Under the Influence

by L. B. Simmons

  So I’m writing you as a courtesy to let you know that if you do not reply to this email, I will be at your house first thing in the morning, banging on the door like one of your crazed ex-girlfriends. And I know how much you like to be woken up early, so when I say first thing in the morning, I mean the ass-crack of dawn.

  You have been warned.

  Your extremely pissed off friend,

  Spencer

  I press send and recline back into my chair, staring at the computer screen until my message has been successfully delivered. Once it disappears out of my drafts, I shut my laptop and head to the bathroom to take a much-needed shower.

  As the warm water cascades down my body, relieving the tension in my muscles, my mind drifts to the increasing amount of Dalton disappearances as of late.

  Am I worried about him? Of course.

  Do I wish he would just tell me what the hell is going on? Duh.

  Am I going to force him to tell me? Not in a million years.

  Because here’s the thing about Dalton. I know I absolutely cannot push him about his private life, no matter how frustrated I become. I can ask all I want, but I will never force his disclosure because if I press too hard, I know without a doubt he will completely shut down. Just like everything with Dalton, it needs to be on his own terms.

  With that being said, I am not above forcing my way into his home to make sure he’s all right. I just cushion the blow by announcing my arrival beforehand. And since I don’t have a car, yet, he knows I will be showing up with mom or Cassie, either of which will probably prompt a reply to my email sooner rather than later.

  Wickedly, I laugh to myself as I climb out of the shower.

  As soon as I’m dressed in my pajamas, I head over to my desk, disappointed that I have nothing in my inbox. In fact, it’s not until the ass-crack of dawn, when I get up with Cassie primed and ready across the street for yet another pint of ice cream, that I get my answer.

  To: Spencer Locke

  Re: Where the hell are you???????

  Date: Saturday, March 27, 2010 5:47 AM

  Assholish isn’t even a word, Pencil. You are maiming the English language.

  Still half-asleep, I smile goofily at the screen, as I’m sure he intended.

  I then quickly dismiss the grin and blank my face, refusing to allow his humor to distract me from his transgression as I hit reply.

  To: Dalton Greer

  Re: Where the hell are you???????

  Date: Saturday, March 27, 2010 5:53 AM

  Don’t be cute. It’s not going to work. I’m still pissed at you.

  His answer is instantaneous.

  To: Spencer Locke

  Re: Where the hell are you???????

  Date: Saturday, March 27, 2010 5:55 AM

  Unless you still plan on banging on the door like one of my crazed ex-girlfriends at the ass-crack of dawn this morning, you might want to let Cassie know her services won’t be needed.

  Shit. Jumping out of my seat, I quickly run to my bed and snatch my phone from underneath my pillow to shoot a quick text to Cassie.

  Me: Got ahold of Dalton. Abort the mission. Repeat. Abort the mission.

  Cassie: Are you kidding me?!

  Cassie: You still owe me a pint of Cherry Garcia.

  Cassie: And be up by 10. We’re going shopping.

  Me: Doesn’t shopping negate the required ice cream payment?

  Cassie: Am I up at almost six on a Saturday morning? No, it does not. Not even close.

  Me: Fiiiiiiiiiiine. See you at 10.

  Cassie: Love you ;)

  Me: Love you, times two.

  I toss the phone down on my bed and turn my attention back to the computer on my desk.

  To: Dalton Greer

  Re: Where the hell are you???????

  Date: Saturday, March 27, 2010 6:05 AM

  Stop trying to thwart my anger.

  Where the hell have you been and why haven’t you answered my calls or texts. And why are we communicating via email?

  Five minutes later…

  To: Spencer Locke

  Re: Where the hell are you???????

  Date: Saturday, March 27, 2010 6:10 AM

  Thwart. Nice.

  My phone was broken earlier this week and I won’t get it back until this afternoon. Therefore, I wasn’t able to call you and tell you that I was out all week on a project for the garage. It was last minute and I just arrived back in town last night. Rat drove, which is why my car was in the driveway. I think that answers all of your questions.

