by K. M. Walton
Melissa, Emma, and Cara are in another corner, jumping around to the blaring music. They repeatedly smash into one another. Melissa keeps falling down, and Emma keeps picking her back up again.
Cara’s been jumping ever since we walked in. I don’t want to be mad at her. I want her to have fun. Getting invited to one of these parties has sort of been her dream since the end of sophomore year. She’s definitely having fun—I can tell by the size of her smile. She’s blissfully lost in the jumping. I’m lost here in the sofa cushions.
I know I could make the effort and join them, but if I jumped, there’d be a strong chance I’d bust through the hardwood floor and land in the basement in a heap of splintered wood and concrete. The stoners would have the laugh of the century. The party would be ruined.
Cara fits in perfectly with those girls. They all like jumping around. They all fling their hair the same way. They all dress in cute clothes. They’re all skinny and pretty.
Cara skips over and stands in front of me, breathless. “C-ome on, Dell. It’s so fun!”
“Nah, I’m good.” I give her an enthusiastic thumbs-up. I’m kind of shocked she even broke contact with them to invite me over. A twinge of relief, or maybe it’s happiness, comes to life in my heart. Cara didn’t forget me. My mouth slides into a half grin.
“Okay.” She wipes the sweat from her forehead and says, “You’re smiling, so you must be all right over here.” Cara rejoins the jumpers. I finish my beer and silently wish she’d begged me to join them. Her “okay” came way too easy. If it were reversed, I would’ve put a little more oomph into my plea. But that’s just me.
I’m on my fourth beer when I start thinking about my effed-up parents. The conversation with my father and my mother’s admission that she doesn’t “know anything anymore” play on a loop. I’m a regular ball of party-animal fun.
I’m about to get up and grab another beer when Brandon emerges from the basement in a cloud of smoke. He gives me a very slow nod and saunters over. Plopping down next to me, his head continues bobbing, like a toy. “It’s a weed fest down there.”
I scan the room. “Where’s Taryn?” His girlfriend is typically glued to his side.
“Not here. Had some shit to do with her family. Don’t care.”
“Huh,” I say. I want to tell him that he looks hot and that I like the way his black hair curls out from under his baseball hat and how his faded T-shirt with the old-fashioned Phillies logo hugs his chest and arms perfectly. But I don’t. I haven’t had that many beers.
“Wannaseesomething?” Brandon slurs. His blue eyes are glassy and tinged with red. He leans in and whispers in my ear, “Do you?”
I know how the world works. Life is not a fairy tale. I know I am double Brandon’s weight. I know he has the hottest girlfriend on the planet. I know he’s the baseball team’s star pitcher. I know he’s insanely popular. I get all of this. So how come I can picture him kissing me here on this couch?
“You wanna see something?” he repeats in my ear. The scent of his shampoo fills my nose again. I close my eyes and inhale.
It’s hard to concentrate, but I am curious. “Depends on what it is.”
“Come on, you’ll think it’s hill-freakin’-larious.” He stands, sways a little, and puts out his hand to help me up. How gentlemanly. I know better than to accept it. I do not need a trashed Brandon Levitt struggling to help me stand up. No way.
“I’m good. I got it,” I shout over the music. Thankfully he turns and misses my ballerina-like grace as I try to heave myself out of the sofa. At first I can’t do it because the cushion is suction-cupped around me. Plus, I’m kind of tipsy. I rock back and grunt. No go. I repeat the rocking motion and finally pull my ass out of the sofa-hole. Perched on the edge of the couch, I’m out of breath.
Brandon’s waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, and I want to hide. He had to have seen my pathetic attempt at getting up. I still need a beer. I take a deep breath and push up hard to get myself to standing. An involuntary groan escapes, and I squeeze my hands into fists. I know he’s watching me.
We make eye contact, and Brandon smiles, so I guess that’s good. I point to my beer, he nods, and I head into the kitchen to grab a fresh can from the fridge.
Four girls from softball are playing flip cup with four guys from the baseball team. They’ve pulled the kitchen table into the center of the room. The table and floor are soaked in beer. I grab a new beer from the fridge, unnoticed. I crack it open and take a long drink.
