No Strings Attached (12 page)

“You didn't, because if you had, I would have made sure Mitch knew. I assume he's not here.” Katie's arms were crossed defensively, but Alefiya heard a tremor in her voice, like she was struggling not to cry. Instinct kicked in. Ali sobered up and put her arm around Katie's birdlike shoulders. “Hey, look, I'm really, really sorry. I didn't know it would upset you. I thought I told you, and you were cool with it. If you want, we can tell everyone to leave, okay?”

Katie's lip was trembling now, and Ali tried to shield her from Mandy and the others in the room, now a rapt audience.
“So, uh, why don't we go outside, where we can talk? I don't think there's that many people in the back.”

Katie took a deep breath; it seemed to calm her. “Forget it. I'll just go to my room—”

“Change into some jeans or something and join the party—I made baked Brie, and spinach dip, and baba ghanoush, if you're hungry.”

Katie turned and took a step toward the bedrooms. Ali tapped her shoulder. “Hey, I mean it. I'll chase everyone out if you want me to. “

“Never mind.” Katie slumped away, looking defeated.

Ali grabbed a couple of beers and made her way back to the den. If she'd learned anything about Katie, it was this: The girl could, and would, adjust. It'd be fine, and if not? She'd try to help her through whatever had made her such a wreck tonight.

Back on the couch now, she threaded her arm around Jeremy's waist. “Is that your big-deal celebrity photographer friend Mandy's talking to?”

Jeremy craned his neck. “I have no idea who that dude is. The one I was talking about is over there.” He pointed toward the alcove near Mitch's room. “He's hanging with some chick in the T-shirt that says something about men and pain. I don't really want to know!”

Ali lit up. “Harper? Awesome. She's my favorite person
here. You've gotta meet her, come on—and you
promised
to introduce your photographer friend to Mandy. Do. Not. Forget. On pain of … ah, you've met Mandy!”

Jeremy laughed, and pecked Ali on the cheek. “You're the best, you know that, Leaf?”

She punched him lightly in the stomach. “Don't tell anyone—that's our secret.”

Ali was aglow—only partly, she knew, from the pot, and the booze, and her handling of Katie. She was the happiest she'd ever been. As she crossed the room with Jeremy, she felt absolutely dazzled by everyone who'd shown up—admittedly way more than she'd assumed—and still more people were arriving. Everyone seemed to be “kickin' it,” as Jeremy would say.

Jeremy made good on his offer to introduce his friends to Mandy. Ali didn't catch all the names and their connections, but she did catch Mandy's megawatt smile. That was the best thing about tonight. Mandy was so desperate for help with her career. Maybe these people could help her, maybe not. But Ali knew that just having a friend, someone who supported Mandy's dreams, might end up being just as good.

“Hey ya', hey ya' … shake it like a Polaroid picture … shake it … shake it …”

Dutifully, Alefiya shook her booty.

The music rocked. Joss had said they could use his CD
collection, and he had everything from Prince to the Beatles, from Outkast to cheesy 70s Bee Gees, who were warbling “You Should be Dancin'”; from the Pixies to the guitar God himself, Jimi Jones. Like the eclectic music, the partiers were this amazing cross-section of sentient beings: people of color, tattooed motorcycle dudes, goth girls, preps, locals, college kids, visitors, just everyone. And all because of her. She'd done this.

“This is ALL YOUR FAULT! You dumb-ass LOSER!”

This time, Katie came out
thundering
. Someone cut the music. Everyone froze.

Ali's jaw clenched, only Katie wasn't bellowing at her, but at … Harper?

“You're blaming me?” Harper hissed. “For what, your own stupidity? Give me a break.”

“Yes, I'm blaming
you.
For this fucked-up summer,” Katie spat. “You're too dumb to even know why.”

Jeremy advanced toward them, but Ali put her arm out to stop him. It wasn't his place to be peacemaker.

“I may not be up to your standards of snottiness, but I do know this,” Harper continued. “If you got shafted by some guy tonight, it's your own fault. Memo from the twenty-first century, kitten: Guys are not saviors. You'll just have to buck up and do that yourself.”

“
You're
the expert on guys?” Katie trilled. “Oh, that's rich.”

