What Happens Next (24 page)

“Far southwest corner. He’s over there. With
her
. Don’t point.”

I scan the yard. The crowd is getting bigger by the second.

“Southwest corner? I’m not a park ranger, Kirsten. You mean by the hot tubs?”

“No. By the fire. Sitting on the picnic table.”

I see him, Pat Callahan, all cozied up to some brunette in a pleated skirt. She’s wearing a headband and an argyle sweater. It’s not quite summer yet, but still, she’s dressed like she’s headed to the library in November.

“Please,” I say, trying to assure Kirsten of her physical superiority. “Who wears that to a keg party? Snotty sorority chicks, that’s who.”

A group of freshmen get in line behind us, all wide-eyed and nervous, clutching their cups like someone might snatch them away. The line moves forward a smidge.

“Still, she’s gorgeous,” Kirsten says. “And don’t say she isn’t, because she is.” Then she gets teary and says, “Shit. I was really hoping she’d be hideous.”

I look toward the open garage and see the top of Justin’s head. He’s talking to a couple of hockey players and, I’m sure, loading up on multicolored cheese cubes. He’ll be heading back in a second, and Kirsten looks like she’s about to burst into tears. I look over at Pat and his preppy East Coast girlfriend.

“Yeah, she’s pretty. So he’d best enjoy himself tonight, because they’ll be broken up in a week.”

“What? How do you know?”

“Because she’s from Nantucket. You know who lives on Nantucket? Rich people. And now that Tierney-the-Flautist-from-Nantucket has seen her boyfriend’s house and met his family, in all their rolling-hot-tub glory, she’ll run for the hills, or the seashore, or the vineyard, or wherever it is that girls from Nantucket run to when they figure out they’re dating a broke-ass jock from Ohio.”

I take a deep breath and then a sip from my cup, forgetting that it’s still empty and I’ve been standing in this keg line for like two days. I look over at Kirsten, who’s staring at me all starry-eyed, her mouth half-open like she’s in a trance.

“What? Wha’d I say?”

Her face breaks apart into a big smile. She grabs me around the neck and squeezes just as Justin walks up. She whispers, “I love you, man,” and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, and then turns to wrap herself up in Justin’s free arm.

“Go grab us some chairs or a bench somewhere,” I say. “I’ll get the beers.”

Because I know they’re going to start making out now. Kirsten hands me the cups. They walk over to a half-empty picnic table and start making out, feeding each other cheese cubes.

When I’m finally on deck, ready to get us all a frosty cup-load, some short guy in front of me says, “Sweet, just made it!” and turns around with his three-quarters of a cup of beer. He looks up at me.

“Sorry, Red. Killed it,” he says and walks away.

I step up, pump the keg, and groan when it pisses bubbles into my cup. I hear someone yell, “Beer Run! Back in twenty!”

I grab three cans of no-name cola swimming in a half-melted storage bin of ice. I head over to sit with the lovebirds. Thankfully, on my way over to them, I spy my old lunch buddies, Bethany and Emma. I hang out with them for a while as they discuss the fact that Starsha’s new Canadian boyfriend just showed up and Tate’s freaking out about it. This is mildly interesting news to me. Still, my eyes prowl the faces and shirts that walk past, scrutinizing the various classmates coming and going, sharply on the lookout for Corey or one of his crew.

Then I see him, or what I think might be the top of his head—a tall guy with shaggy brown hair heading toward the house. I break away from Bethany and Emma to go talk to him. I push my way hurriedly through the fray, excusing myself over and over, trying not to spill my can of flat, store-brand cola. I see TJ, one of Corey’s friends, and ask him if Corey’s here.

“He went to use the bathroom, I think,” he says, pointing toward the house.

I open the back door, which leads into a closed-in porch. I ditch the pop in a trash can and walk inside the house, which is crawling with kids from school. I circle the main floor—kitchen, dining room, living room, foyer—but I don’t see Corey. Now I’m back in the smallest, most crowded kitchen ever, trying to make my way around to the dining room again, when someone cups their hands over my eyes. Reaching up to feel them, I can tell the hands are big and kind of rough, and the guy feels tall. I whip around with a smile on my face.

It’s not Corey.

It’s Tate.

Ugh.

He has a towel wrapped around his waist, still no shirt, and his muscled chest is right in front of me, inches away, standing all ripped-up and proud of itself.
Cringe.
I turn to make my getaway.