  Listen, I’m really sorry I worried you for FOUR long days. I’d like to come over tonight and make it up to you ;)

  The thought of Dalton making anything to me sends a fiery blush sweeping across my cheeks, which reminds me of why he can’t come over tonight. Cassie’s plan has already been set in motion.

  To: Dalton Greer

  Re: Where the hell are you???????

  Date: Saturday, March 27, 2010 6:17 AM

  Yes, I believe that answers all of my questions. Thank you. Consider yourself forgiven.

  And regarding tonight, I would love for you to come over, but I have plans. Sunday?

  It’s a couple of minutes later when I get his response. Adrenaline spikes through my system as soon as it hits my inbox, and my hand trembles as I move to open his reply.

  To: Spencer Locke

  Re: Where the hell are you???????

  Date: Saturday, March 27, 2010 6:22AM

  Daisy Mae can wait. You see her every day.

  My eyes narrow at the screen. Is it really that inconceivable of a notion that Spencer Locke could have a date on a Saturday night? With a person of the opposite sex? In a romantic capacity? And when did Spencer Locke begin referring to herself in the third person? I hate it when people do that.

  I shake my head and refocus on the issue at hand.

  I guess when you’ve vowed to kill any possible offenders by cutting off their testicles and letting them bleed out on the school parking lot (I confirmed Cassie’s vendetta allegation) a false sense of confidence is to be expected.

  Fueled by this knowledge, I type my response and hit send.

  To: Dalton Greer

  Re: Where the hell are you???????

  Date: Saturday, March 27, 2010 6:35 AM

  It’s not that easy, actually. CASSIE will be accompanying me tonight on a date. Well, not by herself. It’s a double date.

  My heart pounds beneath my chest as I hit send, knowing this will be a defining moment in our relationship. Either he feels nothing for me and this date will spur no further reaction from him, or he does, in fact, have feelings and the idea of my being with someone other than him will force him to admit it.

  An email pops up in my inbox, and my finger hovers over the touchpad of my laptop, unsure if I’m ready to read his reply. I swallow deeply, trying to calm my nerves and after a couple of agonizing minutes, I decide to just get it over with and finally click on the message.

  To: Spencer Locke

  Re: Where the hell are you???????

  Date: Saturday, March 27, 2010 6:43 AM

  What time?

  And with who?

  I bark out a laugh. Right. As if I would put my date’s life in danger by answering that loaded question. That wouldn’t be proper first date etiquette.

  To: Dalton Greer

  Re: Where the hell are you???????

  Date: Saturday, March 27, 2010 6:52 AM

  None of your beeswax, buddy. Assuming you will have your phone by tonight, I will CALL you afterward so you know I made it home safely. You know, so you don’t worry unnecessarily. See how that works?

  Snickering to myself, I hit send and wait until I receive his response, which takes longer than the others. Thinking that’s a good sign, I open his message quickly, but his words only leave me disheartened.

  To: Spencer Locke

  Re: Where the hell are you???????

  Date: Saturday, March 27, 2010 7:15 AM

  I gue
ss you’d better get back to your beauty sleep.

  My forehead creases and my mouth curves toward the floor.

  Well, there’s his answer.

  No need for a reply.

  In fact, I’m still staring blankly at the screen when my phone buzzes. I slide off my chair to retrieve it, only to see Cassie’s missed call flash across the screen. A couple of seconds later, it vibrates again.

  Cassie: Bitch. I can’t go back to sleep. I’m trading my ice cream in for breakfast. Then we will go shopping. So put some clothes on and meet me in your kitchen in 20.

  I roll my eyes and breathe out a deep, preparatory sigh knowing that I will lose this battle, but make a half-assed attempt to discourage her anyway.

  Me: I don’t feel like it, Cass. Really.

  Cassie: You owe me. It’s your fault I have been up since 5:30 ON A SATURDAY MORNING!!!!! Now stop rolling your eyes and get ready.

  Me: Grrrrrrrrrrrrr. Fine.

