our secret obsession with Dancing with the Stars, anything we’ve been reading, and just about anything else in the world to keep our minds and attention from the actual game.
Our school wins—Harley and I can tell from the roar of the surrounding crowd and the boom of the band behind our heads. We remain seated as the crowd dies down and files down the cement stairs, heading to their cars and other engagements. Some students talk about the parties they’re heading toward and the plans they have at these said parties. I wait, with Harley—my ride here, by the Home locker room until Ryder walks out.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Harley tells me when she catches sight of a damp Ryder, freshly showered, and carrying his duffle bag. His blue eyes shift over me, practically undressing me.
“Thanks for suffering with me,” I call after her as she walks away, her keys jingling as she aims for her car.
“I heard that,” Ryder tells me. He drops the bag next to us and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me up to his body. I resist the urge to place my hands on his chest and push him away. Only slightly, I still try to distance myself, but to no avail, his grip is tight.
“You were meant to,” I reply, a playful smile on my lips.
He leans in to kiss me on the cheek, politely. Still a gentleman. Ryder presses my back against the wall and rests his hand up by my head, leaning too close for my comfort but I’m not about to ask him to back away. The reason why walks through the door. Zephyr walks out, his long hair drip, drip, dripping wet from his shower, his keys dangling and jangling in his hand.
Holy balls, he’s never looked so…
Stop it, brain.
“Hey, Kalivas,” Ryder yells after my neighbor. I hide my eyes, or try to, but I still look up. I can’t help it. This is the closest I’ve been to Zephyr in a while. “Good game, man.” Zephyr barely looks at him and doesn’t even acknowledge my existence. Some friend. He just heads to his car—or Jamie’s car—throwing his bag into the trunk before slamming the driver’s side door and speeding from the lot like a bat out of hell. The faster to get away from you, my pretty, I think as I watch his taillights disappear in the distance, mimicking the Big Bad Wolf imitating Red’s grandmother. I shake my head as Ryder asks, “What’s his problem?”
He better not be asking me, like everyone else in the world that thinks I have some insight on the inner workings of Zephyr Kalivas. Most times, I forgot he had a brain big enough for inner workings.
“I don’t know,” I answer, tugging the hat from my head and tucking my hair behind my ears. “So where’s this party?” I wonder, hoping that we run into Kennie wherever we go.
“That’s a surprise, come on.” He takes my hand, threading our fingers, leading me to his car and opening the door for me.
After a few minutes, we’re on the road, heading to wherever this party is. Passing through Edmonds, through Lynnwood, heading through Mountlake Terrace into Brier, toward a section of town that looks familiar. As if I’ve been here, not recently, but… forget about that for now, I have more pressing matters on my mind.
“Hey,” I start, disrupting the awkward silence that developed between us in the car. “What’s this I hear about me being your, uh,” I clear my throat, “girlfriend?”
Ryder laughs, more like a chuckle, grabbing my hand and gently squeezing it. “It’s just a label, Joey, babe,” he tells me, calling me babe. That needs to stop. “It’s easier to say that you’remy girlfriend when talking to my friends than that long spiel of she’s a girl who’s my friend, but not my girlfriend, you know. I’m seeing how things go but you never know with these sorts of things.”
What is he talking about?
Ugh, boys.
“You can just tell them I’m your friend.” I shrug, rolling my eyes when he isn’t looking at me. “There isn’t anything wrong with that, you know?”
“But I feel like we’re more than, you know, friends.” He looks to me, shooting me that cocky smile I hate. His blonde curls fall into his eyes.
How can I tell him this using a language that he’ll understand? Hmmm…
No, actually, I don’t know. I don’t think he’d listen anyway. He hasn’t before.
***
The car slows—and given his erratic driving coupled with his belief that the speed limit isn’t a law but a guideline, that’s saying something. He turns, pulling into a familiar driveway, parking behind a familiar car, and it’s déjà vu all over again as he parks the car, places his hand on
my thigh, and winks at me.
“Here we are.”
I thought the drive over looked too familiar.
The street around us is packed with cars but he found a place to park, in the driveway of all places. It’s obvious they saved the spot special for him. I look forward to the blue BMW with red-and-black shiny pom poms in the back window. I let out a giggle as I shuck off my heavy jacket and beanie, leaving them in the car. If I remember correctly—and I swear I’m part elephant—this place is going to heat up to excruciating temperatures within the next hour.
