Falling Hard (At the Party)

by Lauren Barnholdt

  FALLING HARD

  At the Party #2

  By Lauren Barnholdt

  Copyright 2010 Lauren Barnholdt, all rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is coincidental

  Emily

  Throwing parties, to me, is a waste of time. Who wants to let tons of strangers into your house (because, let’s face it, half the people who show up are randoms), let them drink and cause destruction, and then have to clean up after them the next day? Not me.

  The only reason I have even have these ridiculous parties is because of my mom. She was pretty scandalous when she was younger. You know the type -- lots of boyfriends, lots of football players, and lots of cheerleading parties. She was a total walking cliché, which I’ve figured out is the main problem with our relationship -- she just can’t wrap her head around the fact that I don’t weigh 115 (135), I’m not 5’8”, (5’3”) and I don’t have beautiful blonde hair (a weird color halfway between blonde and brown that’s kind of drab and not shiny at all.) So I throw these parties because she gets really excited about it. And people do come, not because I’m popular or because they care about hanging out with me, but because they need a place to party.

  So I guess it kind of works out. The only problem is that a lot of time I end up standing in a corner of my own house ,feeling like an outsider. Although it’s not like I really try. I mostly only talk to my best friend, Jasper. I should probably socialize more, I think, as I stand off to the side in my living room , surveying the scene. Jasper’s not here yet, so I’ve hardly talked to anyone. I take a sip out of the water bottle I’m holding and wait to see someone I semi-know. Miraculously, I don’t have to wait long. A girl in my class, Brooke, goes walking by with her two friends, Gabriella and Paige.

  “Hi, Brooke,” I say, smiling at her. “I’m glad you could come. How are you?”

  “Fine,” she says, not sounding at all like she’s fine. Brooke hates me. She thinks I stole her boyfriend in eighth grade. Which I didn’t. (I won’t get into it, but there was a misunderstanding where the guy in question told me they were already broken up, and silly me, I believed him. But then he dumped me like three days later and moved on to Shana Gold, telling her that I broke up with him.) Anyway, that was like, five years ago, but Brooke’s still holding a grudge. It just goes to show you. Brooke’s here, at my house, at my party, and she hates me.

  I decide I need something stronger than water if I’m going to make it through this crazy shindig. My mom doesn’t care if we drink, or at least, she thinks she doesn’t. Whenever I have one of these parties, she takes off and goes out to dinner with whatever guy she’s dating at the time (my mom has become like Super Crazy Dating Woman ever since my parents got divorced six months ago), and then usually ends up spending the night at his house. Which means she doesn’t have to see the end result of teenagers drinking, which is usually crying, puking, confessions, and lots of taxis being called. If she did, she might have a different idea about her laissez-faire, European attitude.

  I pull a pitcher out of the cabinet, fill it with water, and then add a packet of cherry Kool-Aid. I guess I’ll put some vodka in it or something. I should have made Jell-o shots. Not because I like them, but because when you make Jell-o shots, you have a reason to stay in the kitchen, away from your own party. There’s a lot that goes into Jell-o shots – boiling water and adding ice to make them set quicker and checking on them when they’re in the refrigerator and --

  “You’re making it wrong,” a voice says behind me.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, turning around. Ashton Wagner is standing there, looking over my shoulder at what I’m doing with the Kool-Aid. He’s so close that his chest is almost touching my back, and I can smell his cologne, something yummy that makes my breath catch in my throat. “What do you mean I’m making it wrong?”

  “You’re supposed to put the Kool-Aid in before you add the water.” He shakes his head, like he can’t believe how dumb I’m being. Then he grabs a paper cup off the counter and pours himself some of the half-made Kool-Aid. He takes a sip and then makes a face. “Disgusting.”

  “It’s disgusting because it doesn’t have any sugar in it yet.”

