“Right,” Dana says, dragging a section of my hair through the flat iron. “And by wearing it, you’re choosing to look hot. Now grab some eyeliner and get busy, you prude. And don’t be stingy with it. It’s all or nothing tonight.”
I follow her instructions and do my eyes while admiring my bracelet that is sparkling in the mirror. Celinda comes in and blasts us all with vanilla-scented glitter spray and we all cough and wave our hands around.
“Guys like girls who smell like baked goods,” she says, popping the top back on the can unapologetically, “It’s a scientifically proven fact at this point.”
When the cloud of glitter and vanilla settles, we all agree that it smells delicious.
“Lickable,” Celinda says, reaching forward and kissing the mirror with her lips, leaving behind a pink, heart-shaped imprint. She’s laughs and then writes: Celinda was here in eyeliner next to it. She’s so tan that the whites of her eyeballs are almost glowing.
I put on the outfit and then let the girls gush over me. I’ll admit, even with my weird tan lines, it looks okay. Its not too big or baggy. It clings in all the right places.
Well. Except one.
The outfit doesn’t really mask the fact that I’m wearing an insulin pump underneath.
I grab my bag and head to the car with everyone and try not to think about it too hard. It’s something I have to get used to, I suppose, because unlike this outfit, and at least for now, my insulin pump is not optional.
When we arrive, the music is loud and things are going full blast. Seriously, this party makes a Callahan Kegger look like the home-school prom. There are people everywhere. To the right, a beer pong tournament is in full swing and a make-shift bar has been set up. Dieter is mixing drinks for everyone and girls are doing body shots on an adjacent picnic bench. To the left is a group of tanned, shirtless guys who are shot-gunning beers and begging girls to make out with each other.
Celinda takes off with Tyler the second she sees him and the rest of us walk over to a picnic table next to the sand volleyball court. Lindsey jumps into a game and starts serving people their drunken butts on a platter. We spy Hutch right away who is, as usual, working his way through the knots of girls, calculating his odds with each and every one. When he’s decided his best option, he hands a guy his cellphone, then sprints across the lawn and jumps into the pool with all of his clothes on. He swims over to a cluster of giggling bikinis, rips off his soaked tee shirt, and tosses it onto the concrete beside the pool.
The guy’s chest is hairier than I would have guessed. Wow. Like werewolf hairy.
Still, because his reputation precedes him, the target of his affections for the night, the Japanese girl who mans the Dippin’ Dots cart, moves toward him like a moth to the flame. Dana looks on with crushing disappointment. I’m all ready to feel sorry for her and say something encouraging like Forget Hutch! He’s a man-whore! but then Natalee chimes in with, “Hey, is that Brandon?”
I look to where she’s pointing and my heart gets stuck in my throat. It’s Brandon alright. A shirtless Brandon Wright all tucked away in a corner of the pool with Ade the Blade pasted up against him. He’s leaning against the wall with his elbows and she’s bobbing in front of him with her amazing neon yellow bikini-boobs in his face. She talks into his ear and he smiles at what she’s saying. Then their tea-for-two conversation turns playful; he flicks water at her using his thumb and finger and she splashes back. They start romping around, pushing and shoving.
The real kick in the chest comes, though, when he turns a bit and I get a good long look at his back. He has a wickedly hot tattoo, some kind of winged dragon that I’ve never seen or heard about before, but that I’m sure Ade The Blade is intimately familiar with.
“He has a tattoo,” I say, more to myself than anyone.
“And amazing deltoids,” Natalee adds. “Who knew he was so ripped and tan underneath it all. Artists are usually skinny and pale.”
“God, he was just with me,” I say, not believing what I’m seeing. “Like, literally, one hour ago he was handing me a box with a bracelet in it. Now he’s all shirtless with Ade The Blade buttered up against him?”
I shake my head and blink in an effort to refocus my energy on being enraged.
We all grunt with loathing as Japanese-bikini girl climbs onto Hutch’s shoulders to play chicken fight with Hugo and Rigmora. “Dig, baby doll, dig!” Hutch yells as his little partner tries to take down Rigmora. She has no chance against that Russian tree trunk so goes down within seconds. Brandon and Adriana watch and cheer from their end of the pool, laughing away, splash, splash, splash.