“This place doesn’t change, does it?” I ask as I stand in front of Jennifer Long’s front door. Ryder’s hand is on the knob. The scene of the last party—this won’t be fun at all, I know it.
Let the countdown begin.
“Not if the Long’s can help it.” Ryder pushes open the front door revealing the crowd, immersing us in a deafening bass beat. It quickly cuts off. They have been waiting for us—for him—to show up. It’s obvious with the way everyone’s staring. At the sight of Ryder, the entire room erupts into a roaring cheer. Loud, booming voices start chanting “Harrison! Harrison!” and pom poms and streamers are thrown into the air. It’s a real roaring celebration.
I think I’m in over my head here.
“Harrison!” a large—in size not muscle mass—guy yells as he barrels through the crowd, aiming straight for us. I remember his name is Brett, the dude from the last party. His arms thrust in the air in time to the chanting of the quarterback’s name. “Diego, get this man a beer! Get the man a beer!”
“The man of the hour has arrived,” Diego, I think, yells as he hands Ryder a beer. He edges close to me, his lean frame resembling the body of a swimmer, which surprises me. “The man with the golden arm.”
Yep, I’m definitely in over my head here.
“Hey, man.” Ryder claps Diego on the back.
“I see you brought the girlfriend.” Brett looks me over like a starving dog looking at a steak. I swear he’s salivating. I’m waiting for drool.
“I’m not—”
“She’s just shy.” Ryder wraps his arm around my shoulders, oblivious to my body stiffening from his grasp, from his touch. I shoot him a look for not correcting his friend, a look for not letting me correct his friend. “Hates parties,” he tries to explain, as if it’s so horrible, so against humanity and the rights of teenagers everywhere, to hate parties.
Kennie runs by. I can see her blonde hair bounce through the crowd as her figure disappears behind a tall guy with the beginnings of a beard. Duke must be in town for the dance tomorrow night.
“Let’s get her a beer,” Diego excitedly yells, tugging me away from Ryder. “Loosen her up, some.”
Oh, goody.
Let’s get the basket case a beer.
“Hit that yet?” I hear Brett behind me. I assume, it’s the only thing that really makes much sense, he’s asking Ryder about me, that’s the only person behind me—as we’re still a fire hazard near the front door—he could be asking, but they can’t be talking about me. I want to stay to hear the answer. I stop and tug, waiting for Diego to stop, but he only pulls my arm harder, pulling me to the other side of the room, into the white-and-silver, sterile looking kitchen.
Holy balls, it looks like you could perform surgery in this kitchen.
In the kitchen, after Diego hands me a beer—I should say after he forces the can into my hands and wraps my fingers around the sweating aluminum because that’s the best way to describe it—I turn to leave, trying to put a large amount of distance between me and this kid, only to run into a wall. My head bounces off the wall—wait, not a wall, a body. A familiar body that I haven’t seen in a while.
I look up, spotting the bright orange waves falling into glistening, blue eyes so pale, they’re almost white, the pale, pink complexion that seems to work on him, and the dozens upon dozens of freckles covering most of the exposed flesh.
“Hey, Joey,” Avery says, reaching his arms out to hug me. Not wanting to be rude—I actually like Avery—I reach my hand out and pat him on the shoulder. He’s wearing his grass stained jersey, like the other varsity players that got to play even nanoseconds in the game, happily celebrating their win.
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” I observe, patting Avery on the arm—on his nice arm; I can feel his muscles beneath the fabric of his jersey and long sleeved t-shirt. Man, the boy has been working out since the last time I paid attention. “How are you?” I ask, honestly interested.
It isn’t every day that I have a conversation with Avery O’Reilly. I could spend the rest of the night just talking to him.
“Great,” he starts excitedly; he’s still floating on Cloud Nine from his win. While everyone was chanting Ryder’s name when we walked in, they should’ve been chanting Avery’s, it was he that ran the last touchdown. “Especially after that win tonight,” he finishes. As I assumed he would be. “I see that you’re here with Ryder, it true you’re dating” Well, isn’t he just cutting to the chase?
“No.” I shake my head, emitting a sigh, tucking my hair behind my ears. “I’m his friend, that’s it. But he did ask me to the dance and I said yes.” That’s something I’m sure he heard around school. Everyone new. News about me tends to spread quickly.