This kitchen is huge and shiny. Everything looks new. The white tile floor, the marble countertops, the stainless steel appliances—all glisten and sparkle, reminding me that my kitchen is depressing.
One of the girls squeals so loudly that I startle in midsip, and beer dribbles down my chin and onto my chest. “Great,” I mumble to myself. I cringe on my way out, because the eight of them around that table couldn’t possibly be any louder.
“Hey, we need a judge!” one of the guys shouts. I turn around and stare at them. The boys all have the same buzz haircut. How cute. Two other dudes have come into the kitchen and are making their way to the fridge. I assume he’s talking to one of them.
“Yo, we’re talking to you!” the same guy barks, and he points at me this time. I think his name is Jacob.
Oh.
“Come on, Dell, judge for us!” Amy, my former softball teammate, pleads.
I peek into the living room. Brandon is gone. I wouldn’t have waited for me either. I walk toward the table. “Okay.”
Apparently the guys think the girls are cheating somehow, so they feel they need a referee. I get the rules from Amy, and presto, I am the official judge of this flip-cup game. The girl side of the table crushes the boys with four straight wins. I celebrate each win with a long chug of beer. After the fifth fair-and-square manhandling by the girls, the guys are getting agitated. Jacob drunkenly argues every call I make, punches the table, and shoves the guy next to him. Now I know why he wanted a judge—he couldn’t believe the girls were legitimately killing it. Truthfully, I don’t know how anyone is winning. We’re all drunk.
Jacob squints at me and runs his hand over the brown fuzz on his head. “Why are you making that face?” he shouts. “What’s your problem?”
I’m making a face? Wow, someone took their aggressive pills. Before I can answer him, Amy slurs, “Leave her alone, Jacob. She got cut from softball ’cause she’s toofattoplay.” All four girls’ eyes bulge. They crumble into laughter, grasping the sides of the table, and then slump into piles on the wet floor. It is quite the moment of hilarity.
Normally I’d laugh right along with them to let them know that they didn’t hurt me with their words. But what I’d like to do is grab them by the backs of their necks and smash their faces into the table. One by one.
Tonight, right now, I give them zero reaction. I don’t even blink.
“Ooooh, scary death stare,” Jacob taunts.
I’m working hard to muster my most maniacal serial-killer look, and it’s giving me an inner adrenaline surge. Each pump of my heart pulses liquid power through my veins. If I closed my eyes and concentrated, I bet I could fly right now. Instead, I focus on staying stone-faced and staring.
Jacob puffs out his cheeks in a “fat person” imitation. So original. I roll my eyes. In a flash he reaches underneath the table and lifts his side up in the air. The red plastic cups slide off and bounce around the kitchen. “Hold on, everyone, she’s tilting the whole fucking planet!” Jacob yells. Empty beer cans rattle to the floor. One was apparently full, because when it lands, white foam shoots from it like a geyser. The four girls squeak and yelp and burst into giggles. I stare at the amber waterfall running off the table. It sounds like a gushing river as it hits the tiles—soothing in a way.
The fact that the word “soothing” just came to mind after my being degraded like that is funny. My mouth slides into a smile, and I rupture into uncontrolled laughter. I don’t want to laugh; I want to gl
are at Jacob with laser-beam eyes, but I’ve lost it. It must be the beer. I. Am. Drunk.
“Someone pop her. S-someone pah—” He can’t finish because he’s laughing his ass off. The table slips from his grip and slams to the floor. Two of the girls roll around in a tangled heap of howling. One guy has his hands on his knees, crying-laughing. It’s a goddamn riot in here.
Where is Cara? My best friend—my only friend. I want to laugh with her. I wipe away my tears and sweat and try to compose myself. Why am I laughing? The flashy whiteness of the room smears when I blink, and I swear the ground wobbles. I reach for something to hold on to. There’s nothing there, and I stumble. The center island stops my momentum. I lay my head down on the cold marble and breathe.
I want another beer.
The chilly blast from the fridge feels awesome on my face. I grab a drink for me, one for Brandon. The cans are freezing in my hands. I grip them tightly and silently beg the cold to travel up my arms and settle in my heart. I’d like my heart to be a solid block of ice. Impenetrable. I am in a room full of assholes. I want to get out.