Then the final hammer drops. Adriana jumps onto Brandon’s back and—instead of promptly pitching her off into the water and telling her to quit molesting him—he dips down so she can climb onto his shoulders. In zero-point-one seconds, Brandon Wright’s head is wedged between Ade The Blade’s thighs like a smiley-faced melon. He locks her knees in place with his hands as they wade over to challenge Hugo and Rigmora.
“Well, ladies…,” Dana says, narrowing her eyes, “Time for a drink.”
She turns on a heel and we follow her through the crowd, making a beeline for the keg.
Facing outward on the bench of a picnic table, Dana, Natty and I watch Lindsey play volleyball. We take turns telling each other how much better off we are without men. When I start my second cup of beer, my phone rings and I’m hopeful for a moment that it’s my mom. A call from her might salvage my rapidly deteriorating birthday celebration. It’s five to midnight, so there’s still a few minutes to save it on her end.
But it’s not my mom. It’s Brandon.
The beer and man-hater girl bonding has given me some backbone so I answer it, swinging my hair.
“What’s up, Brandon,” I say, rolling my eyes at Dana who is finishing her third beer.
“Hey, I just got your message,” he says. “So, you’re on your way to the dorms?”
“Actually, I’m already here.”
“You are? Where?” he says, his voice rising.
“On a picnic table near the volleyball game,” I say. “But you just stay put. I wouldn’t want to interrupt your swim.” Then I hang up on him.
Dana and Natalee bust out laughing and we toast, all of us taking a gulp. The next thing I know he’s coming through the crowd holding a can of Mountain Dew. He stops in front of us and just stares down at me with this pained expression. Guilt from being caught with his hand in cookie jar? Irritation that I’m cock-blocking his after-hours booty call? I have no idea and I could not care less.
“What’s up?” I say, taking a drink with my left hand, giving him a nice long look at my beautiful birthday present.
“Can I talk to her for a second?” he says, shifting his weight, looking at Dana and Natalee. They look at me to see if it’s okay. I nod—sure, whatever—and then take another drink.
Dana saunters past him, shooting him a ferocious look with her devil-blue eyes, “Looks like you double-booked yourself, big boy,” she coos. “Need a secretary to keep your appointments straight? We’ll be playing beer pong if you need anything, Jules.”
He glares at her and then takes a seat next to me, setting his pop down on the ground between his feet. He rests his forearms on his knees, clasping his fingers loosely. His shirt is on but his swim trunks are still damp and they rub against my thigh. I cross my legs away from him and take another drink. His fingers twiddle as he looks out at the volleyball game.
“I didn’t know there would be a party cropping up tonight,” he says, glancing at me, trying to make eye contact. “People usually take it easy during the weekdays. I would have invited you if I knew it was going to blow up like this.”
“No worries,” I say, brushing it off, looking around.
Adriana and Rigmora are orbiting the perimeter, scowling at us from across the volleyball court. Adriana has a sarong around her waist now and her plasti-boobs are bursting out of her yellow bikini top like big balls of sexua
l sunshine.
“You look nice,” he says. “Your hair is different.”
I snort, take another drink and think: Brandon Wright, please.
Pulling out my phone, I pretend to be insanely bored. I tap out a fake text: Midnight. Next day. I can’t believe you forgot my birthday and send it to my mother’s latest defunct burner cell.
“Your girlfriend is getting testy,” I mumble, continuing to play with my phone like I have important business to attend to. “You better get over there or she might come screeching across the lawn with a kitchen knife.”
Then I toss my phone back into my bag, drain my beer and stand up.
“For the last time,” he says, standing up, too, “Adriana was never my girlfriend. And lately, she and I haven’t—we haven’t been—,” he stops himself, nods toward the pool, “That wasn’t anything, Julianne, just people fucking around in the pool.”
“Yes, fucking around in the pool, I know.”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” he says, sighing. “We aren’t like that anymore. We aren’t sleeping together so really—,” he throws up his hands. “You’re going to believe what you want to believe, so it doesn’t matter what I say, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t,” I say, turning away.
