by Barnes, Vivi
“I know, but…”
“That’s why it’s posted in the school, dork.” She tries to smack me with the paper. “Come on, you need a little fun.”
I snatch the flier away. “I don’t know…maybe.” I don’t want to tell her I can’t dance, don’t drink, don’t party, etcetera, etcetera. God, I’m so lame.
“Okay, you’re in. I’ll call you tonight to get your address.” She slaps my shoulder and heads off to her afternoon class.
I open the crumpled purple paper to read it again. It doesn’t say teens only or anything. But part of me does want to go. Beats going to bed after dinner to avoid weirdness with the Carters, anyway.
Screw it.
Sam’s car is kick-ass. It’s a red Chevy Camaro, shiny and new-looking, though she tells me she got it used.
“Yeah, but how could you afford this?” I ask. Kids who live in group homes just don’t own cars like this, if they have one at all. “Did you have a huge trust fund or steal it or something? Or does that company pay you crazy money?” Or are you doing something else you’re not telling me about?
Sam laughs but doesn’t comment. I’ve hardly made anything at Slice of Happy, so it’ll take me a good year or more to save up for a down payment on even the crappiest car. The thought makes me feel panicky, so I push it away
I run my hand across the butter-soft leather seat. “Do you take Z to school?”
“No. He drives himself.”
“Is his car as nice as this one?” I need to know something about him. Anything. Then maybe I can stop thinking about him.
She snorts. “Not even close.”
Her words make me breathe a little easier. Z must have an old car, which I hope means at least he’s not doing anything illegal.
“So how’d you get them to let you out of the cage tonight?” Sam asks.
I grip the seat as she swerves around other cars like they’re standing still. “I told Derrick we were going to a school function. He looked like he wasn’t sure whether to let me, but then I smiled and told him thanks before he could think about it, and he said okay. Ugh, I had to give him the address ‘just in case.’ Like, what’s he going to do, drive by every ten minutes to make sure I’m not getting plastered?”
“And what did Mrs. Pole-Up-The-Ass say?”
“I didn’t ask in front of her. I’m not that stupid.”
“Awesome!”
Sam pulls up to a warehouse building and swings into the packed parking lot, nearly clipping another car. I sink down a bit when its owner glares our way.
We park and walk to the building to join the line for the club. The thumping beat from within reverberates like an earthquake throughout my body, making me feel slightly nauseated. A quick scan of the line reveals that most people are our age, which is a relief, though I notice they’re dressed far better than me in my jeans and long-sleeved black shirt. Z isn’t in the line, which shouldn’t surprise me, considering Sam told me this isn’t his thing. I’m kind of bummed about that, though. I’m curious to see if he’s as quiet outside of school.
We finally make it to the front and pay ten bucks to pass through the doors.
The club is dark and packed with people on and off the dance floor. Strobe lights swirl around in drunken circles. I slide past a girl wearing what looks like a glorified bikini, practically strapped to some guy drooling all over her. Another girl is dressed in a slinky black dress cut up to the thigh, her hands all over her partner. I quickly avert my eyes.
Once we move to the center, I’m the klutz to Sam’s cool moves, doing not much more than shuffling back and forth. Sam’s really getting into it and a few guys start to notice her, one I recognize from my English Lit class. He starts to dance with us but only watches Sam. She swings closer to him and puts her hands on his chest, swaying her hips back and forth. Another guy I don’t recognize moves in and when he grabs her waist, she swivels around and gyrates with him.
I try to step up my game, but it’s stifling with so many bodies pressed close together. Dancing really isn’t my thing. I squeeze through the sexually charged crowd toward the bar to get some water before I pass out. A whiff of stale cigarettes and sweat makes me gag. Someone’s hands grope me as I pass, and I practically climb over the people in my path to get off the floor.
When I get to the cramped bar space, I wave my hand at the bartender, but he’s already preoccupied with the dozen or so people who apparently all decided at the same time that they needed a drink.
“Hey there! I knew you’d come.” I cringe at the familiar voice. Tyson is holding a plastic cup of something dark. “Here, take this. You look like you could use it.”
“What is it?” I ask, frowning.
“Coke. As in Coca-Cola. That’s all, I promise.” He laughs when I shake my head. “They don’t serve alcohol when it’s teen night. You have to bring it in yourself.” He flips open his jacket to reveal a silver flask in his inside pocket. From the way he’s swaying, I’d say he’s already enjoyed whatever’s in there.
“No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” He sets the soda down on the counter. The bartender looks like he’s nowhere near finishing his current orders, and he’s completely ignoring me. I weigh the burning of my throat against the risk of spending time with Tyson.
Crap. Thirst wins. I pick up the glass and sniff it, then take a small sip. Plain Coke. I drink it, my throat clutching greedily at the liquid.
Tyson is saying something about how he really likes me. I roll my eyes away toward the dance floor. It’s even more crowded now, and I can barely see the top of Sam’s blond hair bobbing in the sea of people. I don’t recognize many of the kids or even the couple adults, maybe chaperones? There’s a guy from my history class, a girl from English Lit, and a guy who looks like my foster father from behind. I scan the perimeter and see someone sniffing something off a table. I laugh inwardly, imagining what Mr. and Mrs. Carter would say if they knew what was going on here. It’s strange that this place is marketed to teens.
“So what do you think?” Tyson asks.