Harper folded her arms defensively—as if she intuited what might be coming.

Katie was afire. “Three words, holier-than-thou Harper: pussy trumps poetry. Ask any guy. Maybe if you'd put out, Luke Clearwater wouldn't have kicked you to the curb, and neither of us would be in this shithole!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Harper shouted.

Katie smirked. “Oh, you didn't know, did you? Your soul mate, Luke, left you for my best friend! Lily McCoy!”

“Hey, sweet cheeks, you're lookin' good, know what I'm sayin'?
Drink up!” Some random guy trying to sound ghetto was all over Harper, burping vodka fumes in her face. In response, Harper snatched the bottle from him, boozily agreeing, “I
am
lookin' good. I'm
doin'
good. I am doin' grrrr-ate! Just like Kate. Oooops! That rhymed.” She giggled and guzzled from the bottle. “Hey! I am a poet. An' don' I freakin' know it!”

She followed with another swallow, only she missed her mouth. Using her arm to wipe the vodka off her chin, she stood on tipsy toes and craned her neck to peer around the room. “Am'int I a poet, Jozz? Hey,” she demanded, “wheere's Jozz? Why in't he here?”

Katie felt her cheeks redden. She was beyond mortified. Harper, obviously hammered for the first time, had done a
complete 180, trading her patented emo-sarcasm for crude, lewd, loud, and proud. Like she'd channeled Mandy on the sauce. Drunk, Harper was self-destructing.

It was all Katie's fault. She'd had a humiliating, thoroughly heinous day. Her mood—her life!—was plummeting downhill, and she could not stop it. Worse, she'd dragged Harper down with her.

How could she have screamed at Harper like that? In front of a room full of people? She'd never,
ever
, let herself get out of control like that. What was happening to her?

Okay, so during the day she and Brian had run into that heinous Taylor Ambrose from school—who delivered the bulletin that she knew Katie was a counselor. When Brian blabbed that Katie was only working for her mom's charitable organization, Taylor laughed evilly. “Believe that if you want. I hear otherwise.”

Katie had been freaked. What did Taylor know, and what would she take back to Boston with her? So far, Katie was pretty sure the indictment against her father had not come down yet. What inside info was Taylor privy to? She could not stop shaking all afternoon, and for the gazillionth time she cursed Lily for not being there, for not having her back.

Brian hadn't pushed for an explanation.

That was because, it turned out, he had other things to
push for. He thought going out with her for a month entitled him to “more.” Sure, they'd hooked up, fooled around—a lot. But he wanted to go further. Why wouldn't he? He also thought she was twenty (that's what she'd told him), and experienced. He was too well bred to come out and say it, but clearly he wasn't far from accusing her of teasing him.

He'd issued a not-so-veiled ultimatum: “Sleep with me, or I'm moving on.”

Katie rejected both scenarios, only she didn't know what to do. So she'd pretended to be offended, and demanded he stop the car right that minute—she wasn't going another mile with him, she'd pouted.

Well, who would've expected he'd do just that, even lean over to open the door so she could get out? She was miles from the house, on four-inch heels, literally being kicked to the curb.

She
assumed
Brian would follow, apologize, and at least drive her back.

He chose “none of the above.”

Over an hour later, feet killing, ego crushed, she'd come home to this disaster! What kind of idiot was Ali, anyway? Anyone who ever had a house party knew how this would end. The cops would be called. The last thing she needed was to be caught in some stupid roundup of underage drinkers. If word got out she was living in this dump, she'd be the total laughingstock of Trinity!

She had, as Ali suggested, retreated to her room, only to come upon one couple thrashing around on her bed, and a threesome on Harper's side of the room.

Shit! (Without parentheses!)

If Lily were here, none of this would be happening. If Lily were here, she'd help her handle Brian (from whom at least she'd managed to snare some cash: some he willingly lent her, some he didn't know about). Lily would have advice; they'd have figured this thing out together, the way they always did.

It was all Harper's fault that Lily wasn't here. Harper's own fault that Luke had dumped her and taken up with Lily; Harper's fault that a hundred strangers were tearing apart her house, that she had nowhere to turn, no one to turn to.

