How to Make Out

by Brianna Shrum

  “You want to get drunk?”

  “Yes,” I said, still feeling kind of wobbly. “Yes I do.”

  “Wait here,” she said, eyes sparkling.

  “What are you getting her?” Seth called out.

  Sam didn’t respond; she just left for a few minutes and came back with something iced. She handed it to me and Seth snatched it away and touched it to his lips. “A Long Island? Come on, Sam. Renley’s never had more than a drink of beer in one setting.”

  Sam shrugged. “She said she wanted to get drunk.”

  “Well, yeah. Drunk. Not alcohol poisoning.”

  I grabbed the glass from Seth. “I can take care of myself, Dad.” Then I took a long drink. Holy crap. I thought the tequila was strong. Maybe I should have eaten more.

  “Maybe slow down a little,” Sam said, laughing.

  “Where are you getting all this, seriously?” I asked, speech slurring already. I was such a lightweight, it was embarrassing.

  “My parents have a fully stocked bar downstairs. We’re gonna empty it tonight. They won’t even care.”

  I nodded, the slight head movement making me want to fall over, then I stumbled out of the kitchen and into the crowd of people. They were all grinding against one another, smoothly sliding here and there. The bass thumped in my chest, vibrating everything. I fell into the middle of the crowd, Seth behind me, and took another swig. At this point, I was starting to become less and less aware of what was going on around me.

  I turned around and smiled dreamily up at Seth. “Come on. Dance with me.”

  He grinned down at me, letting his hands fall to my waist and clasp around them. Then I shimmied down his body and back up, fingers playing in his hair.

  He tilted his neck back and closed his eyes, so I slid down him and up again, then took another drink. Warmth. Fuzziness everywhere.

  I bit my lip when Taylor walked by. I noted a hint of sadness in her eyes when she saw us dancing and that made me feel somewhat guilty beneath the fog of alcohol. Aside from a couple passive-aggressive looks and comments, she’d never been anything but nice to me. But the alcohol took over pretty quickly and she didn’t matter. And a couple songs later, it didn’t matter when I bumped into her crying in the bathroom either.

  After a lot of dancing and avoiding Taylor, one too many times bumping into people, and half a Long Island iced tea downed, I leaned up and whispered sloppily into Seth’s ear, “Let’s go upstairs. It’s too crowded down here.”

  He looked a little uneasy, shifting his weight back and forth, but there was no way, with me feeling like this, that I wasn’t going to make some bad decisions that night. And he was going to make them with me.

  He let me lead him up the stairs, like I knew he would, and the second we got behind a door, I basically attacked him. I’m not proud of this—apparently drunk Renley is sexually aggressive, crazy Renley. But at the time, it seemed hot. I still hadn’t brought up Taylor’s stupid comment about them from the diner, and I didn’t intend to. What I intended to do was win. And somehow, I figured this would accomplish that.

  I was all over him, tongue overtaking his mouth, hands grabbing and clawing everywhere, stripping off his shirt. I realized then that I’d never seen him shirtless before. What a crime.

  “Hey,” he said against my mouth. “You wanna slow down? I just don’t know if this—”

  And it was at that point that I distinctly remember stripping. Yeah. We’d been dating for like three weeks, so that was great. But it got him to stop talking. And when I was down to jeans and a bra, his mouth just hung open.

  “What were you saying?” I slurred, smiling. I think I liked the whole unbelievably drunk feeling at the time, but now it just feels uncomfortable. When you’re not 100 percent in control of what you’re doing, the next morning is … embarrassing, to say the least.

  Before Seth could answer me, I was making out with him again—assaulting him, more like. But eventually he pulled back. “Renley, you really need to chill. Not that I don’t love kissing you. And this is awesome. But, you’re just … you’re really drunk. And I’m really not. I’m not going to take advantage … and seriously? You’re taking another drink?”

  Yes I was. I wasn’t going to take any chances that I wouldn’t wake up with a hangover. (That was so stupid.)

