Sophomoric

by Rebecca Paine Lucas

  “Sleep well, Bizza?” Alec took a sip out of the beer can in his right hand.

  “Mhmm.” My shoulders slid easily under the arm he had held out. “Where’s everybody?”

  “Amie and Nicky are in the hot tub.” Alec answered my question while Scott stared sullenly into space and took long angry gulps of beer. “Dev’s upstairs. Cleo’s asleep in her room.”

  My mind went straight to the part where Dev and Cleo were upstairs. Together. I had no reason to think Cleo would. But she was high. She also didn’t know how much I liked Dev. Not that I did. I just had a prior claim.

  Yeah. I couldn’t even fool myself at this point. And I really didn’t want to think about this anymore. I looked up at Alec. “Where’d you get the beer?”

  Turned out, Alec knew the location not only of the beer, but of the whole bar. Scott did two shots of vodka before I’d even poured my first. He grabbed another can of beer and left the room, saying only that he’d be in the basement.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I watched a shot slide down Alec’s throat, past his Adam’s apple, before taking the vodka bottle from him. Pouring some into the stereotypical red Dixie cup, I screwed the top back on and reached for a can of Diet Coke. It was probably too much, but I really didn’t care. Maybe if I was drunk, and Dev was drunk, things could happen for which I would not be culpable. If he wasn’t already with Cleo. I didn’t, couldn’t, even think about that.

  “He’s stressed.” Alec grabbed another beer, leaving his empty can on the counter. “Come on.”

  Guys and their macho bullshit: don’t show emotion, tackle people instead. It was almost funny, except that this was Nicky he was hurting. Which made it a lot less funny. All the more reason to start drinking.

  Alec’s arm went back around my shoulders as we walked down to the basement. I let the Diet Coke soothe my dry throat and mouth, washing away the taste of stale smoke, only to feel the vodka slide down and burn all over again. We drank and smoked the rest of the pack Cleo had left in the basement, and drank a little more, not talking very much.

  By the time Dev and Cleo came downstairs together, I thought I would be past the point of caring. Too bad I was wrong. Looking at him through the haze of smoke polluting the basement air, I wanted him. I wanted him a lot.

  Cleo took a cigarette out of a new pack next to me on the floor and dropped on the sofa with Alec. Watching Dev sit and put an arm over the sofa behind her shoulders hurt. Reaching up, I took Alec’s beer from his unresisting hand and gulped too much of it down, leaning my head against the inside of his knee. Cleo took a drag on her cigarette, then passed it to Dev. The tip flared as he inhaled, his lips where Cleo’s had been a moment before. I scooted closer to Alec.

  Maybe I should have remembered that his girlfriend was somewhere upstairs. But it wasn’t like we were actually doing anything.

  Dev had passed the cigarette back to Cleo, who passed it on to me. I inhaled, the cigarette smoke thinner and sharper and acrid after the sweet, heavy pot. My lips were where both of theirs had been. But I couldn’t think about it.

  “I’m bored.” Cleo smiled that slow Cheshire smirk. Let’s play a game.”

  She brought the green glass bottle of tequila in her hand to her mouth and threw back her head, hair flying, eyes closed to take the shot. Every guy in the room was watching as she opened her eyes and passed the bottle to Dev. My mom wouldn’t even let me drink orange juice from the carton and hated double dipping in ketchup. Then again, we’d all shared more saliva than my mom and I ever had. I watched Dev’s throat move as he tipped his head back.

  “Truth or Dare?” Alec grinned.

  “No, we played that last week.” Dev played with the ends of Cleo’s hair.

  Cleo shook her head, hair coiling, tangling around his fingers. “I was thinking strip poker.”

  I had no idea how to play poker. Alec thought that was hilarious and offered to be on my team. I just hoped he was good at poker. Otherwise, I’d be naked fast. We formed a loose circle on the floor. Alec’s head rested in my lap, holding up our cards so we could both see them. Dev kept trying to lean over Cleo’s shoulder to see her hand.

