Not Another Love Song Page 8

  Jasper sucks air through his teeth. “That’s harsh, RaeRae.”

  She grins, then shoots down the contents of her glass. Everyone drinks, except for Jasper and me.

  “Angie, you’ve read tons of books. Bottoms up, hon,” Rae says, already pouring a second round.

  Right … I drink if I’ve done it.

  I shoot it down, and it leaves a trail of fire on my tongue and throat. I cough and my eyes water. I wipe them on the sleeve of my green hoodie.

  “You’ve seriously never read an entire book, man?” Brad asks Jasper.

  “Nope.”

  “My turn,” Laney says. “Never have I ever kissed a girl.”

  The boys and Melody drink. We all stare at Melody, who raises a brazen smile. “What?”

  “Any chance we can get a repeat performance?” he asks her.

  She leans over and pecks Laney’s lips. Jasper whistles.

  “You have to drink now,” Brad tells Laney.

  She laughs. “Fine.” She shoots her vodka down, after which he kisses her with wet, slurpy noises.

  “Never have I ever had a crush on someone younger,” Melody says.

  The boys and Laney drink. As Brad asks who, Rae says, “Never have I ever gotten a C.”

  Everyone but Rae drinks. The vodka goes down like hot lava.

  “Your turn, Angie,” she says, filling up all the empty glasses.

  I bite my lower lip. “Never have I ever gone a day without listening to music.”

  Only Harrison drinks. After he slams his glass down, he says, “Never have I ever gone skinny-dipping.”

  All the cups are drained except his. I can’t help but begin to relax as heat threads through my veins and into my arms, legs, and head.

  “There’s a pool right there, dude.” Brad points to the shimmery turquoise water beyond the glass.

  Harrison glances at Rae, who grins and says, “Be my guest.”

  “Not alone,” he replies sultrily into her ear but loud enough for me to pick up.

  Never have I ever felt like more of a fifth wheel, I think but don’t say out loud, because one, it’s not my turn, and two, I always feel like a fifth wheel.

  I wish Ten were here. Ugh. Why am I so hung up on him?

  “Never have I ever had sex,” Mel says.

  Everyone drinks except her and me.

  Jasper raises an eyebrow at Mel. “Never?”

  She blushes but laughs it off.

  Has Ten ever had sex? The thought dampens the lilt in my mood. Why must my brain conjure him up? Why can’t I just stop thinking about him altogether?

  “Never have I ever driven a car,” I say, even though it’s not my turn.

  Everyone drinks except me.

  “Never have I ever lied to Principal Larue,” Rae says.

  We all drink except her and Laney.

  “Never have I ever played volleyball,” Laney says.

  We all drink but her.

  “Never have I ever enjoyed volleyball,” Harrison ventures.

  I drink. I don’t like volleyball. It hurts my wrists. Wait, was I supposed to drink? The rules are blurry.

  “Never have I ever painted my nails,” Jasper says.

  The girls drink.

  I’ve had six, seven, maybe ten shots.

  Ten.

  Ugh.

  I tap on my phone and bring up my last conversation with him and type, Are you a virgin? and click SEND. Then I stare at the words, the horror of what I’ve just done registering. I want to erase my message but since I can’t, I add, Rae asked, and send it. I silently apologize to my friend but doubt she’ll care considering how little physical space remains between Harrison and her. They’re definitely well on their way to hooking up. Come to think of it, she didn’t mention Ten once this week. Not that we’ve spent an extensive amount of time together what with her spearheading the homecoming committee.

  I drink the next shot without listening to the question. Three little dots light up on my screen.

  Ten is writing back.

  I’m not sure whether to feel glad or nervous, so I feel both. I gnaw on my fingernail, chipping the green polish Laney brushed on before the game.

  BEAST: Why does she want to know?

  His text makes throbbing erupt in the pit of my stomach.

  ME: Playing a drinking game at Rae’s. It was 1 of the questions.

  BEAST: And the question was about me?

  Kill me now …

  “Conrad, your turn!” Jasper’s voice makes me drop my phone. I whisk it up before anyone can read my texts. Then I put it screen-side down in my lap. It vibrates as I say, “Never have I ever texted drunk.”