  I sat on the bed, staring up at him with puppy dog eyes, then pouting, twirling my hair with a finger.

  He sat beside me and put his arm around me. “Listen, don’t be embarrassed. You just have a low tolerance. And low alcohol tolerance plus tequila plus a Long Island is a bad combination.”

  I kissed him on the cheek. Then the ear. Then that little hollow just below the ear. “So you want me to stop?” Another blog question I’d discarded ran through my head. I’m quite confident that had I not been stupidly intoxicated, the next decision is one I would not have made. But I was, and I did.

  When I reached below his belt, he jumped back. “Renley. I really don’t know if—”

  I reached again, and he stopped protesting.

  “You’re drunk. I shouldn’t … we shouldn’t …” And he leaned back and closed his eyes, mumbling something or other.

  And that’s about all I remember. I know he took me home, and I know I was still awake when he did, because there are two new blog posts on Sweet Life. “How to Give a … Well, You Know.” And “How to Steal Another Girl’s Guy.” Not that that’s anything I did on purpose, but after last night, I must have felt like my expertise on the subject was pretty solid.

  For being as hammered as I was, the posts are actually pretty well written, but it will be a couple hours and several homemade remedies before I can blog about this hangover.

  I feel pretty crappy right now, in general. We didn’t go all the way, just, like, second base and a half. Is that what you’d call it? And that, and knowing I went further than I wanted to, honestly, for what? A blog? Combined with the awful pounding in my head, I think the last twenty-four hours fall decidedly in the “not at all worth it” camp. But whatever. It’s done. And I’m gonna get paid for it. End of story.

  I pull the covers over my pounding head then and fall asleep.

  24. How to Sink a Three-Pointer

  When I wake up, I still feel kind of gross. The alcohol sweat and slightly less painful headache don’t help, and neither does rehashing last night’s mistakes over and over. I wonder if Seth thinks I’m totally disgusting now.

  I’ve missed like three texts and/or calls from April, but she can wait. I’m still totally exhausted.

  I take another Advil and quietly walk down the stairs in my socks, searching for Gatorade. Might as well give it a shot and make last night worth it. Ugh, shot. Never. Again.

  My dad doesn’t even look up from his newspaper, though I pass so close to him, our shoulders almost brush. It must be somewhat hard to deal with, thinking your daughter is some sort of party-hardy, alcoholic super-slut. So I just don’t say anything and leave him to process the information.

  The Gatorade feels good on my throat, though it doesn’t do a whole lot to get rid of the tequila/rum/gin/triple-sec/vodka smell that won’t get out of my nostrils or my pores. So I gingerly step into the shower, letting the hot water steam everything away. I wash my hair like three times and do the same thing to my body, dying to get rid of the smell and the ick.

  The water is as hot as I can stand and feels amazing running down my back. For a second, the headache even goes away. When I’m done and clean, I wrap up in a towel and head to my room. The feeling of complete and utter suck is dissolving, which is nice. Maybe by tomorrow, I’ll be a fully functioning human again.

  Tomorrow comes, and I am. Honestly, by last night I was feeling pretty good. Having never had a hangover (or anything close) before, I have no idea if it’s because of my various concoctions or just because they go away after that amount of time, generally.

  It doesn’t matter. I’m going to post about it. There’s no way I’m dealing with the crap I de
alt with all day yesterday and getting nothing for it. So I make up a quick list of remedies I used (sleep, Gatorade, Advil, a shower—nothing revolutionary, really, aside from this Sprite-and-Menudo combination that Sam swears by and I’m too chicken to try) and post. Admittedly, this one is kind of lazy. Possibly not worth the nominal amount I’m charging for looking at it. Whatever. What’s done is done.

  I go into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, then toss my unbrushed hair into a ponytail. I pull on a pair of sweats, a thin long-sleeve, and tennis shoes and head toward the door. There’s snow on the ground and I feel ice forming in my veins just looking out the window, but school’s off for a pre-break teacher wrap-up and I need to run today or do something that’s not in the house. So I push open the door and head out into the fray.

