Summer of Supernovas

by Darcy Woods

  “You’re so full of it.” I turn toward the table, with its various jugs and pitchers, and go for the safest bet. Otherwise, I’ll be joining the pukefest in the bushes. I twist the spigot on the large glass container filled with lemonade and fruit slices. Consuming a week’s worth of sodium from Curio’s fries has made for an unquenchable thirst.

  I sip my drink as Manny talks about Wanderlust’s last performance, when someone threw ginormous silk panties on the stage, which I thought was only done by old ladies at Tom Jones concerts. He goes on to describe in great detail how the parachute bloomers landed at Grant’s feet and Grant turned eight shades of green. We crack up.

  Manny glances over my shoulder. “Ah, speak of the devil. ¿Qué pasa, mano?”

  The approaching figure makes my heart seize midpump. My legs go wobbly. The lemonade in my throat turns to fire, blazing all the way to the pit of my belly. Grant.

  And he’s swapped his usual gray T-shirt for a fitted black one. I can see the contours of his arms and chest. He’s also gotten a haircut. He looks…whoa.

  For a night so full of carefree promise, it suddenly has catastrophe written all over it.

  Manny fist-bumps Grant. “How long you been here? Haven’t had any sightings yet.”

  “Not that long,” Grant replies.

  My limbs are reduced to pure gelatin as I reach for another glass of lemonade, knocking it back in a few gulps. Grant arrived—not that long ago. Well, maybe that accounts for Seth’s sudden smothering behavior and overzealous PDA. But can I justify being annoyed, let alone angry, with Seth when my reaction to Grant is…whoa?

  Manny tosses Grant a Fresca from the ice tub next to him.

  “Gracias.” Grant moves in beside me.

  Tristan’s family compound sits on eleventy billion acres, and I hear there are even sprawling gardens that put Versailles to shame. Yet Grant has to occupy my tiny three-by-three space. Manny goes back to lavishing his attention on the girls; their sunflower faces stretch to meet him.

  Grant cracks open the soda. “So, you gonna give me the silent treatment now?”

  Light-headed, I spit out a perfunctory, robotic greeting.

  Grant leans against the table and crosses his arms. I do not notice his biceps. “That’s a very courteous hello. Which I guess is better than nothing. Look, if you’re still mad about Tuesday, that wasn’t by choice—your gram called me.” He releases a frustrated sigh. “She was out of her mind with worry! What was I supposed to do, Mena?” We both catch the slip. “I mean, Wil.”

  I’ve favored the name Wil since middle school. Maybe deep down I’ve wanted to preserve the name Mena, just for Mama and Gram—like a treasured keepsake. But now hearing it fall from Grant’s lips makes me feverish. Which is all sorts of wrong. All. Sorts.

  More lemonade. I refill my cup, dribbling the yellow liquid on the tabletop. I quickly mop it up with a napkin. “I know. I’m not mad at you.” I take a swallow. Then another. The lemonade feels like complete lava going down. And a flush creeps up my neck like Mount Saint Helens preparing to blow.

  “Yeah?” Grant tips the Fresca to his lips, taking a slow drink. “Then why are you acting so weird? By the way, your cheeks are really red.”

  “What?” I sputter. “I’m not acting weird!”

  “Uh-huh.” Grant holds his fist to his mouth, covering up his stupid cute teeth. “Hey”—he plucks the cup from my hand—“you’re gonna dump that. What’s with you tonight?”

  “What are you…?” And then it hits me. My gaze swings to the supposedly innocent jug of lemonade. “Oh.” But the proof is right in front of me, wavering. The lemonade must be spiked. Spiked! I grab the table behind me, steadying myself. It has to be spiked, because why else would the patio start to fold in and out like an accordion? I stare at my jittery hands, then shake them, trying to gain control of their function. It doesn’t work so well. “Oh…shitballs.”

  Grant spits out his Fresca, laughing.

  “It’s not funny,” I reply, panicky. “I think I might be buzzed.”

  “Oh, really?” Grant replies in a tone laced with skepticism. He glances at the lemonade jug while I totter to a nearby cooler and sit, blowing at a dark wave that has flopped over my eye.

  After a few seconds, Grant follows. He pushes a bottle of water into my hand. “Drink it. You’ll be fine; I guarantee it.” He crouches down and tucks back the hair I keep unsuccessfully blowing from my eye.