Cara and the jumping girls are gone when I reach the living room. Where did everyone go? I have to go to the bathroom. I look down the hall and see the open door. There’s no one in line. It’s a miracle. I stagger in and barely get seated before peeing my pants. The tiny powder room begins to close in on me. I lean my head on the wall. Someone’s knocking. “I’m in here!” I shout.
“Hurry up,” a female voice replies.
That bitch is going to have to wait. I scrunch my nose. “Get Cara.” She can help me. Cara, I need you. I’m crying now. Tears stream down my cheeks. When I go to lift my head, I can’t. It feels permanently attached to the wall.
“What did you say?” More knocking. “Come on!”
The knocking startles me, and the wall-head connection is broken. I pull toilet paper from the roll and blow my nose.
Bang. Bang. Bang. “Are you puking in there or what?”
I don’t respond. I sob into my hand.
Bang. Bang. Bang. “What the hell are you doing? Hurry up!”
I hoist myself up and watch everything swirl around in the bowl after I flush. I change my gaze and try to focus on my reflection in the mirror. Everything’s blurry. Why did I drink so many beers? Shit. “Stop banging,” I mumble. It’s so annoying. I wipe my face, then fling open the door midbang.
I’m nose-to-nose with Emma, who’s friends with Sydney and Melissa. “Move!” she commands. I take one step forward, an unopened beer in each hand. She squeezes by me and slams the door.
Amy is next in line. “You take forever,” she states flatly. I nod and continue back to my sofa-hole.
The music is still pumping, and Chase and Sydney are still grinding on the recliner. I look around for Brandon. He’s sitting on the steps again. He cups his mouth and shouts to Chase, “Get a room!”
Chase doesn’t stop making out with Sydney, but he does give Brandon the finger.
When Brandon sees me, he stands up. His eyes are slits, and he’s got a perma-grin. I hand him a fresh beer and pop a piece of gum in my mouth. He watches me chew. “Hey, ki-hava-piece?”
Before I can reach into my pocket, he grabs my hand. “Gimme it up here,” he says. His grip is firm and definite as he leads me up the stairs. I squeeze his hand—I want him to know how much I like his touch. In what feels like slow motion, he looks over his shoulder, grasps my hand tighter, and puckers his lips. I giggle. I am holding hands with Brandon Levitt, being led upstairs as he blows me air-kisses.
With each step up the stairs, the noise of the music fades. I like how quiet it is at the top.
Alone with the Daisies
“IN HERE.” BRANDON STUMBLES INTO THE WALL and then pushes open the door to Melissa’s parents’ room. “It’s on YouTube.”
Melissa’s mother is deeply in love with daisies. The whole room explodes with them. The walls, the bedspread, the pillows, the curtains, the fake flower arrangements. There are even framed pictures of daisies.
“Wow,” I say. I sway a bit and reach out for the door frame.
He blinks slowly when he talks. “What?”
“Lots of flowers in here.”
“Huh?”
I let it go.
“Over here.” Brandon leads me to the desk with a computer. The seat cushion is daisy-fied. So is the notepad to the left of the keyboard. He gestures for me to take the chair, then he leans over me, clicking on stuff. His manly deodorant and the beer on his breath fill my nose. His forearm brushes my shoulder, his touch sending sparkly, glittery energy straight to my— I cut myself off. What the hell? Sparkly, glittery energy? You really are drunk. I bite the inside of my cheek.
He stands back and says, “Watch this.”
I chew my gum and try to focus. It’s a short video clip of a sumo wrestler. The wrestler falls over for no apparent reason, and then he can’t get back up. He tries and tries, but he just can’t do it. This is cracking Brandon up—he’s hyperventilating behind me.
I smack my knee for effect. I am not even sure if people actually do this or if it just happens in the movies, but regardless, I smack mine and laugh hard for Brandon.
“I know, right? H . . . he . . . ” Brandon can’t get the words out. “When he rolls—ohmyGodohmyGod. When he rolls over.” He smacks his knee. “His fat ass jiggles.”