  He ignores me, and instead picks up the pitcher, and then pours the whole thing down the drain.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I ask, grabbing the pitcher out of his hand. “That’s fucked up. You can’t just go around wasting other people’s Kool-aid.” Seriously, who does he think he is? Just because half the school worships him doesn’t mean he can just come in here and take over my Kool-Aid making. I mean, the nerve.

  Ashton looks around the kitchen, taking in the granite countertops, brand new cabinets, and double broiler flat top oven. He raises his eyebrows at me as if to say, “I think you’ll survive.” But then he shrugs, reaches his hand into his pocket, and pulls out a handful of coins. He sets them on the counter.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  He counts the change. “Fifty-seven cents,” he says. “I think that’s about what Kool-Aid is going for nowadays.”

  “Kool-Aid is way more than fifty-seven cents,” I say, not knowing if it’s true. “Especially if you include the sugar.”

  “There was no sugar in that pitcher,” he says. “Remember?” His tone is teasing, and he smiles at me, and I have that weird feeling in my throat again, the kind where it feels like I can’t swallow, and my heart is racing.

  “Oh,” I say. “Right.” I push my hair out of my face, feeling awkward. Ashton Wagner and I don’t hang out in the same social circles. His is the kind of circle that my mom would love me to be in. The super popular, super athletic, super arrogant circle.

  “So,” he says, “Now that I’ve paid for the wasted Kool-Aid, have I earned the right to make the pitcher myself?”

  “I guess,” I say, reluctantly stepping out of the way.

  He adds the sugar and the Kool-Aid packet first, then slides the pitcher under the faucet until it’s full. He stirs it all with a spoon, and then takes a sip RIGHT OUT OF THE PITCHER. Without even bothering to get a cup or anything. “Perfect,” he declares. “And ready for the alcohol.”

  He holds it out to me, indicating that I should take a sip from the pitcher. I hesitate, but I don’t want him to think I’m some kind of wimp, so finally, I lean forward and take a drink. He’s watching me, waiting for my approval, and the way he’s looking at me is making flames shoot out all down my body. “It’s good,” I say after I swallow.

  And it is. Definitely way more delicious than what I normally make. Although it could have something to do with the feeling in my stomach.

  He grins at me, and then disappears into the crowd. I turn around and grip the edge of the kitchen counter, trying to calm my heart. God, I really need to get it together. If all it takes is one conversation with a cute boy to get me this worked up, I have problems. I add a little bit of vodka to the Kool-Aid and then pour myself a glass, hoping it will wash away the jittery feeling that’s pulsing through my body.

  Forget it, I tell myself. It’s Ashton Wagner. He has gorgeous tan skin and perfect teeth and spiky brown hair and the perfect amount of stubble. He’s beautiful. And if I start fantasizing about him, then I really am drinking the Kool-Aid.

  Ashton

  Emily Mulally is beautiful. The kind of beautiful that assaults you out of nowhere, the kind of beautiful that you never realized you wanted until you’re making Kool-Aid with it. Okay, that sounds lame.

  But seriously, when I walked into the kitchen, and she was there, making Kool-Aid, and I came up behind her…. I don’t know, something about the look on her face, and the way her body felt pressed against my ch
est made me feel like I wanted to get to know her better. Of course, then I had to go and leave. But that was mostly because I just didn’t know what else to say.

  “What do you know about Emily Mulally?” I ask my friend Tucker, sitting down next to him on the couch in Emily’s living room. Tucker’s girlfriend, Gilda, is a big gossip. She knows everything about everyone, and then she tells Tucker, so this is a good place to start.

  “Emily Mulally?” Tucker shakes his head. “Never heard of her.”

  “Never heard of her? This is her party.”

  Tucker blinks at me, then shakes his head. “Gilda!” he yells across the room. “What do you know about Emily Mulally?”

  “Shhh!” I put my hand over his mouth. Jesus Christ.

  Tucker breaks free and looks at me, understanding dawning on his face. “You like her.”

  “No, I don’t.” I feel uncomfortable, and I look around for something to drink. I should have grabbed a glass of that Kool-Aid.