  Manny is heckling me about being a lightweight and brainstorming all kinds of variations on my name. Wussy Wil. One-Drink-Wonder Wil—the hits keep coming.

  Even if I do feel fuzzy around the edges—enough is enough. “Yeah, well, Uranus called and”—I jab a finger at Manny—“and it wants its asshole back.” The group goes silent for a moment before exploding in laughter. I give up on trying to figure out if what I’ve said even makes a lick of sense, and giggle.

  Wiping his eyes, Manny looks to Grant. “¡Mierda! Ya entiendo por qué la adoran.”

  “¡Basta!” Grant’s eyes remain crinkled in amusement. “Drink some more water, Wil.”

  “Fine, but not because you’re the boss of me. It’s because I’m quite thirsty.” I take a long guzzle before placing it on ground. “And I’m not supposed to be talking to you. Seth doesn’t like it.” I snicker like I’ve said something on a par with Uranus assholes. “Actually”—I shake my head—“he’s not the boss of me either.”

  “For his sake, I hope he figures that out sooner than later. And another thing, Wil?”

  “Hmm?” I get distracted by the way Grant sways back and forth in front of me.

  He smiles. “Um, that lemonade you drank? It doesn’t actually have any alcohol.”

  My grin fades. “What?” I reply weakly. No, that’s impossible. I feel tipsy, woozy—surely I’m a little buzzed?

  “See?” Grant points to the glass container. “It’s got DD written on the side.”

  Designated Driver. Of course. That’s why I didn’t detect the booze. “Oh,” I mumble lamely. “My mistake.” Which makes me the Designated Dork. So all my symptoms of intoxication were really just…nerves? Nervousness because of Grant?

  He grows quietly aware of my mortification and changes the subject. “Seth’ll get over it.” Grant clarifies, “Us talking, I mean. He’s just never had a girl get under his skin before. Usually it’s the other way around.”

  “Have you?” I blurt. “Has a girl ever gotten under your skin?”

  His head lowers, and he nods at the ground. “Yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  A smile touches his lips—a heartbreakingly sorrowful smile. “I had to let her go.”

  “But…why?”

  “Because I wasn’t sure I could ever be what she wanted, you know?”

  “That’s crazy,” I murmur. An unexpected lump forms in my throat. “How could you not be what she wanted? You’re perfect.” I bite my lip and damn my tongue. Why did I say that aloud? I can’t even blame the comment on drunkenness. I avert my eyes to the patio stones at my feet.

  “Nobody’s perfect.” His insistent gaze feels like a brand on my skin.

  “Wil!” Ginger wedges through the partyers, copper curls bouncing. “There you are!” She appears puzzled, her blue eyes flicking back and forth between Grant and me. “Er…am I interrupting something?”

  I shake my head as Grant quickly rises.

  Ginger continues. “Um, it’s your friend, the Russian girl. She’s in the game room and—”

  “Ooh, Ginge,” Manny pipes in, “you talking about the smokin’ blonde with all the piercings?” She nods. “I saw her earlier on the balcony tormenting some pendejo with a number after his last name. Flicked her tongue ring right before she gave him a purple-nurple. God, he about shizzed himself.” Manny roars with laughter and slaps his knee. “Priceless. Totally priceless.”

  “What about her?” I stand, feeling instantly alert.

  “She’s okay,” Ginger says, reading my alarm. “It’s jus
t, the guys are still wrapped up in beer pong, and…”

  “What?” I lightly grasp her arms, fighting the urge to shake the information out of her.

  “I think maybe someone should monitor what’s going on,” she finishes.

  And if Ginger has said anything else, I’m not there to hear it.

  I crash through the French doors, weaving my way through the mansion’s lower level. Shouts erupt from a room at my left, sending fear spiraling through to my toes. “Go-go-go-go!” the crowd chants. My anxiety dials back when I realize it’s the beer-pong tournament. There’s a thunderous crack of pool balls at the end of a dim hall.

  I follow the telltale noise to the game room. The three pool tables are swarming with people—mostly guys—who laugh, jeer, and egg each other on. And it isn’t until I spot Irina at the farthest table—unharmed and untouched—that I find my full breath again.

  “Thank you, God,” I whisper to myself, resting a hand to my booming heart and sagging against the wall.

