she readily reciprocates. Gross. Those two are always slobbering all over each other. Get a room already.
“I don’t know, man,” Brendon says. “Personally I prefer something left to the imagination.”
He winks at me, and the surge of butterflies in my stomach is so strong I think I may throw up right there. I need something to calm my nerves. The most obvious remedy is more alcohol. They don’t call it liquid courage for nothing.
Two Jell-O shots later and I’m thinking about what Natalie said—about me being Kristen’s mouthpiece. I know that’s how I’m seen, and if I’m being honest with myself, it’s kind of true. It’s no secret that Kristen is the ringleader of our social group. The real thing that’s bugging me is what she said about me being tossed aside. Being Kristen’s friend is a balancing act, yes, but it’s one I’ve pulled off for a few years; if she wanted to get rid of me, she would’ve by now.
I don’t know why Natalie’s stupid comment is annoying me so much. After all, it’s Natalie; her opinion doesn’t matter.
Brendon hands me another shot, and I notice his outstretched arm is a perfect golden tan.
“God, you’re tan,” I tell him, running my fingers over his wrist and marveling at the deep red-brown shade. His skin feels hot to the touch, and the butterflies in my stomach flutter again.
“Yeah.” He laughs. “I spent Christmas in Miami with my grandparents.”
“Oooh, nice!” I look at my own arm and cringe. “I’m so pasty,” I moan, and Kristen laughs.
“You’re such a ginger,” she says. She lowers her voice like she’s confiding a secret. “Still, it could be worse. So I’m in the locker room before P.E. the other day, right? Steph Lidell comes in and starts changing right next to me, and she takes off her sweater, and I am, like, blinded by orange.”
This isn’t news to me. Steph sits in front of me in Geometry, and whenever she passes back papers, I get a full view of her streaky orange hands. Still, I know better than to point out that it’s totally old news. Kristen doesn’t like being one-upped when she’s telling a story.
“It’s already bad enough that she has that fried, bleached-out hair, but a gross spray tan? Really?” Kristen shakes her head sadly. “It was horrible. I mean, she’s like seven feet tall! So she’s just this giant orange giraffe who smells bad. Like some weird combination of mustard and sweat or something. Seriously, I almost passed out.” She laughs, then sighs and adds, “I swear, it was tragic.”
“Seriously tragic,” I agree, tipping the Jell-O shot back until it slides down my throat, weirdly warm and cold at the same time. These things are like ninety percent vodka. As it hits my stomach, I shake my head hard and grimace.
Joey claps me so hard on the back I nearly choke. “You drunk yet, Chelsea?”
Yes, actually, I am. More than a little. I turn around to face Joey, and the room spins around me. Maybe that last shot wasn’t such a good idea. I’m really feeling it now.
Joey slides his hand up and hangs his arm loosely over my shoulders. I hope he doesn’t think we’re hooking up tonight. I’ve made out with him a few times, but never actually enjoyed it. Kristen keeps pushing me toward him, though, with the hope that if I start dating Warren’s best friend we can all go out on double dates. I might be on board with this plan if I found Joey even remotely attractive, but to me he’s just another beefy, boneheaded jock. He’s definitely no Brendon Ryan. The fact that he’s pulling me in under his sweaty armpit makes me want to puke.
No, wait, that’s the alcohol.
“Um…” I shrug out from under Joey’s grip. “I think I’m gonna—” I stop and clutch one hand over my swirling stomach.
My nausea must show in my face because Kristen laughs and says, “Oh, my God, if you puke on my carpet I’m going to be so pissed!”
Brendon looks at me, concerned. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I insist. My stomach, however, does not agree. “I just need to… Bathroom. Bathroom would be good.”
I bolt out of the room, shove past two juniors molesting each other on the staircase and take the steps two at a time. When I reach the top, I see a line of bored-looking girls outside the bathroom. Yeah, I don’t know if I can wait that long. I’m definitely not willing to take the risk.
There’s another bathroom in the guest room, I know, and Kristen won’t mind if I use it. I rush to the end of the hallway and throw open the door without a second thought. Before I take more than a step in, I’m stopped in my tracks by what I see. Someone else is already in here.
Two someones.
I’ve never seen guys together. Not like this. The two boys are entangled, one lying on top of the other, panting hard. The dark-haired boy on top has his hand in the hair of the blond boy underneath him. The telltale sound of jeans being unzipped makes me gasp; the blond boy must hear it, because his head jerks up and his eyes meet mine, and I realize I know him. It’s Noah Beckett. We’re not friends, exactly, but we’re in the same grade. I sat next to him in Spanish last year. He used to let me borrow his pencils, and now he’s making out with some guy I don’t recognize in my best friend’s guest room.
Suddenly my nausea is the last thing on my mind.
I’m still processing the sight in front of me when Noah sits up, looking panicked. Instinct kicks in and I back out hastily, knocking my shoulder hard against the door frame. Noah calls after me, but I ignore him, stumble down the hallway and down the stairs, where I lean against the banister, trying to catch my breath.
Noah Beckett is gay? I never would’ve guessed. To me he was always just the kid who rides around on his skateboard in the school parking lot. I think he’s on the soccer team or something. He’s the kind of affable guy who hangs out with a lot of different groups and gets along with just about everyone. Who blends in with the crowd. I’ve never really noticed him before.
Well, I don’t think I’ll have a recognition problem now.
“Feeling better?”
Brendon approaches me with a cautious smile, like he’s afraid I’ll hurl all over his shoes at any given moment. Not a total impossibility. At this rate, I’m pretty sure my hand on the banister is the only thing keeping me upright.
“Uh—” Why is it that I always sound like such an idiot around Brendon? Seriously, I am incapable of forming a complete sentence in his presence, even when I’m stone-cold sober. It’s kind of pathetic. Okay, a lot pathetic. I breathe out and try to focus. “Where’s Kristen?”
“In the kitchen, I think,” he says. His brow furrows. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” I say, “I just—I need to talk to her.”
I find her in the kitchen surrounded by half of the basketball team. The guys are all rummaging through her cabinets looking for snacks. Kristen’s lucky her parents are out of town; this place is going to be a disaster area come tomorrow morning. I’ll probably have to help her clean it up, too. Somehow I’m the one who always ends up cleaning out the vomit-ridden toilet bowls.
“Kristen!” I say, louder than I mean to.
