“You won’t need it,” she said, turning to face him when they were at the bottom of the stairs. Leo’s heart thumped, and he urged himself to calm down.
He took a piece of her hair and pushed it behind her shoulders, his fingers running under the halter dress strap, dancing along her collarbone. Teena backed away ever so slightly.
“You know what? I think I might go slip into something … ”
“More comfortable? You’re such a cliché,” Leo said, even though he was excited by the prospect that Teena might have an outfit even sexier than what she was wearing.
Teena just grinned and backed up the stairs, holding eye contact with Leo the entire time. She slid her keycard into the door and stepped up out of the basement, her beautiful, flawless face peering around the edge of the door. Her pale hair sparkled in the low-lit room. “Leo?”
“Miss me already?” He looked up with a grin, but her eyes had gone from playful to icy cold.
“I’m blaming last summer on an extended case of sun poisoning,” she said with the cool detachment of a hired assassin. “I would not go near you again if you were the last guy on Earth. How’s that for cliché?”
Teena smirked one last time. And then she shut the heavy metal door in his face.
4
GETTING A LIFE
Sarabeth Lewis, 9:49 P.M. Saturday, Diamond Isle Estates
Sarabeth pulled up to the curb two blocks from Teena’s house in her mom’s pink-and-ivory Gussy Me Up van. Cameron had to pick up his semi-skanky girlfriend from St. Christopher’s in Lawn Grove, two towns over, so he’d taken their mom’s new Escape hybrid SUV, while Sarabeth was stuck with the van. The vehicle was so obnoxious she might as well have been driving a giant cold sore.
A few girls Sarabeth recognized as dance squad members strutted down the sidewalk toward Teena’s house, their shoulders bared in shimmery tanks and halters. As they passed, they shot looks at the van. Feeling ridiculous, Sarabeth ducked her head, pretending to look for something on the passenger seat.
After enough time had passed, she made her way up Teena’s walk, holding the chilly bottle of Chardonnay and feeling stupid. She rang the bell, even though the front door was still partially open. Karen Walsh, who presided over all of Ermer’s anti-drinking programs, opened it the rest of the way, looking tipsy. Sarabeth handed her the invitation and the wine. Karen made a weird face at the wine and the invite, then slur-yelled, “Teeeeennna, I don’t know this girl.”
Sarabeth leaned against the railing alongside the stairs, feeling suddenly small. It was hard enough psyching herself up to go to an Interior party. At the very least, she wanted to get in.
Teena materialized in the living room, sauntering up to the door. “Karen, you didn’t have to yell. Sarabeth!” Teena cooed shrilly. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
She stepped backward into her house and gestured for Sarabeth to come inside. The house was much bigger than the one Teena had lived in when they were friends, and Sarabeth tentatively entered the foyer. It was a wide, high-ceilinged space situated between a massive living room, where most of the furniture had been cleared out and guests danced or gathered around a low china-cabinet-turned-makeshift-bar, and an equally large dining room, where three kegs were lined up next to an oak staircase. Sarabeth recognized some of Cameron’s football teammates playing beer pong on the polished mahogany table.
She unbuttoned her pea coat and slid out of it, leaving just a thin sweater between herself and a room full of people. She suddenly felt naked, even though her sweater was practically a burka compared with the low-cut tops every other girl wore. From an evolutionary standpoint, none of the guys here would notice a girl in a long-sleeved, modestly cut sweater. I have nothing to show off, she thought, pushing up her sleeves. Wrists would have to do.
“I thought you’d show up with your brother, though,” Teena said to Sarabeth with a blindingly white smile. “Where is Cameron?”
Sarabeth rolled her eyes nonchalantly, like she and Teena constantly had conversations about Cameron. “He’s picking up his girlfriend, Nina. She goes to St. Christopher’s in Lawn Grove. God only knows why they got back together.”
Teena’s face fell, and in that instant Sarabeth knew she’d been right: Teena had only invited her to get to Cameron. Cameron and Nina had broken things off just after Valentine’s Day; maybe Cameron hadn’t put the word out that they’d reunited on Nina’s birthday last week.