  I feel an immediate mixture of regret and happiness when the little snowflakes float and spin around me, landing in my hair, on my nose, coating me in white that turns instantly to water. I won’t run for long; I haven’t been serious about it since middle school so I only ever really run with Drew anymore. It’s been too many weeks since I did that, and the cold air burns my throat and lungs. The long, quick strides I’m making do the same to my muscles. It feels good, though, somehow, in a kind of masochistic way. I make a loop around the neighborhood, snow crunching beneath my feet, lightly coating the tracks I leave behind.

  I’m out there for maybe five minutes, but it feels like longer. I wish I could run longer, but the cold kind of sucks. So I round one more corner, knowing it will take me back home.

  When I near my house, I can hear the sound of a basketball bouncing on the pavement, hollow and loud. I frown and turn my face to the right, then realize I’m passing Drew’s house. He sees me and picks up the ball, then waves.

  I furrow my brow and slow, then come to a stop. “Hey,” I say, testing the waters.

  “Hey,” he says, and he tosses me the ball.

  I can’t stop the smile that comes across my face, the smile that almost hurts because my lips are most likely turning blue. I dribble a couple times on the sidewalk, then hold the ball close to my chest, squatting down, taking in the distance up, out, the slight incline of the driveway. And shoot. Nothing but net.

  Drew catches the rebound and dribbles back to the grass, looking at me, a challenge in his eyes. I stare longingly at my window, then back at Drew. My desire to be with my best friend again outweighs my wants for comfort so I jog up to meet him and post up—crouch, hands out. I don’t know how long it’s been since we played basketball together. We used to play all the time when we were kids, though, and it takes just a few seconds to become acclimated again.

  He looks at my eyes, leaning slightly to the right, then to the left, switching hands. His breath comes in visible puffs, clouding the air in front of me. My eyes are darting every which way—I can’t decide where he’s going. Then he twitches to my right, so I go to the left, and he nearly barrels into me, ball bouncing down the almost half-court to the basket. Despite my best efforts, I’m just a lot shorter than him, so a layup is nothing, easy.

  “Still got it, I see,” I say.

  “Oh yeah. I’m going pro, I think.”

  I take the ball and back up to the edge of the concrete. “I gotta be honest,” I say. “I thought you’d hold out a little longer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I shove past him, heading toward the basket, and when I shoot, he leaps up, knocking it out of the air and catching it, then racing back to half-court.

  “I mean, I thought you’d make me leave you alone for more than a week before I was allowed to come back over.”

  He jumps up gracefully, just a couple inches from the ground, sinking the shot, and it’s mine again.

  “Yeah, well, basketball is boring by yourself.”

  “True.”

  I don’t even dribble this time. I back up several steps into the snow-covered grass and shoot from there, smirking when it sinks.

  “Show-off,” he says, grinning.

  “I’ve missed you,” I say quietly as he walks over to the gravel behind the hoop. He stops for a split second at that.

  “What, Seth not entertaining enough for you?”

  “Oh, he’s entertaining enough. Things are good there.”

  “So I’ve heard,” he says, reaching down to pick up the ball. He heads up to half-court and dribbles, feinting past me down to the hoop and shooting. It glances off the rim, and against all odds, I’m the one who catches it. I pop it back up and off the rim it goes again, straight to me. One more shot and it circles the drain, then falls through the net.

  “Bad move, Eisler.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “You didn’t take it back before you shot. My point.”

  I glower at him. Stupid. But correct. “Fine. I don’t need technicalities to beat you anyway.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” he says, firing a shot from farther back than I made it earlier—and sinking it.

  He passes it to me, and I run past him, almost halfway to the center of the yard. I try to ignore the shivering in my arms from the cold, and he just stands there, noticing, I’m sure, and crossing his arms skeptically.

  “There’s no way you’re making it from there.”

  “Have faith, sir.”

  “It’s a three-point shot. And the cold is getting to you.”

  I twist the ball in my hands, feeling the weight of it, visualizing it going through the net.