  I toss my phone onto my bed and head back to my desk, where I shut my laptop. After sliding on a pair of snug fitting flare jeans that hug my hips, I throw on my favorite retro navy blue peasant top and toe on my flip-flops. Once my blonde hair is piled into a messy bun, I clear the loose tendrils away from my face before swiftly turning to exit the room.

  Cassie arrives and barrels her way into my house, the crash of her entrance filling the hallway and yanking my mind from Dalton’s complete indifference.

  In full-on zombie mode, I continue my trek and as cabinets slam and pans begin to clink deafeningly from within the walls of my kitchen, I’m forced to admit the obvious. Dalton just doesn’t feel that way about me. I get it. It’s hard to swallow, but I understand. I don’t know why I allowed myself to think it was anything more.

  I turn the corner and force my sorrow back into its secret place and as it burrows itself safely within the familiar confines of my chest, I ignore the burn it leaves behind. The hurt I refuse to admit is there…

  But always remains.

  “HEY!”

  I’m harshly roused by the familiar snap of two now blood-red-painted fingernails jutting in front of my face, way too freaking close to my eyeballs. Startled, I flinch and my face scrunches as I swat wildly at the hand in front of it. My attacker, however, remains unfazed and continues snapping.

  “Hooker! Wake up!”

  I blink with each click of her fingers, and it’s not until I land a good, hard smack on Cassie’s hand that she stops. Aghast, she draws her arm to her chest and whines, “Ouch, Spencer! That hurt!”

  If I weren’t still half-asleep, I would laugh at how pathetic she looks. Instead, I stretch a lazy stretch and yawn exaggeratedly, addressing her only when I’ve finished with my theatrics. “Well, you deserved it. Your nonstop snapping was completely ridiculous. And unnecessary. And annoying as hell.” I blink again. “I have a headache now, actually.”

  She narrows her dark brown eyes in response and stomps her foot. “Spencer! This is important! This is prom we’re preparing for!”

  “For you,” I correct. “For me, it’s payback for making you wake up early this morning.” I glance at her attire. “I’m sorry. I must have zoned out around option forty-two.” And I must have because there is no way in hell I would have let the dress draped on her body like a toga pass without some sort of snide commentary. It’s the same color as the sun and just as bright.

  “Forty-two?” she screeches, her tone bordering the ability to shatter glass.

  I giggle inwardly in response.

  Cassie releases a frustrated huff and shakes her head in obvious protest, her long, dark ponytail swinging with it. “I have shown you,” she lifts her hand and displays her fingers, “three dresses, Spencer. Three.”

  My eyes widen and my nose crinkles in disbelief. “Are you sure? It seems like a hell of a lot more than that.” Another laugh works its way up my throat when her face turns a shade barely above the hue of her nail polish, but I choke it back down. My eyes water in objection.

  Bringing my knees up to my chest, I kick off my flip flops and recline back into the chair with a resigned sigh, waving my hand as an indication for her to continue. Cassie’s dark eyes tighten before she raises her even darker brow. “Are you going to pay attention now?”

  “Of course, Cass. My life revolves around you. You know that. Now please, let’s see the next dress. The first three were absolute rubbish!” I yell, slapping my palm loudly on the arm of my chair. I’m pretty sure I’ve finally reached delirium.

  Or maybe I’m overcompensating for this nagging burn that I can’t seem to shake today.

  The store clerk passing by clutches her chest and gasps, giving me a stern look before tsking and walking away. Feeling genuinely rewarded for my efforts, I smile widely back at her. Cassie, however, just glares at me, paying the clerk no attention.

  “Oh my God! You totally were not paying attention because the first one was tha shit.”

  “Then why, may I ask, are we still here?” The boredom in my voice cannot be denied.

  Much like the store clerk, she gasps and clutches her chest, horrified. “Because shopping is fun, Spencer. It’s not every day that we get to peruse for prom dresses with our parents’ credit cards. Come on! What is wrong with you?”