  Everyone drinks, and it comforts me.

  I flip my phone back over and read Ten’s message. Did you bike to her house?

  ME: Maybe.

  I’m expecting him to tell me not to cycle drunk, but he doesn’t message me again. I reread our chat. Why, oh why, did I ask Tennessee if he was a virgin? What’s wrong with me? I toss my phone into my bag before I stupid-text anyone else.

  After another five rounds, I stand up to go to the bathroom. My head spins. I place a hand on the couch behind me, then stagger to the toilet. After peeing, I wash my hands and splash freezing water on my face. My mirror reflection comes in and out of focus.

  I’m very drunk. Very, very drunk. Crap. Mom is going to flip.

  I totter back out, scoop my bag off the floor, and hook it on my shoulder. “I should get home. Curfew,” I mumble. Way better than admitting I can’t see straight.

  “Aw.” Rae pouts. “Call me tomorrow, hon.”

  I give her a thumbs-up—I should probably have done something cooler, like wave. Is waving cool? I stumble through Rae’s twinkling backyard until I reach the light pole around which I secured my bike. I dig through my bag for the keys. I come up with a tube of lip gloss, a pair of sunglasses, and some quarters.

  Frustrated, I squat and dump my entire bag on the sidewalk. My plastic doughnut key chain lands on top of an almost empty pack of chewing gum. As I shovel everything back inside, I grab a piece of gum and stick it in my mouth. I drop my bag into the basket, put my helmet on—backward at first, but then I get it right. After several attempts, I manage to insert my key in the lock. I think it’s a good thing I don’t drive, because I’m in no state to operate a big vehicle. I’m not sure I’m in any state to operate a small one for that matter. But I do need to get home, and walking will take way too long.

  Plopping my U-lock on top of my bag, I think of my friends who are still at it. I hope none of them drive tonight.

  I steer my bike onto the deserted street and hop on. A car honks, and my feet skid off the pedals, and then my bike tips.

  At the same time that my heart plunges all the way down to my stomach, I swan dive into the asphalt. My gum gets jammed in my throat, and I cough until it stops obstructing my airway.

  I tremble so hard I can’t tell if anything hurts after I stand. Blood trickles down my calf, but I quickly forget about it as a dusky figure, backlit by the beams of the car that honked at me, looms larger. The person looks like an angel.

  I squint into the brightness. The headlights are like twin suns in a pitch-black universe. I turn away before they permanently damage my retinas. Thighs shaking like tambourines, I crouch to pick up the capsized contents of my bag.

  “Are you insane?”

  I recognize that voice. I tip my head up, and my helmet slides back, giving me a clear view of Ten’s scowling face.

  “Seriously, Angie!”

  My pulse flattens with embarrassment.

  “Were you seriously going to bike all the way back to your house?”

  “What are you doing here?” My voice is as wobbly as my legs feel.

  “You can’t bike drunk!”

  As I toss my stuff back into my bag, I moisten my lips. “I’m not drunk.”

  “You’re right. You’re wasted.”

  My throat feels as dry as a rice cake. “I’m fin
e.”

  “You’re anything but fine. Your leg is bleeding.”

  “It’s just a scratch.”

  “Scratches don’t bleed that much.” Ten’s voice echoes around me and inside of me.

  “How did you even know where I was?” I mumble.

  He’s silent for a moment. “Rae texted me earlier. Invited me to stop by.”

  Rae? Why? She has Harrison … If Ten had showed up, would she have made a move on him instead?

  On the brink of tears, I right my bike and start rolling it away when Ten grips the handlebar.

  “Angie—”

  “I need to get home.”

  “I’ll get you home.”

  “I can’t leave my bike here.”

  “We’ll put it in the car.”

  “I’ll walk home,” I whisper, my voice breaking.

  He mutters something under his breath, then: “Just let me give you a ride home. That’s the least you can do after … after you sprang that question on me.”

  Yep. I wasn’t embarrassed enough. “I don’t know why I sent that.”