“Yeah, I don’t get why your brother is with her, either,” Teena said in a clipped tone very different from the one she’d used to greet Sarabeth. She clapped her hands together. “Well, why don’t I give you a quick walk-through and show you where to put that?” She pointed at the pea coat draped over Sarabeth’s arms like it was a dead animal.
Teena turned on her high heels and wove expertly around Faith Miller and three of her friends, who were grinding messily with each other. They passed a couple making out and two jocks engaging in a chugging contest. This isn’t a party, it’s an obstacle course, Sarabeth thought, feeling disheartened. Who was she going to talk to?
Teena turned down a long dim hallway that led past a laundry room and toward a big metal door. “I’m having everyone put their coats in the basement,” she explained. She walked ahead of Sarabeth, accessing the door with a thumbprint pad and a keycard like something out of a spy movie.
Sarabeth debated saying she didn’t feel well and just leaving. She could even go get a coffee somewhere so her mom wouldn’t question her early return. But then she reminded herself that the hardest part had to be walking through the door in the first place. She would give it an hour.
Teena was waiting with an impatient look etched on her pretty face. “Head down the stairs, and on your left, you’ll see a rack of coats where you can hang yours, ’kay?”
Sarabeth forced a smile, wondering how she and Teena had ever been friends. She stepped onto the dimly lit staircase, and cool, dry air hit her skin. At the bottom of the staircase, Sarabeth looked left for the rack Teena had mentioned, but there was nothing in sight. No coats to the right, either. Teena’s light giggle descended from the top of the stairs, and a chill crept up Sarabeth’s spine. She looked back toward the big metal door just as it closed, in a solid, heavy, airtight kind of way.
Sarabeth ran to the top of the staircase, pushing against the door. It had no knob. No discernible handle on the inside. There was a keycard slit and another thumbprint pad, and that was it. Her stomach instantly tied itself in dozens of painful little knots. How long would she be down here? Why had she trusted Teena to send her down a dark, cold staircase? Why on earth, when she’d wondered about the worst thing that could happen, hadn’t she thought of this? And why did she have the sinking feeling the worst was still to come?
5
IT’S MY PARTY AND I’LL CRY IF I WANT TO
Teena McAuley, 10:08 P.M. Saturday, Diamond Isle Estates
“Teena, did you invite Evan Brighton?” Karen Walsh’s shrill voice came through the intercom in Teena’s room. “He has an invitation, but I don’t know why.”
If you wanted something done right, you didn’t ask a drunk girl to do it. She’d told Karen she was taking a little break—after learning Cameron was going to bring that non-Virgin Mary, Nina, she needed a breather—but to let her know when Evan Brighton got there. Teena should have given the assignment to someone who hadn’t been mainlining Jell-O shots all night.
“I’ll be right down,” Teena sighed, letting go of the speaker button on her nightstand. “Subtle, Karen,” she mumbled to herself as she sprang up from her oak four-poster bed.
Teena had about given up on the loser, figuring he’d chickened out.
She wove past a group of her girlfriends, all wasted and comparing hair textures. “My hair is so fine,” whined Nathalie Oliverio, clutching her straight caramel strands. “I can’t do anything with it. Look at Teena’s hair. It’s so thick.”
Teena smiled tightly. Locking up Nathalie for the night
would be great. Actually, she was kind of sick of all the guests who she wasn’t locking in the wine cellar, aka the Loser Dungeon. She used to like hosting the most exclusive party at Ermer High—her freshman year, even seniors had begged her for invitations—but now that she was a senior, throwing the year’s biggest bash had lost its luster.
In the living room, defensive lineman Dave Brandt was performing yet another keg stand, with three other football players holding up his massive, jiggly frame. As he chugged upside down, his Ermer Elephants shirt slid down, exposing his pasty belly. Nasty.
“Thanks, Karen, I’ll take it from here.” Teena patted Karen’s bony shoulder, exposed in an all-wrong off-the-shoulder sweater. Teena greeted Evan with a thousand-watt smile.