  Just as she did with me, I lift my hand, palm out while presenting her with three fingers. “One, you are shopping for a prom dress, not me. And two, you are the only one with a credit card here. For obvious reason.” I tilt my head. “So, please excuse my lack of enthusiasm. But,” I sigh for dramatic effect, “I shall suffer through this for you because that’s what best friends are for.” At that, two fingers fold downward and I rotate my wrist approximately 180 degrees, effectively demonstrating how I really feel about shopping with the sole finger left on display.

  Cassie’s glare tightens as she eyes my gesture, but I’m convinced that she finds my aversion to shopping nothing short of hilarious, which is why she insists on dragging me on every one of her outings.

  “Killjoy,” she growls and whips around, the rustle of the yellow taffeta monstrosity filling the air with her movement.

  Just as the tiniest bit of guilt begins to surface, my previous suspicions are confirmed when I see a full smile break across her face in the mirror as she heads back to the dressing room.

  I grin openly as she closes the door.

  She loves me.

  After what seems to be mere seconds, the door flies open and with what has to be the fastest wardrobe change like, ever, Cassie exits in our school uniform.

  I shake my head disapprovingly.

  The plaid skirt is rolled up at least three times at the waist, barely covering her ass, while the knee socks and Mary-Janes give the ensemble a contraindicative air of innocence.

  It’s disturbing.

  It’s also Saturday, so I have no idea why she’s wearing it.

  Okay, I lied.

  I totally know why she’s wearing it.

  I say a quick, silent prayer to the God of good little Catholic girls everywhere that she’s at least wearing panties today. And as catcalls and whistles from a herd of guys sound from across the store, I find myself praying harder.

  She flashes them her beautiful, dimpled smile (thankfully nothing more) and waves before turning back to me. “It’s cool. I was done torturing you anyway.”

  I laugh as my eyes fall to her forearm, which is draped with a gorgeous, shimmering navy blue number. I assume this to be option number one because it is indeed, tha shit.

  “The dress is beautiful. Glad my expert advice helped you with your decision.” But as I eye it more closely, I amend, “It’s not as formal, or short, as I thought it would be though.”

  Cassie gives me a warm, genuine smile before extending her arm and placing her free hand on my shoulder. “My dear, dear friend.” She shakes her head disapprovingly. “Who do you take me for? This dress does not go at all with my coloring and as you so cleverly stated, this length will do nothing for me in the least.
It’s too long.”

  And to think I was actually going to commend her on her choice.

  She glances at the dress and pats it lovingly before looking back at me. “No, this is for you. For your date tonight.”

  My eyes widen in shock.

  “What?” I exclaim. “Cassie, I can’t let you do that. No way.”

  She squeezes my shoulder with her fingers. “I refuse to let you ruin my brilliant plan with your single-variety, bohemian wardrobe choices.” She gestures at my apparel. “No flare jeans with worn, frayed hems. No loose-ass peasant tops that hide your fantastic body. You need to be Monroe tonight, not Joplin.”

  My brows pinch together as I glance down, tugging the sides of my loose-ass peasant top absently while debating whether or not to explain to Cassie that her brilliant plan is actually a complete bust. Lost in thought, I continue to stare until my sight is obstructed by a familiar navy blue dress as Cassie shoves it into my ribcage. With the look of excitement blazing in her eyes, I know that even if I told her about Dalton’s email, there is absolutely no way I am getting out of tonight or allowing her to buy me this dress.

  Right on cue, she states forcefully, “I need you to take this dress. Please for the love of all that is holy.” She proceeds to bless herself with the sign of the cross. As I once again rake in her appearance, I take a marked step to the left in preparation for lightening to strike. She eyes my movement.

  “I’m going to assume that was to get away from the dress, and not because of my blessing.”

  My lips curl into themselves and I say nothing. Her expression tightens into a glare and she stares until I can’t help but laugh. After a couple of stubborn seconds, she relents and giggles with me before once again falling silent. With warm eyes, she steps forward and presses the dress into my arms.

  “Take it, Spence. Please. You do so much for me, let me do something for you for once.”

  Knowing she will afford me no other choice, I accept the dress. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”