  “Because you’re drunk.” He wrestles the bike out of my clammy hands, then rolls it to the back of his SUV while I climb into the passenger seat.

  I’m too ashamed to look at him, but not too ashamed to accept a ride. He lowers the back seats, then hoists my bike up. He attempts to close the trunk, but it doesn’t close. He pushes against my bike’s back wheel, but the door still doesn’t close.

  “I guess we’re driving with the trunk open,” he says.

  I unhook my helmet and place it on my lap. Cold air gushes in through the wide-open trunk. I shiver. Ten turns the heater up full blast, then begins driving. I grab ahold of the handlebar to keep my bike from falling out. The car beeps to indicate a door is open.

  “What drinking game were you playing?” he asks.

  Keeping my eyes on everything but his face, I say, “‘Never Have I Ever.’”

  “That’s a lethal one.”

  I nod.

  “In what state are the others?”

  “Drunk.”

  “Maybe I should offer to drive them home after I drop you off.”

  “I doubt they’re ready to leave.” They’re probably all making out by now.

  Ten takes a right.

  “That’s not where I live.”

  He doesn’t answer, just drives until we come to a twenty-four-hour gas station. He orders me to stay put. Which I do. It’s not as though I want to get out. I let go of the handlebar and concentrate on a sticker glued to the inside of my helmet. I manage the extraordinary feat of peeling it off just as my door opens.

  “Show me your leg, Angie.”

  I gape at Ten.

  He agitates a bottle of disinfectant in front of my face. “Your knee.” He nods toward my leg.

  Slowly, I slide my injured leg out of the car. He pours rubbing alcohol over my wound, and I grind my teeth. He keeps pouring until the cold antiseptic trickles clear down my leg.

  He gives me the bottle, then rips open a pack of Band-Aids and sticks one against my skin, the pressure and heat of his fingertips making me forget all about the vicious sting.

  “Were they out of princess Band-Aids?”

  He snorts but flashes me a lopsided grin. Plucking the bottle of rubbing alcohol from my fingers, he wets a handful of cotton balls and lifts it to my face.

  Horrified, I feel for blood on my cheeks and forehead. “Did I cut up my face?”

  “Just your chin.”

  I touch it, then hold my fingers in front of my eyes. I have too many fingers, and most of them are coated in blood.

  Ten presses my hands down and dabs the cotton against the underside of my chin.

  I gasp from the burn. He blows against it, and the sting is replaced with another burn, a slower burn not located anywhere near my injury.

  Ten peels the back off a smaller Band-Aid. As he pastes it against my chin, I stare at his long lashes. I’m afraid to speak with his face this close to mine.

  Afraid he’ll smell my rancid breath.

  Afraid I’ll say something stupid.

  I wait until he packs everything back into the bag and gets in the driver’s seat before whispering, “Thank you for … taking care of me.” I grip my bike’s handlebar again.

  He shrugs, as though he’s done nothing to deserve my gratitude, then takes out a granola bar and a bottle of Tylenol, and shakes out two pills into my palm. I swallow them without water. He gives me the granola bar, but I lay it inside my helmet, since I’m pretty sure anything I put in my stomach will find its way out.

  As he backs out of the parking spot, he says, “You should eat that.”

  “I really can’t.”

  He turns the radio on. It’s one of those late-night club beats that all sound the same. The pounding from the speakers travels down to my navel. A wave of queasiness slams into me. I rip my hand off my bike’s handlebar, and even though the car is moving, I fling the passenger door wide just in time to retch outside.

  Ten hits the brakes so hard I flail. Another surge of vomit sprays out of my mouth. My pulse intensifies like the music, drumming so wildly spots swim before my eyes. I close them.

  Ten’s hand wraps around my loose hair. Tears of humiliation drip out of my clenched lids. A third acid wave swells up my throat and shoots out of my mouth. I clamp my lips shut, hoping that will be enough to calm the spasms, but it doesn’t. My stomach contracts, then eases. Nothing comes out this time. It contracts again. And again it eases.

  I’m empty.

  Empty of vodka but full of shame.

  Sweat beads on my throbbing forehead.