Ryder’s taking the psycho to Homecoming, who hadn’t tried to figure that out in the girl’s bathroom or boy’s locker room when they had the opportunity to gossip—I mean, discuss.
“I didn’t peg you for a dancer,” Avery comments, looking me over. Not in one of those pervy, creepy ways that makes me feel disgusting, just the way he’s done since we were in the fifth grade and he chose to partner with me in gym because no one else would—no one had the guts, the bravery, or whatever. Avery wasn’t like most of the kids in school, he was always scared of me, but only because I was so small and he was worried something would happen to me in class. People liked to go after me on the basketball court or the flag-football field. If it wasn’t Zephyr protecting me, it was Avery looking out for me.
I’m certain Zephyr had something to do with that.
“You didn’t know? It’s my secret talent.” That gets him to laugh. “Really? I’m not,” I reply truthfully. “I hate it.”
That’s the honest to God truth right there.
Avery scrunches up his face, his freckled nose crinkling and wrinkling. “Then why go?” he asks, confused. Recognition crosses his face, like he’s finally understood something. “Oh, does this have anything to do with a sulking Zephyr?” he asks, his finger pointing at me as if he knows.
He doesn’t.
Or does he? I’m not even sure anymore.
But a sulking Zephyr? Since when does Zephyr know enough about emotions to sulk? Why haven’t I seen this?
The idea, the thought of Zephyr sad is too much for me to picture. “What?” I ask too loudly to be believable that nothing I do is because of him. Way to go, Joey, you might as well tell Avery everything, now. I see the doubt cross his face. “No,” I say, while trying to keep my voice under control.
Too late.
“I’ve seen him avoid you for the better part of three weeks,” Avery continues, taking a pause to drink from the beer can in his hand. “What’s going on between the two of you?”
Why does everyone keep asking me that?
If I knew, I probably would’ve fixed it already, people!
“No idea,” I instantly answer, taking a sip of my disgusting beer, anything to distract myself. “And I don’t want to talk about it or him,” I add for good measure. “If he had something useful to say to me, I’d like to think that he’d seek me out, but like you said earlier, Avery, he’s been avoiding me like the plague.”
Okay, I’ll admit that was a little harsh to say to one of Zephyr’s best friends.
But he doesn’t look hurt; he just looks like he… understands.
“There you are,” Ryder catches my attention, walking into the kitchen and slinging an arm sloppily around
my shoulders. I cringe, noticing Avery notice that. He doesn’t do anything. He just stands back and watches Ryder tug me against his side. With the sight of Avery—because Ryder only had his eyes on me when he walked into the kitchen—he stands taller and, I kid you not, puffs out his chest. Understandable, Avery is built like an ox. “Hey.”
“Hey.” It’s obvious Avery means no harm. “Good game tonight, man,” Avery compliments, giving him the typical clap on the back that signals friends among his species.
Ryder beams, deflating when he realizes that Avery isn’t a threat. He, like any cocky, bumptious athlete, loves compliments.
“Come on, babe,” Ryder says to me—again with the damned babe. He ignores Avery completely. “Let’s party.” He grabs my hand and tugs me into the crowded living room, onto the makeshift dance floor, trying to dance with me. At some point I’m not aware of, music started blaring through the Bose speakers flanking the large fireplace in the living room. The song is a familiar pop beat that I’ve heard a few times when I dared listening to the radio in the car.
Let me stop here before I continue with the rest of the party because I feel this is the perfect moment for commentary. If I would have listened to Ryder, back when Diego was taking me to the kitchen with more force than necessary, if I would have listened to Dumb’s conversation with Dumber, when he asked have you hit that yet? I would’ve heard Ryder’s lovely response of not yet, but I’m working on it.
I’m not sure if those were the exact words, but I’m guessing here.
I even bet that I would have seen him wink.
He actually winks!
Pervy.
Back to the dancing, which, did I mention, I can’t do. I can’t dance. At all. Ryder can’t either, but I’m worse, believe it or not.
The party wasn’t that great. No high school party ever is to the sober observer, like I was. However, I was determined not to get drunk, I was not above the thought of a little buzz. Just a little haze to push me through the evening because it seemed so important to Ryder that I enjoy myself, that I enjoy his company and the company of his friends, people like him.