“Don’t leave,” he says, reaching out and hooking onto a couple of my fingers.
“Oh, I’m not leaving,” I say, glancing down at his hand, then up again. “It’s my birthday. I’m just going to get another drink.”
I jerk out of his grasp, pull my bag up over my shoulder then walk across the green. I look over at Her Hotness again. Like I’m supposed to believe he’s not tapping that every night of his life? Right. At the makeshift bar, Dieter is pouring liquor faster than people can drink it. There are a dozen bottles of booze sitting out on the table.
“Julianne, hallo!” he says, when I step up to order, “Ven did you get here?”
His eyes impulsively move up and down my outfit, eventually landing on my face.
“I’ve been here a while,” I say, smiling, “It’s my birthday.”
“I saw that on your Facebook! Herzlichen Gluckwunsch! Best vishes! A shot for you!” He pours a really big shot of something into a cup and then hands it to me.
I give him a quick air-toast and then drink it down. It tastes like black crayons and Nyquil.
“Egh,” I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
Then suddenly it doesn’t taste so awful. It leaves a spicy, herbal taste in my mouth. He laughs and then pours another shot into the cup.
“Oh, god,” I say looking down at it because it’s even fuller than the last one.
“Ha!” he says, taking the shot back. “You Americans are so uptight. Let me cut it for you.”
He smiles at me; pouring a can of Red Bull into the cup.
“Your valking around drink,” he says, handing it back, “Not quite as strong to taste.”
I settle in with one hip resting on the table. I look toward the volleyball court; Brandon hasn’t budged an inch. He’s leaned back on the bench, his arms crossed, openly seething at us. Good. If he wants to watch a show, I’ll give him a good one.
I lean in closer to Dieter and we chat about how zone one’s been going since I left. We also discuss his plans to attend nearby Heidelberg University for a semester as part of his full English immersion experience. When I’ve whispered in Dieter’s ear enough, reached out to touch his arm enough, and thrown my head back with laughter enough, I say goodbye and then walk back toward Brandon.
Brandon stares at me like a chained-up guard dog. Just as I approach him, though, I cut right and detour to a different table. I sit down and start whooping and hollering for Lindsey. Brandon gets up and comes over to sit next to me again.
“Are you done?” he says, “Are we even, now?”
“Hardly,” I say, taking a drink.
“We need to talk about this,” he says.
“Actually, we don’t,” I say, taking an even bigger swallow. “I’m trying to watch my friend’s game. Please leave.”
He sighs and settles in like he’s not going anywhere. On the court, Lindsey widens her stance and digs her heels into the sand, prepping for the ball to come sailing over the net so she can send it rocketing back. The game has turned boozy now: Lose a point, do a shot.
“What’s that?” Brandon says, glancing at my cup.
“My friend Dieter made it,” I say.
He takes it from me and sips. I give him a dirty look and snatch it back, spilling some of it into my lap.
“Jagerbomb. That’s really strong,” he says, looking out at the game.
I shrug and drink down more of it, trying not to gag. After a while, the game is called and Lindsey comes jogging over with a big smile on her face.
“I forgot what it’s like to play against people who suck,” she says to us, “I have to play every position. It’s exhausting!”
She plops down on the grass in front of us. She’s missed the whole Brandon’s-A-Dick thing and is tipsy; she thinks we’re still getting along. She reaches up and takes my cup, swallows a big gulp and starts choking.
“Jesus! I thought that was pop! What is that? Holy crap!”
“Jagermeister and Red Bull,” Brandon says, an edge in his voice.
“Jager—hey, you’re drinking hard liquor?” she says, her eyebrows pulling together in an interrogative stare. Like she should talk? Her whiskey breath could peel paint.
“You shouldn’t be drinking that,” she says. “You’ll get really sick.”
“Said the girl who just downed umpteen shots of Jack Daniels,” I say, “Relax, Linz, it’s just this one drink.”
“Plus, the beer you had earlier and the shot you had over there with your buddy, Dieter,” Brandon says.