  Ten releases my hair. I can’t bear turning back toward him, so I close the door and stare at the power window switch. It comes in and out of focus. I swipe my hand discreetly over my eyes, and even though I’m cold, I power the window down.

  “I’m never drinking again,” I whisper.

  “That’s what we all say.”

  “It’s happened to you?”

  “Too many times.”

  I concentrate on breathing. “I’m sorry I asked if you were a virgin.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  I yawn as the car glides down one road and then another. He drives slowly. The wind gently buffets my face as the silence grows denser, all-enveloping, like the darkness outside the vehicle.

  “I’m not.”

  I blink at him.

  He shrugs. “A virgin.”

  Even though I presumably lost a large quantity of blood after falling off my bike, apparently I didn’t lose enough. It rushes up to my cheeks until they blaze, and since the lights are on in the car because the trunk is still open, it’s not as though I can hide my blush.

  I turn back toward the window. When my street sign appears, I blow out a soft breath. “I’m not either.”

  I’m not sure why I lie … Maybe so he doesn’t think I’m lame. But that’s a stupid way of thinking. Virginity isn’t lame.

  I’m lame for thinking it’s lame.

  I should probably stop thinking altogether.

  Ten arrows the car up the driveway. The redbrick house with its white columns looms over us like a menacing, judgmental giant.

  “I’ll get your bike out,” he says.

  “Thanks.” I look up toward Mom’s bedroom window expecting to meet her disappointed glare, but no one stares back. Praying she’s asleep, I get out of the car. When my feet hit the white gravel, I wince and almost collapse, but catch myself on the car.

  Ten jogs back toward me.

  My head spins, but it’s my leg that’s killing me. It feels as though someone’s hacking at it with a knife.

  “Maybe we should go to the ER. Have you checked out for a concussion,” Ten says.

  “No, it’s my knee.” It feels like liquid is swishing in my stomach, but that’s probably my imagination. I doubt anything’s left inside.

  “You’re sure?”

  I nod slowly, careful
not to aggravate the throbbing.

  “Here. Take my arm.”

  Even though that’s pretty much the last thing I want to do right now, I grip his arm for support. “My bag!” I exclaim.

  “I’ve got it.”

  I take it from him and hike it up my shoulder, then limp down the path, careful not to put too much weight on my bad leg. “How the heck am I going to dance tomorrow?”

  “I think my grandpa has a spare walker.”

  “Funny,” I say, even though I’m wondering if Ten really has a grandpa. I know so little about him. Besides the fact that he’s no longer a virgin. I wish I’d asked him to tell me what his real last name was instead.

  “Or you could skip it, and we could hang out.”

  I freeze. “You’d want to hang out with me after tonight?”

  He shrugs as we climb the porch steps. Once we reach the front door, he releases me.

  “I shouldn’t complain.” I dig through my bag for my keys. “Mona Stone once performed crazy acrobatics eight months pregnant during one of her shows. A battered knee shouldn’t stop me.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a long second. Then: “She was probably hoping to lose the baby.”

  My fingers freeze on the plastic doughnut key chain. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

  His face shutters as quickly as falling dominoes. Without another word, he walks down the steps and strides back to the car. I shake my head as he drives away, then let myself in quietly and tiptoe up to my room. I should take a shower, drink a gallon of water, and brush my teeth, but those three tasks require energy. Energy I don’t have. As though I’ve been clocked, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  19

  A License to Drive People Insane

  I wake up feeling like Mona Stone’s band is performing a live concert inside my body. Her drummer is pounding my skull with his sticks, while her guitar player is strumming my intestines with his plastic pick, and her backup dancers are stomping against each one of my bones. To make everything worse, the sun pours through my window like the megawatt spotlights at the Grand Ole Opry.

  The evening returns in vivid detail. I cringe and then cringe some more.

  Who asks a boy they barely know if he’s a virgin?

  I swipe my phone off my nightstand and click on our chat. After rereading our volley of texts, I delete the whole conversation. It won’t erase it from his phone, but at least it’ll no longer be on mine. Out of sight, out of mind.