That she didn't know what to do.

She'd lost it. And by doing so, she set in motion a total disaster. After the runaway words had sped from her mouth, they'd crashed through Harper's chest, piercing the girl's heart. Ali—who else?—had rushed to her, and soon Jeremy, a bunch of other people, and even Mandy had joined in, helping to dull Harper's pain with alcohol. Oodles of booze.

At first, Katie had rushed outside, panting—the verbal assault had taken the wind out of her—then forced herself to walk the streets, take deep breaths, calm down, and assess. What she'd just done to Harper? It was the most hurtful thing
she'd ever done to anyone (to their face, that is). She'd just made innocent Harper pay for Lily's betrayal.

That realization finally forced her back to the party. At the very least, she would apologize. At most, she thought, surveying the scene now, she'd try to save Harper from herself.

Harper wasn't going to make it easy.

Katie watched helplessly as Harper, arms swaying in the air now, wove suggestively through the room, purposely bumping into as many boys as she could, like a Missy Elliot backup dancer:
“Work it, now reverse it, put my thing down, and reverse it …”
She accosted Sharif, who'd been dancing with Lisa. Harper shouted above the music, “Are you dancing, or having a seizure?”

Then, she grabbed him and planted a full openmouthed kiss, with obvious tongue, on his surprised lips. Further down the sinkhole of bad behavior, Harper leered at a shocked Lisa. “You should thank me. 'Cause he'll leave you, just like that.” She punctuated by snapping her fingers, and moving on.

Katie tried to grab her, but Harper wasn't having it. “Unhand me, Princess Poopypants!” she yelled, flouncing away, bumping into more guys and rapping loudly,
“Keep ya' eyes on my bomp-a-bomp-bomp.”

“Harper, you need to come with me!” Katie's pleas were drowned out as Harper blurted, “Let's play charades!” as she bounded into the kitchen, grabbed the scissors, and cut her
T-shirt around the collar, then pulled it over one shoulder, doing the worst
Fame
impression ever, singing at the top of her lungs.
“I'm gonna live forever, baby remember my name! Fame!”

Katie needed help. Ali—or even Mandy, at this point. But at the moment, she could find neither. She pushed through the throng, some clapping and encouraging Harper, others caught up in drinking, dancing, and canoodling, and oh God, Katie saw two people with their noses to the kitchen counter, sniffing. She went back into the living room, just in time to catch Mandy's backside as the house skank headed up the stairs, arm in arm with the guy she'd been circling.

“Mandy!” Katie called out. “Wait, I need you.”

Mandy stopped, turned, and grinned cruelly at her. “No, you don't. You're Katie-I'm-So-Above-It-All Charlesworth, you don't need anyone.”

Katie turned on her heel and redoubled her efforts to unearth Ali. But when she found her, Ali was sitting on the floor, with Clarence in her lap. She'd tied her red, white, and blue do-rag around the ferret and was singing “America the Beautiful” to him, backed up by Jeremy, Sharif, and Lisa.

Okay, she'd do this herself, physically remove Harper from the house. But when she turned around, the way was blocked: A circle three people deep had formed around the middle of the den, where Harper had decided that since
charades wasn't working, a new game was called for. She'd run down the steps leading to the basement and had come upstairs with a board game.

Twister.

“Let's get naked and play!” Her shouts were greeted with hoots, woo-hoos, and squeals.

Which Harper took as a cue to remove her T-shirt. Instantly, she was joined by dozens of happy partyers. Someone cranked the music up louder; another shouted, “Lime shots here! Come 'n' get them!”

The game had begun, and unsurprisingly, got out of control quickly. Harper's leg wound around a guy's, and they fell. Others got to the floor to help them up. In the process, someone opened Harper's jeans—aided and abetted by another guy, who pulled them down.

She protested incoherently. “Hey, whatcha doin'? I wuzzin' out.”

“Yo, this isn't strip poker, sweetcheeks, it's naked Twister! You said so y'self! We're just helpin' ya get nekkid!”

Katie panicked. She was responsible for this and she had to fix it, with or without anyone's help. But just then, her stomach lurched. Whirring sirens screamed up the block. Flashing red strobe lights lit the living room.

The cops.