“Sid, wait up. Hey, where you goin’?” he says. But it’s all slurry, like
Where-er-ye-goin?
“Hey, come back. I need to talk to—”

—hurrying, hurrying, pushing my way through the crowd. The closed-in porch is now packed with kids, and the easiest way out is down the basement steps. It’s a walk-out basement, if I remember correctly, so I’ll just shoot out the basement door and into the backyard.

“Sid! Siddy! Hey… wait up!”

I get to the basement, but the damp rec room, or what used to be a rec room, is now some kind of storage area. The door leading out the back is blocked with boxes and furniture and a fully decorated Christmas tree. I turn to run back up the steps but Tate is coming down the stairs, piss drunk with his shirt off.

“Siddeeee… why you running? I just want to talk to ya.”

He comes around the steps and looks to his left, switches on a brighter light.

“Tate, what do you want? Honestly.”

“What? I just want to—”

“I mean, you and me… we’re not friends. At all. So what are you doing?”

“I just want you to come swimming in the hot tub with me.”

“Sorry. No bathing suit,” I say and try to walk past him. He puts out his arm and leans to the right, blocking me.

“Move,” I say.

“God, what’s your problem, anyway? Just come outside and hang with me for a while.”

I cross my arms and stare at him firmly.

“Look, Tate. I don’t know what kind of ridiculous games you and Starsha are playing with each other. I don’t know if you’re dating or broken up or friends-with-benefits or swingers or what. But I do know one thing—trying to cuddle up with Sid Murphy is not going to help your cause. She thinks I’m a fat gingerbitch pig and she will never touch you again if you come anywhere near me. You’re better off trying to get on Amber or Cameron or one of the other—”

“Are you that stupid? Really?” he says.

I blink at him.

“I mean, come on. Starsha’s so goddamn jealous of you it keeps her up at night.”

“You’re mental,” I say, moving to the left so I can squeeze past him.

He leans the other way, blocking me again. “She’s jealous,” he says. “Trust me, she’s always been jealous of you. And it’s not because of your hair or your height or your awesome fucking tits. It’s because you don’t give a shit what Starsha Lexington thinks or wants. You never have and never will. It’s because she doesn’t impress you. She doesn’t scare the shit out of you the way she does other girls.” Then he snorts, his eyes all glassy. “Or the way she scares guys for that matter. This one at least.”

I pause to see if he’s done pontificating about Starsha, Her Majesty.

“Well, that… that’s nice to know, Tate,” I say, nodding and smiling tightly. “Now, can you move out of the way, please? My friends are waiting for me.”

“Just come up and hang out with me for a little bit. Please,” he says, and his eyes are all desperate and pleading.

I sigh, envisioning myself on the arm of Tate Andrews.

Ew. No way. Not even for some good-time Starsha kicks.

“Sorry, Tate. I just don’t think—”

“You really do think you’re better than all of us, don’t you?” And his face has gone from pleading and drunk to angry and drunk.

“It’s not that, it’s—”

“No, you do,” he says, his voice getting louder. He moves forward, walking me backward into the rec room. I am starting to panic; my heart, which was already pounding like a jackhammer, is about to shoot up into my skull.

“Yeah. You think we’re all a bunch of dumbass jocks and cheerleaders and Sid Murphy is so much better. You’ve lost all this weight and think you’re hot shit now. I was too busy looking at Starsha to notice. But now I’m looking. I’m looking, Sid.”

I back into a stack of boxes. The flitting dots of light, like the ones I saw when I found my ski coat, are back. Static hisses in my ears and the world is getting far away.

Then someone yells, “Hey!” from behind Tate’s big body.

Tate backs away and Corey comes running up. He catches me right before I go down. I don’t pass out, not all the way—I just kind of settle onto the ground and watch things spin.

“What the fuck, dude!” Corey says to Tate, reaching up and shoving Tate backward.

“I didn’t do anything. I never touched her!” Tate says, growing instantly hysterical.

“Sid, are you okay? What’s wrong?” Corey says.

But I can’t answer him. I’m trying to hang on to myself but the floor tiles are doing this jerky spinny thing and I feel like any second I’ll be gone, floating in some dark, empty space.

“Go get her friend,” Corey says, his voice gritted up. “Kirsten-something, she’s blond.”