  Turned out, we were all really bad at poker except Scott. In no time, clothes were strewn all over the basement, and I was thinking way too hard about tightening my abs to flatten my stomach. At least I still had my shorts. Cleo was lounging, completely relaxed, in black boy shorts and a leopard-print bra. It was hard not to be jealous that none of the guys could take their eyes off her flat stomach and long legs. Although, as a completely straight, heterosexual, interested-in-doing-boys girl, she did look like some fascinating hybrid of Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition, enemy agent Bond girl and Marilyn Monroe’s flyaway skirt. She knew it, too.

  The guys distracted me away from awkward stares and awkward questions. I’d seen Dev in his boxers before, but I hadn’t remembered that Alec had a lean swimmer’s body. Even Scott shirtless wasn’t bad. I was probably staring awkwardly at them instead.

  Vodka culpa?

  Alec and I switched places after we’d lost our shirts, so my head was in his boxer-clad lap and I was holding the cards. He leaned down to look at them, and I giggled as his alcohol-and-smoke-heavy breath hit my face. Reaching up, I stole the cigarette he had between his lips and took a drag, before giving it back.

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  Cleo’s laughter died and the look on Scott’s face got darker, if that was even possible. Alec and I froze, our faces suddenly much too close after the sound of Amie’s voice. “You bitch.”

  Alec stood up so suddenly, my head hit the floor. “Amie, it’s not…”

  “What it looks like?” She laughed. “Original.” I sat up in time to see her walk back upstairs. Alec hurried after her in his plaid Ralph Lauren boxers, stumbling over his feet as he climbed the steps. The lit cigarette fell to floor, the orange tip flaring as ashes fell on the floor. Nicky’s face watched the two of them go upstairs, silent. Then her eyes settled on Scott, finding him unerringly through the dark haze. “I should go after her,” she offered. Her gaze never wavered.

  His voice was quiet. “Stay.” She was already walking when he spoke. My head fell back with a soft bump against the floor as they moved toward each other. Finally. Fixed. Who cared if Scott was drunk. They followed Alec and Amie upstairs. Now there was breakup and makeup sex going on two floors above my head.

  And Dev and Cleo were sitting across from me half-naked in the dim basement. I needed more vodka. Pushing myself to my feet, I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other all the way to the stairs. All I needed to do now was fall on my ass in front of both of them. At the rate this weekend was going, I’d break something.

  “Where you going, Biz?” Cleo leaned back on her elbows, her body all lines that curved only where they were supposed to. It took me a long time to realize that I just never saw her flaws. But I didn’t know it then, and it made me want to pull a blanket over my exposed skin. I pointed at the empty cup in my hand.

  Dev’s low laugh vibrated through my body from all the way across the room. “Bad idea. Come ’ere.” He held out one arm. I stopped at the bottom of the staircase, thinking. Sort of. As much as possible.

  “’M tired.” Cleo stretched, hands over her head. Dev’s eyes moved from me to her and back. I couldn’t blame him. There was really no comparison. “I call the couch.”

  “Futon.” Dev pushed himself to his feet, the muscles in his biceps flexing. It was impossible to get tired of looking at him. I dragged my eyes back up from the oddly masculine lines of his ribs and the definitely masculine lines of his abs, giggling stupidly. His arm reached out to me again as Cleo walked away from him to the couch, too narrow for more than one person. “Come ’ere,” he repeated. “Please, Biz?”

  Combine Dev and alcohol, and my self-control is gone. Especially true since I never really had any in the first place. I stumbled back across the room to the futon I’d slept on earlier and fell on it, gi
ggling. He landed next to me and pulled me on top of him.

  His lips were soft and the aftertaste of whatever he had been drinking was sweet. I almost expected him to keep pushing it further, but his hands settled on my bare waist and stayed there.

  Alec’s return to the basement, stomping heavy feet and holding another beer, broke the mood. As he sprawled on the other futon, chugging another beer, I slid down Dev’s body until my head rested on his chest. My body curled away from the abrasive fabric of the futon, closer to his familiar heat and smooth skin. “Night.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  16.

  When I woke up, Dev was gone and light was streaming through the window next to me. I had a bad case of déjà vu, and a worse headache. I didn’t want to deal with any of it, this, until after I had some Advil and a lot of coffee.