  “That’s her, right?” Ginger asks, slightly breathless, coming up beside me.

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, Wil, sweetie”—Ginger rubs my arm, her expression turning worried—“I didn’t mean to freak you out. I only thought someone should keep an eye on things. Your friend’s just doing really well at the tables.” She pauses. “Really well. I’m not sure some of these guys’ll appreciate that, so I—”

  “No, no, it’s okay.” I squeeze her hand. “You did the right thing finding me. It’s just…sometimes Irina has a way of finding trouble.”

  “Funny, that’s what I’ve heard about you,” Ginger replies.

  Grant and Manny enter the game room, flanking us. “Everything good?” Grant asks, wrinkles crowding the center of his forehead.

  I hate that I’ve put them there. Again. I liked it better when I thought I was tipsy and making him laugh. “Yeah, it’s fine.” I spot Tristan’s sister, Lila, circling closer in her sparkly tank top and petal-pink shorts, her gaze locked purposefully on Grant. “Looks like you’ve got company,” I say to Grant. “You should”—I falter before purging the rest of the words—“you should probably go.”

  “Ay…mi diosa,” Manny murmurs in a trancelike tone, totally spellbound by the Russian bombshell dominating the last table. He shakes his head as if coming to. “I’m gonna need a front-row seat for this.”

  I follow Manny, without sparing a glance at Grant. It shouldn’t matter what he does…or who he does it with.

  Because I am committed to Seth.

  Balls sink in quick succession, first the solid blue and then the eight ball.

  “Yes!” Manny catapults from the bench while pumping his arms. “Ha! Ha! That’s right, baby, you show those rich boys how it’s done!”

  Ginger squeals and whistles, nearly shattering my eardrum. She pulls me into an apologetic embrace. “Sorry, Wil. I just can’t believe Irina made that last shot! She’s unreal!”

  “I know.” My grin fades. I also know we’re treading on thin ice. When it comes to pool, Iri has one goal, and one goal only—winning. Winning is everything. Sometimes she wins by a landslide and sometimes by a hair. But make no mistake; Irina Dmitriyev knows exactly what she’s doing.

  “Shut it, Rodriguez,” a deep voice snaps from the sidelines.

  Manny smirks as he leaps onto the bench, lifting the bottom of his T-shirt. “Why don’t you pucker up and smooch this beautiful”—he gyrates—“brown”—he gyrates some more—“ass, Bradley? Second thought”—he jumps down—“I think you’d like it too much.” Laughter erupts and more verbal jabs ensue.

  Irina straightens, feigning confusion in the chaos. “Then…I win?” Someone informs her yes. “Oooh!” She claps the arm of the defeated challenger. “I cannot believe my luck tonight.” Yeah, he doesn’t look like he does either. But Irina was sneaking into pool halls when most girls were getting their first babysitting gigs.

  “It’s not luck, it’s called hustling.” The loser scowls, plucking the unlit cigarette from behind his ear.

  Irina scoops up her winnings. “Hustling? My dearest mudak, this is nothing more than a friendly tournament. And everyone knows you should never bet what you can’t afford to lose.” Her Russian inflection has mysteriously returned. No doubt she’s employed it to gain a competitive edge. And it’s working. “Now”—Iri chalks her stick, blowing off the excess—“who’s next?”

  We watch as Irina’s name is erased off the chalkboard and advanced to the next bracket. The game progresses, and the number of onlookers fringing the pool table grows with the stakes.

  Irina’s gaze narrows as she bends to line up her shot. Many of the guys are too busy checking out her ass to notice the acute level of her focus and determination. If they saw her face the way I do, they’d tuck tail and run.

  She sinks the twelve in the corner pocket.

  “Nice,” a goateed guy praises, his eyes nowhere near the pool table.

  “Like that?” Irina leans, wiggling her rear as she gets a better angle. “Then you’ll love this. Fifteen, side pocket.”

  A stocky, red-faced guy hovering at the end of the table steps up. “No way. No freakin’ way.” He slaps a fifty on the edge of the table. “That’s how sure I am you’re gonna choke that shot, Ruski.” There’s a murmur of agreement.

  “Who are you?” Irina squints at Big Red.

  “Justin,” Big Red replies. “But knowing my name isn’t gonna change how this ends—me walking away with your money.”