And while I can still hear and see everything, I think my head is coming off for good this time. I think my head is rolling off my neck. It’s headed right toward that Christmas tree that keeps moving back and forth.

Tate starts backpedaling. He realizes he’s crossed a line.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t… I would never—” he says.

“Go. Get. Her.
Friend!
” Corey yells.

Tate turns and runs up the stairs.

“Sid. You okay?” Corey asks, squatting down in front of me.

“Um…” I say, blinking hard. I put my hands on the sides of my head and for some reason this helps. And after a moment of looking at his face up close, I speak. And what comes out is…

“You have long lashes.”

His eyebrows stitch together in confusion. He smiles a little. Then he gets focused.

“Listen, what happened? Tate’s drunk off his ass. Did he do anything? I mean, did he—”

I shake my head no. Things have stopped moving now; my head is clearing.

“No, nothing like that. He’s just—um—he’s pissed Starsha’s making a fool out of him again. I don’t think—I mean—I don’t think he’s like that. I just want to go home.”

Kirsten comes running down the steps with Justin and Tate. Tate stops at the bottom of the steps. He looks like he’s about to cry.

“I’m sorry, Sid,” he says, and his face is terror-stricken, ashamed. He runs back up the steps.

Kirsten puts her arm around me, and after a minute, I stand up. Then we go home.

23

It’s Friday,
the last day of school. The Diner on Clifton called last Saturday and I interviewed with Shelley Keep It Green. I start this coming Tuesday as a waitress. I can wear jeans and a T-shirt and any kind of apron I want so long as it’s not plain; it has to be funny, cute, or funky.

I ordered three aprons over the Internet and am having them shipped second-day air. One says irish princess and has shamrocks all over it; another is vintage-looking with a delicate flower print and ruffles; and the third is black-and-white and says which part of “it’s not ready yet” didn’t you understand?

I climb in the truck and head off to school with Corey. We’ve discussed the incident at the party for the past week, and I’m really hoping he finally lets it go today. While he has tried to be delicate about it, all week the rides to and from school have consisted of Corey asking me if I’m okay, asking me if Tate has bothered me at school. He hasn’t, by the way; Tate Andrews is officially scared to death of Sid Murphy. Whenever Tate spots me in the halls, he immediately takes off in the other direction. Corey thinks there’s more to the story, but there isn’t. Well, technically there is, but it’s nothing Corey needs to concern himself with.

When I got home after the party, I was pretty wrecked. My mom was asleep, and Liam was at his dad’s. This left me free to devour everything in the fridge, throw it all up, and go running. I ran for three hours. Then twice on Saturday and twice on Sunday. But I physically can’t do it anymore. My legs were really hurting by Tuesday, so I’m back to normal running now. Just a couple hours at night.

Before Corey can even bring up the party or Tate, I flip on the radio and blurt out my good news.

“I got a job. Waitressing at The Diner on Clifton. I start next week.”

“That’s great,” Corey says. “One of my summer jobs starts next week, too.”

“Oh, yeah? You work two jobs in the summer?”

“Three. I work in the dry stacks building at the marina—that starts next week—then landscaping for this friend of my mom’s. Then my regular hours at the bakery. The landscaping starts today, right after school.”

“Busy, busy. How’d you get the job at the marina?”

“Mr. D has a boat. He got me in.”

Suddenly, it occurs to me that I will have no reason whatsoever to see Corey anymore. School is over and we’ll both be working. He doesn’t even have my cell number. I guess I can still come by the bakery now and then.

“I’m really looking forward to the marina job,” he tells me. “It’s like this big private party all the time. Not stuck-up sailing and yachting types. Just average Joes with a powerboat or Jet Skis who treat the staff nice. Like friends. I went a few times last year with Mr. D and his wife. People hang around playing volleyball and bocce outside the Whiskey Island Club. I went out a few times on Mr. D’s boat with him and his fishing buddies last year. Learned how to water-ski.”

“Wow, that sounds nice. You’ll have a great summer,” I say, nodding and smiling.

But inside, I’m thinking,
I might not see you until September.
I get a knot in my throat and look out the window.

Long pause.

“There’s this summer kick-off party tonight. It’s at the club, but there’s technically a restaurant section, so you don’t have to be twenty-one. People bring their kids, too.”