  The good news was that ibuprofen, caffeine and nicotine were readily available. The bad news was that there were too many makeups and breakups and fights going on for me to really keep track of it. In hindsight, we probably shouldn’t have crammed the seven of us up in one house for four days with all the drama that had already been brewing. Amie was pretending (badly) that she wasn’t mad at me. I was pretending (better, I hoped) that I wasn’t irrationally pissed at Cleo. Dev and Alec were together the whole time, hovering just on the edge of wherever we were. Nicky and Scott went AWOL, probably having more fun than the rest of us put together.

  I spent the day in the hot tub, alternating between Diet Coke and coffee and discovering the joys of chain smoking. Thinking was almost as low on my to-do list as talking to Dev. Now that I was sober, I was back to being mad at him. The second was easy enough to avoid, since he seemed to return the favor. The first was a lot harder. I was angry at Dev for being Dev, but more at myself for being stupid and girly and giggly and for being stupid enough to start liking him in the first place.

  That’s probably why, later that night, I got much, much drunker than I planned. The original idea was to get just drunk enough to relax, but not so drunk I did something stupid. But they do say strategy never survives the first encounter with the enemy.

  Somewhere along the line, I decided that vodka had taken the newly vacated position of best, best friend. The giggles were uncontrollable, my inhibitions had linked arms and exited stage left. I knew before anything happened that I was going to do something incredibly, unforgivably stupid. I had just stopped caring.

  In that moment, I was drunk on not caring.

  I woke up before Dev the next morning for a change, both of us tangled in the sheets of one of the upstairs rooms. Thankfully, we had somehow avoided Nicky and Scott the night before. Both of us were sweaty and sticky, body heat condensing under the covers. My hair stuck to my face and neck. We weren’t touching. For a minute, I almost freaked out, imagining the stereotypical drunken night scenario complete with Knocked Up: The Sequel. It only took a minute to remember everything else embarrassing I had done the night before which, while enough to cause serious regret, thankfully excluded actual penis-in-vagina, babymaking sex. Unfortunately, I was still scarlet lettered. Fortunately, I had a chance of remembering the de-lettering. Last night had a very blurry quality to the memories. If I was lucky, no one else would remember them at all.

  This definitely would not help the sex rumors. Might even create new ones. Lucky, lucky me.

  Slowly, to avoid waking Dev and my latent headache, I slid out from the sheets and his arm, thrown haphazardly over my body. Shower time. I smelled like sex. Even if it wasn’t actually, technically, by the textbook, will-give-you-diseases-and-babies sex. I made sure a change of clothes was in the bathroom and the door securely locked before I pulled off the oversized shirt and underwear I’d slept in. Afraid of who might wake up, I barely savored the feeling of the fat drops rolling down my increasingly sore body. A night in a real, comfortable bed that was meant for the number of people in it would do great things for my back.

  Now I sounded geriatric.

  My hair was still wet, soaking into the back of the sweatshirt I threw on over my pajama shorts, before I threw it up in a messy bun. A little bit of eyeliner and a hint of concealer hid the worst of my face and toothpaste healed my morning breath before I slipped out of the bathroom. Dev was still asleep, now somehow taking up the entire bed. It kind of made me want to get back in bed with him and pretend I had never woken up. Maybe he’d even believe that I was one of those rare people who woke up with minty fresh breath and a blemish-free face.

  But I couldn’t and I stifled a sigh. Even without a public walk of shame, the morning after blew. Absolutely no pun intended.

  My steps down the stairs were light, and I slipped into the kitchen to see the microwave blinking 11:32 in red neon. No one had set the coffee maker the night before, so I filled it as well as I could. I didn’t think I could mess up coffee. I hoped not. That would be embarrassing, although why I was still worried about embarrassing, I had no idea. It couldn’t get much worse.

  The Advil was on the counter next to two boxes of cigarettes and an empty beer can. I swallowed three dry. Watching the coffee make itself was a little less exciting than watching paint dry, and I toasted a Pop-Tart mostly just to keep myself occupied. The sprinkles were way too happy pre-caffeine, and the strawberry filling stuck to the roof of my mouth. I ate it anyway. The coffee was still not quite done. This had to be the slowest coffee maker ever.

  I heard the steps on the stairs behind me, but I didn’t turn around. Whoever it was, and I had a feeling I knew, I really, really didn’t want to deal with them pre-caffeine. Mornings were not my favorite. Too bad I didn’t have a choice. Arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me against a bare chest, still warm from sleeping between body-heated cotton. “Hey, you.”