  “Yes, you do.” He gets up and starts humping the couch. “You want to bang her, you want to bone her, you want to get all up in that!”

  I stand up and start to walk away, but Tucker grabs my arm. “Sorry, sorry.” He shakes his head. “I’m listening.” He pats the sofa next to him. “Sit here and tell Uncle Tucker all about it.”

  I sit back down. “All about what?”

  “About Emma Mulally.”

  “Emily.”

  “Right. Emily.”

  “Nothing,” I say, shrugging. “I just talked to her in the kitchen, and she seemed cool.”

  “You talked to her in the kitchen?” Tucker slaps his hand to his forehead. “Please, tell me you’ve had more contact with her than just a chat in her kitchen.”

  “No.”

  “Well, then, you should probably try talking to her.”

  “I did talk to her.”

  “I mean, about something important.”

  I look at him. He’s right. “Good idea,” I say, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “Thanks, Uncle Tuck.”

  But when I get back to the kitchen, Emily Mulally is gone. The pitcher of Kool-Aid is still on the counter, so I pour myself a glass, hoping no one’s spiked it with the date rape drug while I was away. Then I move through the crowd, searching, until I find her over in the corner by the sliding glass door.

  She’s talking to a guy. A guy! Her boyfriend? I’ve never seen him before, this interloper, this intruder, this complete and total jerk. Jealousy flashes through me, and I watch as Emily leans into him, her hair falling over The Jerk’s shoulder. She laughs. I love her laugh. It’s soft and sweet, and genuine, not one of those ridiculous laughs girls usually give when they’re trying to act like you’re the funniest thing in the world but they don’t really think you are.

  I’m about to turn around and head back to where Tucker is, but then I decide I shouldn’t be intimidated by this tool. I don’t know for sure that it’s her boyfriend, and if it is, whatever. They’re not married. That sounds fucked up, I know, but I’m not thinking straight, because all I can think about is that laugh.

  So I make my way through the crowd and over to her, and she turns around, and sees me with the Kool-Aid in my hand, and I hold the cup up, like “Hey, see, I’m drinking it!” and she smiles. She has a very cute smile. Her bottom teeth are slightly crooked and it makes her look adorable.

  “Oh, hello,” I say. “Just thought I’d commend you on the wonderful Kool-Aid you made.”

  “I didn’t make it,” she reminds me. “You did.”

  “Oh.” I look at the cup in wonder, like I can’t imagine something so amazing could come from little old me. “I did, didn’t I?”

  She nods. “Well, kudos to me!” I take a big drink. The guy standing next to her is glaring at me, so I clap him on the shoulder. “Hello!” I say. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” he says. I recognize him from my math class. What’s his name? Jason or Jordan or –

  “This is Jasper,” Emily says. That’s it. Jasper. Sounds like a dog’s name. “And Jasper, this is…” She trails off as she looks at me, and I realize she and I haven’t even been properly introduced. Until I spotted her in the kitchen, having problems with the Kool-Aid, I’d never talked to her before in my life. The only reason I even knew her name was because I knew this was her party. But even more surprising was the realization that I just assumed she would know my name. How arrogant is that?

  “I’m Ashton,” I say. “And any friend of Emily’s is a friend of mine.” I hold my hand out to Jasper, and he takes it. Emily smiles, because of course I hardly know her, so we’re not exactly friends. “So what’s the haps with this party?” I say. “Like, when does it get good?” It’s supposed to be a joke, since we’re all standing over in the corner talking, but Emily’s face falls. “Sorry,” I say, “I didn’t mean that--”

  “No,” she says, “It’s fine.”

  Jasper glares at me even more. What’s with this guy? He’s like a silent crazy protective…I don’t even know. Boyfriend? I decide it’s time to ditch this Jasper person. “Emily,” I say, “Can you come over here for a minute? I need to ask you something in private.” I turn to Jasper. “You don’t mind, do you Jasper?”

  “No,” he says, speaking for the first time and clearly lying. “Go ahead.”

