it’s important to Kristen, then it’s important to me.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I tell her, and by the way Kristen smiles at me, I know that was exactly what she wanted to hear.
six hours later
I don’t know how I’m going to talk myself out of this one.
My phone buzzes insistently in my hand, like it knows I’m trying to avoid it. A glance at the front screen confirms my impending doom: MOM flashes there like it’s mocking me. Crap.
Kristen nudges me in the rib cage with her elbow. “Who the hell is calling you?” she demands. “Everyone worth knowing is already here.”
It’s true; the party is in full swing, the room filled with half of Grand Lake High’s student body—well, the half that matters, anyway—and loud music. It’s no secret Kristen Courteau throws the best parties. Absentee parents, an older brother who has no problem supplying minors with alcohol, a big house with a top-notch stereo system—it’s everything a group of rowdy sixteen-year-olds could ask for.
On this couch I’m packed in tight like a sardine, stuck between Kristen and Brendon Ryan. Brendon Ryan, the last person I want knowing that my mother is calling to check up on me.
“It’s my mom,” I explain, leaning my head close to hers to be heard over the racket and praying that Brendon is too absorbed in downing his beer to pay attention. “She’ll be pissed if I don’t answer.”
“Then answer it,” Kristen says, like it’s that simple.
“And have her hear all this?” I shake my head. “She’ll kill me!”
“Fine, then don’t answer it.” Kristen rolls her eyes and knocks back the rest of her drink. Somehow she manages to look good doing even that. “I’m getting more beer,” she informs me, peeling herself off the couch and dancing her way across the room to the cooler and abandoning me to resolve this problem on my own. Sometimes Kristen can be such a bitch. If she wasn’t my best friend, I’d probably hate her.
Next to me, Brendon curls his hand over the cap of my shoulder and leans in close to my ear. Normally I’d be thrilled because a) Brendon Ryan is touching me, b) his near proximity means I can smell him, and c) BRENDON RYAN IS TOUCHING ME OH MY GOD (!!!), but I can’t even savor the moment because I’m too panicked. Also, tonight he reeks too much of beer and cloying cologne. This is a disappointment because I always assumed that a perfect creature such as Brendon would smell of spring rain and mountain breezes and other heavenly aromas.
“Hey,” he says, his breath warm against my ear, and oh, yeah, that’s enough to send my already racing pulse into overdrive. “I bet if you go down the hall it’ll be quieter.”
It’s a no-brainer suggestion, really, but in that moment, I feel like Brendon is a certified genius for coming up with it. Maybe it’s due to the fact that when I’m anywhere within a six-foot radius of Brendon I lose all ability to think coherently. Well, okay, the Jell-O shot I kicked back ten minutes ago probably isn’t helping matters.
“Yes,” I finally choke out once I realize I’ve spent the last several seconds staring into his brain-melty hazel eyes with my mouth hanging open like the love-struck idiot I am. “Good idea.”
I push myself off the couch, stumble past the cluster of barely clothed freshman girls writhing to some electro dance remix—nasty—and don’t stop until I’ve reached the end of the hallway. Of course, even down here I can feel vibrations from the stereo’s pulsating bass. My phone stopped ringing a while ago. Great. Now I need to come up with an excuse to explain why I didn’t answer Mom’s call right away. One that does not involve divulging that I’m at a New Year’s Eve party with a bunch of intoxicated minors.
It’s so stupid. One lousy grade and my parents act like it’s the end of the world. A D- in geometry is not going to ruin my entire life. But of course they don’t see it that way. The only reason I was allowed over to Kristen’s at all was under the pretense that we’d be babysitting her younger cousins. If Mom finds out what’s really going on, there’ll be hell to pay.
I open the hall closet and lock myself inside; at least the door blocks some of the sound from the raging party. My phone starts ringing again—Mom, of course. I push aside a broom handle and answer it with the most nonchalant hello I can muster.
“Chelsea,” she says, and by the way she says my name alone, I can perfectly picture the pinched expression on her face. “Why didn’t you pick up before?”
“Um…” I rack my brain for the first believable excuse. “My phone was at the bottom of my bag, and I couldn’t find it in time. You know my purse…it’s like a black hole.”
“Uh-huh,” she says. I can’t tell if she’s skeptical or if I’m just paranoid.
I perch awkwardly on the edge of a cardboard box, keeping one eye on the door. “So, what’s up?”
“I just thought I’d ask if you could pick up a gallon of milk before you drive home tomorrow morning.” She pauses. “How is the babysitting going?”
“Fine,” I say, though of course as soon as the word leaves my mouth, something crashes in the hallway. I cringe and press a hand to my forehead. This is just perfect.
“What was that?”
I recover without missing a beat. “Oh, just one of the kids causing trouble,” I say. “Probably should’ve skipped the candy after dinner—sugar overload.” I let out a laugh and hope it doesn’t come out too forced. “Actually I should probably go help Kristen wrangle them before they destroy the house.”
“All right,” Mom says, so oblivious I feel kind of bad. But only for a second. Then I’m just relieved that she actually buys my story. “Just make sure to pick up the milk tomorrow.”
“Right. The milk. Got it.” I need to wrap up this call ASAP before someone gives me away. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
Mom says, “Have a good night, sweetie,” before hanging up. And I’m in the clear.
Or, almost. I wriggle out of the closet and shut the door behind me, yanking my skirt down and raking my hands through my hair. I spent two hours wrestling with a flat iron to make it straight, and it’s already getting all poofy and gross. Great. I try to smooth it down as best I can, cursing genetics for the millionth time in my life for not gifting me with thin, silky hair like Kristen’s.
“Chelsea?”
I whip around to see Tessa Schauer standing there, peering at me with raised, overly plucked eyebrows. Usually when Tessa looks at me it’s for approval, or else a little fearful, but right now there’s just mild curiosity written across her face.
I don’t like it.
“What?” I snap, and she cringes just the slightest bit. That’s better.
All the bronzer in the world can’t hide her sudden blush. “I was just wondering what you were doing in the closet,” she says.
“None of your business.” No way am I letting Tessa know I’m the kind of loser who needs permission from her parents to do anything. As far as she’s concerned, I do