  “Let’s bet. You make it, you win. You fail, I win.”

  “What’s the wager?” I say, teeth chattering now. Not enough movement, and snow, and the sweat I’ve accumulated is getting cold.

  “Well, I doubt we’re playing strip rules.” He winks and a happy warmth floods through me. This is normal. This is us, from before everything.

  I shake my head. “Not in this weather.”

  He eyes the thin fabric covering my arms and rolls his eyes. “Fine. I win, you’re coming in and we’re watching Twilight Zone.”

  “And if I win?”

  “I’ll order Chinese, too, and pay for it.”

  “You’re on,” I say.

  I stare up at the backboard again, dribbling a couple times on the wet grass. Stupid idea; now the ball’s all slick and impossible to hold onto. But I power through, gripping it firmly and crouching, then bouncing up. Left hand steady, right hand tosses and spins it. I watch as it glides through the air, with the most perfect topspin I’ve ever seen on a ball.

  It thwacks the backboard dead center, then bounces back out to the front rim and through the net. I laugh loudly, intentionally obnoxious.

  “You!” I shout. “You owe me food, Calloway.”

  “I humbly accept my defeat,” he says, gathering up the ball and putting his arm around my shoulders. I probably shouldn’t be eating Chinese; it’s super fattening. But I’m hungry, and this feels nice. Too nice? I don’t know.

  When we get closer to his door, he says casually, “Hey, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

  And the pulse in my wrist starts going erratic. He still reads the blog, I know he does. And I don’t want to talk about it. Not with him. I don’t know what I’m so terrified of, but I can’t. I’m totally paralyzed by those innocuous little words. I freeze.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Nothing, it’s just, I just completely forgot, I have something.”

  He narrows his eyes and takes his arm off my shoulders. “What?”

  “With Stacey.”

  “Oh yeah, I’ll bet.”

  “No, I do. I … I have to go. We’ll talk later, okay?” No we won’t.

  He purses his lips and goes inside without another word. Stacey. What a ridiculous lie. Seth would have fallen for it. Sam would have fallen for it. But this is Drew.

  I don’t care. This is something we can’t discuss, something I don’t want to discuss, and something I shouldn’t have to. And I’m choosing to feel good about today. Because everything felt normal for
just a little while. I’m getting Drew back, and despite the awkwardness, that makes everything okay.

  25. How to Get a Date to Prom

  A message from Seth. Hey hey.

  Come pick me up. I miss you

  Done.

  I’m unbelievably relieved that he hasn’t brought up the incident at the party. Not crazy, drunk Renley, not the below-the-belt action that I basically forced on him, nothing. And because of that, I’m not dreading seeing him. I’m just excited.

  I run a straightener through my hair and do my makeup—something I can now do masterfully within about five minutes. Hot jeans, nice top, his letter jacket (which still makes me kind of giggle), and I’m good to go by about the time he gets here.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he says, and he kisses me on the cheek, lingering. I blush.

  We head out and over to his house. When we get there, I follow him upstairs and into his room, realizing I’ve never actually been in here before. That’s weird.

  “So, this is your room,” I say, running my fingers over the dresser.

  “This is it.” He stretches out his arms, mock-presenting it to me.

  It smells fresh in here, maybe even better than mine. And apart from one crumpled T-shirt in the corner and a slightly disorganized computer desk, it’s clean. Really clean.

  “I’m impressed,” I tell him truthfully.

  “My mother has trained me well.”

  She really has. He sits down on his bed and I start to sit beside him, but he pulls me onto his lap. I laugh and he kisses me.

  “So, about the other night …”

  Oh no. I should have known he’d bring this up. “Yeah.”

  “You feeling okay?”

  “Oh, I’m good now. I mean, the day after …”

  “I kind of figured. I should have brought you Sprite and menudo, probably … I know, but Sam swears by it.”

  I chuckle. “Trust me. That would not have helped.”

  He fidgets a little, and I can feel his fingers moving nervously against each other on my back. “I wanted to talk about … the other stuff that went down.”