  Irina’s eyebrow arches higher. “Well, Justin, good thing I feel lucky.”

  The cue ball banks off the end, narrowly missing a cluster of balls, and grazes the fifteen on its way back. It grazes just enough to nudge it in. Thunk!

  “No way,” he repeats, head swaying. A collective silence follows around the table.

  “Told you I felt lucky.” Irina tucks the fifty away for safekeeping.

  And the longer Iri plays, the more hostile the undercurrent becomes. She makes impossible shots left and right, taking bill after bill of winnings.

  “Wil,” Ginger murmurs, “those guys look pissed.” She discreetly nods at a group formed behind Iri. “This isn’t good.”

  I agree, as do the hairs prickling on the back of my neck. I sidle up to Irina and whisper a warning. “You need to stop.”

  I scan the room for Manny, who went to top off his beer during a break in the game. Why isn’t he back? And Grant—I don’t see him anywhere. It’s noisy, and the other two tables are so engrossed in their games, I doubt they’re aware of anything else going on.

  Irina ignores me and takes her next shot.

  My stomach sinks like the pool ball in the corner pocket.

  Ginger’s apricot cheeks turn ashy. Flicking back her curls with false confidence—the confidence we’ve all been instructed to fake in dangerous situations—she edges next to me.

  Iri grins; the diamond above her lip glitters. “I’m just getting warmed up. They haven’t seen half of what I can do.”

  “No.” I nervously eye the closing circle of guys. “I think you should stop. Now.”

  “I hate to say it, but she’s right, Irina,” Ginger whispers. “This isn’t friendly anymore.”

  Alarms are clanging in my head until I hardly hear anything else. One of the guys bumps up against me.

  Irina shoves him back.

  “Hey, easy, Wild Cat, accidents happen.” His friends laugh.

  It isn’t funny. It’s a threat. And my mouth goes dry as the guys inch closer, trapping us against the table.

  I close my hand around the bridge stick resting in front of me. I have no idea what I’m about to do. But whatever it is, I won’t be empty-handed.

  Cigarette smoke swirls beneath the yellow light hanging over the table. The white tendrils come from the guy Irina beat earlier. He takes a drag, rolling the cigarette between his thumb and index finger as he watches me. “There are accidents, and then there’re the accidents people have coming to them.” His
gaze travels down my body until I feel so dirty I want to shower in bleach. When he licks his lips, my hand tightens around the stick.

  “There a problem here?” Manny appears, breaking through the imposing group. I want to hug him and his mustachioed T-shirt. “I asked if there was a problem?”

  Grant steps up behind Manny. He is livid. It’s the same fury he’d had with the guy outside of Pinky’s. I notice his grip on Manny’s arm, and anyone watching would think he was holding Manny in check. But I know different. Manny is actually Grant’s anchor.

  “Yeah,” the smoking guy sneers. “This Russian bitch hustled us.”

  Irina bares her teeth, gripping her stick harder. “Say it again and I’ll show you the kind of bitch I can be. I won that money—fair and square.”

  Cigarette’s face turns red and a vein pops in his wide forehead.

  “Sounds like you owe the lady an apology,” Manny says. “My advice? Say you’re sorry, and leave. No reason for this to turn ugly.”

  A rumble of hushed gossip gains momentum as it spreads through the gathering. It’s about Grant, and something about a trip to the ER, but that’s all I catch. The circle begins to disband.

  Seeing no other way, Cigarette jerks his chin at Irina. “Sorry.” The word is riddled with so much disdain, I almost miss it was an apology and not another insult.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ginger dart from the room.

  “Irina,” Grant says low and measured, “take your money now.”

  Her nostrils flare as she snatches the remaining cash. “Perhaps next time you’ll use your other head before you place a bet.” She flashes an icy smile at Cigarette. “But I’d wager it isn’t much smarter.”

  Once we’re safely down the hall, I whirl around to face Irina. “Why couldn’t you stop? You had to needle and goad and take them for everything. Why?” I demand. “And don’t try and tell me it’s just about the win—it’s more. I know it’s more.”

  Iri’s face remains colored with anger. “Because they’re so goddamn entitled! They think they can treat me like garbage because they come from money.” Irina sucks in a breath. Her gray eyes are hard as concrete.