I run my hand along my sweating beer and use the water to swipe the back of my neck. I feel faint. I need to get out of this room. I stagger to the door. “So funny.” I swallow my gum by mistake. The minty-fresh gob slides down my throat, and I gag. Please don’t puke in front of Brandon, I plead in my mind.
He is in front of me like a flash, standing in the doorway with this puppy-dog smile. “Don’t go, Dell.” It’s the same tone of voice he used to compliment my grand slam.
The gagging sensation subsides. I smile. I can feel my nothing-lips disappear up into my gums. I wish I had lips like Taryn’s. Plump and sexy enough to make a guy want to kiss me.
“Don’t go,” he repeats.
He must want me to hold his beer while he pees, or maybe he has to puke and he needs me to stay with him.
“Fine. Yougottapee?” I ask in one long word.
He shakes his head.
I squeeze my eyebrows together. “What, then?”
Brandon leans in and says all breathy in my ear, “I want you . . . to stay.”
His answer doesn’t register in my beer-soaked brain. Brandon begs me to moo in front of people. He just showed me a video of a fat, diapered Japanese dude’s ass, which I’m sure reminded him of me. There is no way Brandon Levitt is asking me to stay with him in this daisy bedroom. This bedroom with a ginormous bed.
No way.
He takes my hand without saying a word and leads me to the bed. He puts his beer on the nightstand, takes my beer and places it next to his, and then sits me down. He stands directly in front of me and yanks off his baseball hat. With both hands he tousles his hair. I can’t believe how hot he is. Then he pulls his T-shirt over his head and drops it on the floor.
I. I. I . . .
In a single motion, he yanks down his jeans and boxers and kicks them to the side. I have never seen a naked guy before. Well, I’ve seen them from the waist up, but never full-on wiener. I blink a few times and grin. He is beautiful. All of him. But why is he naked? He shouldn’t be naked.
Before I can figure it all out, he lays me down and then straddles me. I now have a nude Brandon Levitt on top of me.
He leans in and says in my ear, “Dell, you know you want to.”
My head is cloudy. The room is kind of spinning. I can only get one word out. “Taryn?”
“Don’t worry, she’ll never find out.” He breathes heavy in my ear. “I’ll make it hot for you. Moooooooooo.” He squeezes my boob. Hard.
I yelp.
1. Because it sort of hurt.
2. It took me completely by surprise. Which sort of makes me laugh inside, because whe
n you have a naked guy on top of you, you should not be surprised when your boob is grabbed.
3. He just mooed in my ear.
“Relax,” he says.
I giggle. “Stop.” I don’t know if I said that out loud or just thought it. A whole bunch of stuff is running through my head. I’ve never been in a bed with a naked guy. I’ve liked Brandon for a long time, probably because he was nice to me. This doesn’t feel right, though—he loves when I moo in his face. But he’s naked. On top of me. And grabbing my boob.
He leans down and kisses me. All 286 pounds of me melts into the daisies. I don’t want him to stop. Brandon is a good kisser—tender, not too much tongue—and he keeps his spit in his own mouth. As he’s kissing me his hands are doing all kinds of things. One is up underneath my shirt trying to unhook my bra, while the other unbuttons and unzips my jeans. I am amazed at his multitalented hands.
He laughs and snorts. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he says to himself.
He thinks this is a joke. He doesn’t want me. A rush of heat floods to my chest, and I can’t catch my breath. My hands are glued to my sides like terrified children afraid to pull away from their mommy. In one long exhale I say, “PleasestopBrandon.” I heard my voice that time. I don’t want to do this.
Brandon takes my hands from my sides and places them on his naked back. I’m too scared to move my arms, even a centimeter.
“Touch me.”
I shake my head and instantly regret it. Everything goes double. Even him.
“Come on, Dell, touch me,” he demands.
I close my eyes to clear my vision. I can’t do this. I feel like I’m on a broken merry-go-round whizzing and spinning out of control. I try to sit up. His arm blocks me. Brandon grabs my hand and puts it on his penis. I yank it back, my elbow jamming into his chest. “Ow!” he shouts. Then he leans down. “Let me put it in.”
My mouth and brain aren’t connected right now. My drunkenness has stolen my voice. Inside my head I say, “Don’t want to. Please stop.”