She was surprised to see him looking so … good. She knew he had the basics: a lithe, athletic frame; a decent face; and thick, sandy-blond hair. And here, on her doorstep, he’d encased his basics in a cashmere sweater that cut close to his lean abdomen and a pair of dark jeans that hinted at muscular legs and showed off a very cute butt, Teena’s boy weakness. Evan Brighton was supposed to show up at her party in an ugly polo shirt still creased by store folds and a pair of Dockers that Mommy had ironed for Sunday’s sermon.
“Hi, uh, Teena,” he said, picking up a Jewel bag at his feet and handing it to her. “I, uh, brought some chips and dip.”
Okay, here was the loser she knew and didn’t love. Who brought chips and dip to her party? Would he pull out Scattergories next? Teena forced herself not to laugh, instead taking Evan by the arm.
“You’re so thoughtful! Thank you,” she said sweetly, steering Evan into the living room. “I think there’s a bowl downstairs that needs refilling. Do you want to come with me?”
Evan’s ruddy cheeks turned redder. “Um, sure,” he said, smiling widely.
This was just too easy. She probably could have just asked Evan outright, “Hey, I’m going to lock you underground for several hours, maybe all night, okay?”
“Come on.” She brushed past Karen, Nathalie, and several other girls. They watched her, bewildered either by Evan’s new look or by the fact that Teena was talking to him. She had her reasons, though. Evan had to pay for getting her busted in calculus. And while Teena could take an occasional detention for using her cell phone in class or showing up late for first-period French without a note, she’d never in her life been suspended before. She’d had to give up her red Honda Pilot for a full week, and her dad had started imposing limits on her Visa card.
As for Leo, she should have left him down in the cellar to rot the same day they’d hooked up there. She hated that he’d been the one to stop calling her. And even in the middle of their fling, or whatever it had been, he’d treated her like a piece of meat. Like he was so deep and thoughtful and intellectual, and she was the moron who looked good naked. She grinned to herself, thinking of Leo’s face as she shut the door on him. Who was the moron now?
She’d really only intended to exact revenge on Leo and Evan. Sarabeth had been a crime of passion. It was true—she’d never have invited her to the party if she could help it. But Cameron could make her act not like herself at all. He’d hinted that it would be nice of her to throw an invite his sister’s way. So finally, on Friday, at school, she’d casually said, “I have a few extra invites for my party tonight. Do you think your sister would still want to go?” Cameron had raised an eyebrow and looked at her skeptically, but she’d been sincere. Sure, she didn’t want losers at her party, but a girl had to do what a girl had to do to get the guy she wanted to do.
Teena turned to look back at Evan, who was walking goggle-eyed through the kitchen, where things had gotten even rowdier as more liquor was consumed. Dahlia Dovetail was sitting on the counter with her legs wrapped around Brad Michner, her ever-present elf boots pressed into his back. Brad’s hands were shoved up her shirt, clumsily fumbling with her breasts.
“Only a little farther,” she purred, watching the blush return to Evan’s face. He really would be cute if it weren’t for his wide-eyed Jesus-freak stare. What girl wanted to date a guy whose stepfather could banish them to hell?
She slowed her steps and took his arm. “You’re not nervous, are you?” She lowered her eyelids, looking up at him through her lashes.
“No,” he said, sounding as nervous as if Teena had started to unbutton his pants. She thumbed the fingerprint pad, slid in the keycard, and opened the door. And there was Leo in the middle of the stairs. Sarabeth stood on the steps behind him, her hands on her hips in a display of attitude Teena would never have imagined possible.
“Is it okay if we open this?” Leo asked, holding up the bottle of Opus One wine that Teena’s dad had bought himself the day he golfed a three-over-par at Goose’s Landing Country Club. The certificate of its authenticity was framed, while Teena’s own birth certificate was stuffed in a box somewhere. Leo knew all of this, because in a weakened state, Teena had entrusted him with a rant about her father and how he cared more about his booze and guns than his own family.
“No!” she shouted, running down the stairs and pulling Evan with her. Her heart beat wildly. Trashing her parents’ house was hardly a big deal—that’s what housekeepers were for—but the demise of Mr. McAuley’s Opus One would be the death of her.
She reached Leo and grabbed for the bottle of wine, her left shoe nearly coming off in the process. Leo waved the bottle tauntingly, holding it hostage over his head.