  But he doesn’t move, so I take Emily’s hand and lead her through the first door I see. There’s a step, so I step down, bringing her with me.

  “Um, we’re in my garage,” she says. I look around. Grease stains on the floor. Cold. Smells like paint. Definitely a garage.

  “That we are,” I say.

  “So what did you need to talk to me about?” She crosses her arms over her chest, challenging. Right. What did I need to talk to her about? “Well,” I say, taking a step toward her. “I wanted to see if you needed any more cooking lessons.” I move closer. She smells like strawberries and some kind of other fruity, girly thing that I can’t put my finger on.

  “I don’t think making Kool-Aid constitutes as a cooking lesson,” she says.

  “Then we’ll have to move on to something more complicated.” I take another step toward her. It’s dark, but I can feel her closeness and smell her skin and all I can think about is kissing her. Which is crazy, because I hardly know her. I can’t explain it. But I need to kiss her. I’m about to, but then I realize I can’t just go around kissing her in her garage. Talk about douchey. I’ve only known the girl for fifteen minutes. “Do you want to get out of here?” I ask her.

  “It’s my party.”

  “Oh.”

  My heart drops, and my face must fall because she quickly says, “But I do.”

  “Do what?”

  “Do want to get out of here.”

  I grin. “Where will we go?” I ask.

  “You asked me to leave,” she says. “So you figure it out.”

  “A challenge,” I say, “I like that.”

  “Meet you in the front yard in fifteen minutes?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  And then she’s gone, disappearing back into the house through her garage door.

  Emily

  Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod. Was I just flirting? I think I was flirting. And I’m not sure, but I think I was pretty good at it, too. Who’d have thought that I, Emily Mulally, could flirt like that? And with Ashton Wagner, too! He’s so….hot. And how cool was it when I pretended I didn’t know his name? Ha!

  I’m flying through the crowd of my own party, over to Jasper, who’s standing in the corner talking to this guy from our sociology class.

  “Jasper!” I scream.

  “Emily!” he says. He hands his drink to sociology guy and then whisks me into my dad’s old office, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it dramatically. “What were you doing in the garage with Ashton Wagner?” He’s not jealous. Jasper likes boys only. But he is crazy overprotective of me, and I already know what’s going to happen when I ask him to watch the party so I can leave
with Ashton.

  “He just wanted to talk,” I say carefully.

  “About what?”

  I think about it. “I’m not exactly sure.” I remember how it felt to be with him in the dark, how I could see the shadow of his profile and feel his closeness even though I couldn’t see him clearly. He smelled sooo good, like woodchips and cologne and fabric softener.

  Jasper narrows his eyes. “You do know that he just broke up with Haven Richardson, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” I say. I roll my eyes, but I didn’t really know that. I don’t keep up with the goings on of the popular crowd, although now that he says it, I do remember seeing them together a lot. If I think hard enough, I can even conjure up an image of the two of them holding hands in the hall outside of my math class.

  Haven Richardson. She’s the kind of girl my mom wishes I was. The kind with perfect hair and a perfect body and a perfect everything. Blah.

  “So,” Jasper says. “Are they really broken up?”

  Now I’m confused. “You just said they were.”

  “Yes, they’re broken up,” Jasper says. “But are they broken up broken up?”

  “I have no idea what you’re even talking about.” I look at my watch. I have to meet Ashton in ten minutes.

  “It happens all the time,” Jasper says wisely, although how he knows the workings of the popular crowd’s relationships I have no idea. Jasper hasn’t even had a boyfriend in like, three years, preferring to meet college guys on Craig’s List and then disappear for what he calls “lost weekends” where he doesn’t answer texts of phone calls and then comes back hungover, reeking of alcohol, and refusing to answer questions about where he’s been.

  “What happens all the time?”

  “People break up, but they’re not really broken up.” He bites his lip, thinking about it, and then his eyes light up. “Let’s go on his facebook page!”

  “Why the hell would we do that?”