“What, are you keeping count?” I say, chortling, taking another drink. “Go play chicken fight with your girlfriend. Or better yet, I heard there’s a cozy hot tub in the workout room.”
“I really wish you’d switch to something else,” Lindsey says, butting in. She throws Brandon a knowing look. “Alcohol will make her glucose bottom out if she’s not careful.”
He nods like ohhhh which makes my face go hot.
“Just talk over top of me like I’m deaf,” I say, and Lindsey’s jaw drops a bit.
“Oh, I was just—uh.”
She is clueless and drunk off of her ass.
“No, really, Linz. I’ve always wanted to know what a coma patient feels like, so thank you.”
Brandon freezes in place. He’s not quite sure what to say now.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I say, sighing with disgust and getting up. I lose my balance for a second but recover and head toward the dilapidated pool house while downing the rest of my drink.
“I’ll come with,” Lindsey says, jumping up and running alongside.
“You don’t need to come with,” I snap, but she follows me anyway.
In the restroom, she starts apologizing through the stall walls.
“Are you mad? I didn’t mean to call you out. I’m sorry. It’s just I know alcohol affects you differently and I—,”
“Yes, I get it! You’re sorry! A concerned friend!” I bark, rolling off the toilet paper. I flush and then storm out of the stall to wash my hands. She flushes too and meets me at the sink. The muffled sound of the music from outside vibrates the mirrors.
“Can’t you just relax for one freaking night?” I say. “It’s my birthday and I just want to be able to have a few drinks at a party for once without you giving me crap about my glucose!”
The word makes me instinctively look around for my bag, for my testing kit, but I don’t have it on me. Is it at the picnic table or did I leave it in Dana’s car? Did I come in Dana’s car or Celinda’s? Whatever. I’m low, I can feel it. All I need at this point is food. There are carbs around this party somewhere and I aim to find them. Before I leave though, I lift my top because I need to unhook from my pump; stop the insulin
flow to counteract the alcohol. Adriana and Rigmora enter the bathroom at the precise moment that I am detaching from Floyd.
“What is that?” Adriana says, gasping with her face twisted up. I jerk my top down.
“An insulin pump,” Lindsey says, scowling, swaying a little, “She has diabetes. What’s it to you?”
Adriana looks at my waist, then up at my face, then back to my waist. She’s a bit stunned, like she’s just unburied Aladdin’s lamp or discovered the secret coordinates to The Bat Cave. She’s found my Achilles’ heel and is mapping out her next move.
“It’s nothing to me,” she says, finally. “It’s just…I don’t know. I mean, how do you have sex with that thing on?”
The brazenness of the question leaves me grasping for an answer.
“My cousin has zee diabetic,” Rigmora says, looking at me like I’m an insect. “It makes for brief sex times before she has to reattach to zee, how do you say, machineries?”
I don’t think I’ve ever heard this girl speak more than two words of English at a time. Now, she’s near fluent. Adriana snorts and then turns to fuss with her hair.
“Well, sucks to be you, dearie,” she says, looking at me through the mirror with a glint in her eye. “Because Brandon…he can go for a lonnnng time.”
My mind goes blank. There’s no witty comeback waiting to pop out, no disguising the fact that I feel completely ridiculous and stupid now.
“Who the hell is this bitch?” Lindsey says, like she can’t believe what she’s witnessing.
I’m outgunned. I can’t compete with Adriana and I’m sick of thinking that I can. I turn and push my way out the door, stumbling back into the courtyard, darting in and out of knots of people in an effort to shake Lindsey off my tail. Even though the music is loud, I can hear her calling behind me. Eventually, I lose her and then circle back around to the booze table to talk to Dieter some more.
“Monkey, you are back! Another Jagerbomb?” Dieter says, smiling.
“Ja, bitte!” I say and while he makes it, I start ripping away at the side of my hair, pulling at it in long strokes. I catch myself and cross my arms. He comes around to my side of the table to hand the cup to me. Instinctively, I look over toward Brandon but I can’t see the picnic tables anymore. The crowds have shifted, obstructing my view.
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