“It’s yours, if you let us out,” Sarabeth said quietly, a flush in her cheeks. Teena paused. Who did Sarabeth think she was?
“Okay, fine,” Teena said through gritted teeth, hating that she had to give in to these losers. “But you can’t stay for the party.”
“Oh, what a letdown,” Leo said sarcastically.
Teena dug into her pocket for her keycard and realized with a jolt that it wasn’t there. In her rush to grab the bottle from Leo, she’d left it in its slot. On the other side of the entryway.
Her eyes darted up. The door was still open a crack, thank God. She lunged toward it, stumbling forward. Her body connected with the cool metal just as it closed completely, the whooshing, suctioning noise practically slapping her in the face.
Sprawled on the steps, Teena looked up at the top of the stairs helplessly. Now she was trapped, too.
6
CORKSCREWED
Evan Brighton, 10:13 P.M. Saturday, Teena McAuley’s Basement
For a second, for a split, pure-perfection second, Evan had believed that Teena was taking him to a secluded area to make out. In that second, he’d managed to thank God for the fact that he’d blown money on a sweater that Teena had already touched twice and that he’d had money left over to stop and buy the chips and dip. He’d also managed to put God far, far out of his thoughts as his brain took in every inch of Teena in her tiny red dress.
But that split second was way over. Evan might have been naive, but he wasn’t stupid. As soon as he saw the unlikely duo of Leo Starnick and Sarabeth Lewis standing on the stairs waiting for Teena to open the big metal door, he knew she was planning to lock him down here. Effing calculus, he’d thought, not yet able to think profanity, even if he’d already been thinking profanely.
That second, that door-opening second, was over for everyone. Because now it wasn’t just Teena’s hand-selected crop of punishees locked down here. Teena herself was trapped, too. She was frantic, her eyes darting back and forth around the low-lit space, pacing on her heels, each click sounding like gunfire. She was either looking for a key or having a fit. She scanned the highest parts of the room, as if seeking answers from above, or hoping someone at the party overhead would sense that their hostess was trapped underground.
Sarabeth Lewis was the opposite. Still and calm, she simply sat on the bottom step, as if resigned to this new fact of her life. She pulled out her cell phone and stared at the screen. “No signal,” she said plainly, even though no one seemed to hear her.
Leo Starnick just wore an a
mused grin, enjoying the strangeness of the moment. Still standing on the staircase, he looked down at the rest of them as if deciding what to do with them.
Evan wondered what his own face looked like at that moment. If Teena’s parents were away for the long weekend, and Teena’s key was on the other side of the door, then they were trapped down here until Monday. Monday, so he’d miss Sunday services. He’d be caught in his lie for sure. On the bright side, he was trapped with Teena. For tonight, Sunday, and part of Monday, at least. That was true get-to-know-you time. But … shit. He was trapped. With. Teena. What if he fell asleep and had a dream about her and talked in his sleep? What if he farted? Or woke up with morning breath? Or had a wet dream? In front of Teena? In his brand-new overpriced jeans?
“Is there another way out of here?” Sarabeth directed a hostile look at Teena before averting her eyes.
Teena dragged a stool over to a cabinet filled with canned goods. She stepped on it, wobbling slightly in her heels, and began feeling around on the top shelf.
“Let me do it,” Evan said, standing up and glad for the chance to do something. “What are you looking for?”
Teena rolled her eyes as she stepped down, clattering past him. She violently pulled a bottle of wine from one of the lower racks and sat down on the stairs next to Sarabeth. “Nothing. I’m already done. I thought my dad might have an emergency keycard there.”
Leo, who was still holding the bottle of expensive wine, shrugged. “You’re all too worried,” he said. He hopped down the last few stairs and ducked into the room to the right of the staircase, opposite the wine cellar. Evan followed him in. Inside were a set of brown couches, a flat-screen TV with a built-in DVD player, a coffee table, and a tall bookshelf containing an assortment of board games, several rows of DVDs and CDs, and a meager selection of books that Godly Jim would be happy to see contained a copy of the Holy Bible. A massive generator stood in the far corner, apparently to power all this equipment if ever the need should arise.
The End of the World As We Know It Page 3