  I wanted to pull out of Dev’s arms, but the energy to do that was somewhere inaccessible. Instead, I bit my lip. It still tasted sweet from the Pop-Tarts.

  “How’s your head?”

  A lot better now that I’d had the Advil. Still aching. My smile was weak. “Fine. You?”

  His grin turned into a wince that spoke volumes. It was what I finally needed to pull free of his hands and pass him the Advil I had nearly made sweet, sweet love to when it had helped my head. Too bad the reason for walking away was only to walk back again. I was hopeless. And the coffee was still not ready.

  There was suddenly a really awkward silence hanging over the kitchen. Dev seemed totally unaffected, opening the fridge to look for the orange juice. Guess he was going for the original hangover cure. “You want?” He raised the OJ and the vodka he had found in the freezer. I shook my head. So far, getting drunk with Dev never ended well. “Your loss.” Throwing back his head, he drank half of what he’d mixed in one gulp. I saw him coming closer, and I knew I should walk away. Too bad for me, I had already proven a thousand times over that I couldn’t walk away from him. His lips were soft and warm and tasted sweet. They made me want to cry.

  I turned my head away, his lips falling off mine and planting a friendly kiss on my cheek. As if Dev was ever friendly. His muscles tensed next to mine, and I could feel the confusion in the lines of his body.

  “Biz? Everything okay?” It was almost impressive that after all this, he still sounded concerned and confused. He was so damn clueless. There was a small, purpling hickey on the exponential curve of his trapezius muscle, running from neck to shoulder.

  “Yeah.” I contemplated the floor, watching the grain of the wood underneath our toes. It wasn’t even. The smooth brown of the wood clashed with the chipping purple of my toenails.

  “Bizza?”

  I tried to ignore the finger on my chin, the hand on my shoulder, all his unspoken request for eye contact. Usually I gave him whatever he asked for. “I’m fine.” It came out a lot less fine than I meant it to.

  “Headache?”

  Stupid asshole. “No.” There was starting to be a forbidding, unwelcome lump in my throat. My eyes flickered to the patterns in the marble counter, un
predictable and asymmetrical, random black whorls and splotches on the pure white mineral. I traced one of them with the tip of my finger, trying to force my throat back to normal.

  “Bizza, this isn’t about those stupid rumors, is it?”

  So close, and yet so far. Damn him. Why didn’t he get it?

  “Because you know they’re just stupid,” he continued. I guess he interpreted my silence as “affirmative” rather than “asshole.” “I mean, they’re wrong, it doesn’t matter. And who cares anyway?”

  “I do.” My voice was balanced between shaky and screaming. I wanted to yell and scream and hit him. I wanted to break down crying. And then I wanted him to kiss it and make it all better. Sometimes, I hated myself. “I care,” I repeated. “I don’t want them to think I’m a slut.”

  He was dismissive in the way only testosterone-fueled boys who don’t think with the right head can be. Men. “Who cares what they think?”

  “I do!” What was so complicated about this? “When nobody knew, when everyone assumed we were dating, it was fine. But everyone’s saying we’re having sex. My teachers probably think we’re having sex.”

  The grin on his face was much too proud. “I know my Spanish teacher does.”

  “Oh, is she the one who caught you running ten minutes late?” There was an edge to my voice that I had tried to hard to never allow back in. That edge got Sunday morning phone calls, if it even got any. “Or the one who almost walked in on us during lunch? Or the one who caught us after quiet study?” He didn’t say anything. Too bad I had enough to fill up any silence that remained.

  There was another blot of purple rising over the line of his hip.

  “We’ve been doing whatever this is for what, two months?” It felt like forever. “So you tell me, Dev. What are we? Because I’m not waiting around anymore for you to figure out what you want. Don’t expect me to sit and wait while you make up your mind about what we are. And if the answer is just friends with benefits, don’t bother coming to tell me. There’s a freaking line in the sand and you have to freaking choose, because I’m sick of this back and forth crap.” I sounded like a deranged, jealous ex. Too bad I still couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “You’d think you could avoid screwing around with my best friend. At least I stay away from my ex’s friends.”