I have no idea what he’s asking about, so I give him the universal excuse for go away. “Sorry, I need to find the ladies’ room. Thanks for the drink.”
I try to step away but get a dizzying head rush. The room is even hotter than before, and I realize I need fresh air. Reaching out to grasp the edge of the bar, I take a few deep breaths to steady myself.
“You okay?” Tyson asks.
“I think so.” I rub my eyes to clear my blurring vision. “I’m just a little claustrophobic. Maybe some water?” Tyson orders water from the bartender while I fish out an ice cube from my nearly empty cup of soda. I flex my fingers to fight the weird tingling sensation in my hands.
“Hey,” a soft voice murmurs in my ear. I whip my head around, fighting against another rushing sensation in my head, and gape at the hot guy in a black leather jacket leaning on the bar next to me. His blond hair hangs long over his forehead, and the kaleidoscope of colors swirling through his eyes cut deep into mine. I lower my gaze, despising the genes that cause the heat to rise into my face so easily.
He says something but I can’t hear him over the throbbing beat of the music. I feel a nudge on my arm and twist slightly to see Tyson holding an unopened bottle of water, looking pissed about something. I try to take the bottle but it seems to blur and skip away from me. The blond guy takes it instead and opens it, handing it to me. Tyson glares at him before turning to storm away. I look back to the guy to see his eyes twinkling. Something about those dark hazel irises with flecks of emerald, the pouty smirk…
“Z? Is that you?” I gasp. What the…?
He leans closer to me and I catch an appealing scent of leather and spice. My knees tremble and I hold the bar to steady myself.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he says. “You here with Sam?”
“Um, yeah, Sam. She’s out there on the dance floor somewhere.” I throw my hand in the general direction of the dance floor, not takin
g my eyes off him. He looks out over the bobbing heads before his gaze wanders back to me. I’m so much more relaxed now, almost dreamy. He’s got an intoxicatingly hot body, propped against the bar like some sexy model, and he’s looking at me. And is that the start of a smile? I finger my locket and smile back at him, batting my eyelashes. Flirting like I know what I’m doing.
I have no clue what I’m doing. I can’t help it. I start giggling.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing. I’m just not good at this.”
“At what?”
I wave my hand back and forth between us and accidentally pop him in the stomach with the water bottle. “Sorry. See? Point made.”
He laughs. “Don’t worry about it. I kind of like that you’re not good at this.”
In my mind, I scream, What does that mean? What does that mean? But all I say is, “Where’re your glasses?”
“Contacts.”
“Cool. I like this look.” Did I really just say that?
He says something but the techno music sounds like it’s been cranked up a few notches. I shake my head and point to my ear. The fact that I can’t hear Z is really funny for some reason. I laugh out loud, then lean over to say something, but the floor seems to shift and I fall forward into his arms. His touch on my skin is burning, like me.
I put a hand on his chest to steady myself. His body is hard and muscular, even covered by the jacket. A sudden and unfamiliar craving grips me and I move closer to him, the only thing steady in a spinning room. I tilt my head and peer up at his surprised face.
“Sooo…Z. Wha’s Z short for, hmm? Zipper?” I yank on the jacket zipper but it doesn’t budge. Stupid zipper. My fingers won’t work. Stupid fingers. I try to shake myself off.
“Are you okay?” the hot leather Z says in my ear.
“Sure.” I giggle. The leather smells so good. I wonder if it tastes good. I lean forward to lick it and accidentally drop the bottle of water on his foot.
He winces. “Whoa, take it easy. Did you drink out of this?” He takes the empty cup next to me and smells it, like maybe he thinks it’s roses or something. He frowns. “This is just Coke. Did you have something else to drink? Alcohol?”
“Nope. That’s it. Coke.” That’s a funny word, Coke.
His eyes tighten. “Did you do any drugs?”
“Drugs, schmugs. I don’t do drugs. Just like on TV.”
“Who gave this to you?” he demands, his face crinkled in anger. Or maybe it’ll be happy if I tilt my head…
“Is your frown turned upside down?”
“Who gave this to you?” He holds the cup in front of my face and shakes it to rattle the ice. I try to concentrate but my eyes keep slipping around to him. Hot guy is hot.
“Liv!” Z peers at me closer like he’s trying to see inside my eyes. “Who gave this to you?”
“Ooh, him. Tyssson. He’s sooo gross. Tries to sit on me on the bus. Or sit on the bus.” I can’t remember what I’m trying to say.
“Did you say Tyson?” Z looks around sharply before shifting his attention back to me.
I know he’s asking me something, but I don’t know or care. I only want to be in his jacket. I giggle again, then fall to my knees.
“I’m getting you out of here.” He tugs my arm to pull me up. “Come on.”
A tiny voice in the back of my mind screams that this is very wrong, but I can’t focus on exactly why. I shake my head to try to clear the fog out of my brain, but all it does is make me dizzier.
“I need to lie down. Right now.” I crawl to the edge of the dance floor and fall down flat, my cheek pressing against the cool, vibrating wood. Through heavy lids I can see the soles of many kinds of shoes sliding near my face. So pretty.
I feel a hundred arms pulling on me, but when they get me up, it’s only Z and Sam.
“Hey, Sam. I don’t feel good.” I can see other people staring at me now. I wonder if they’re sick, too.
She tucks an arm under my shoulders. She has to shout over the thumping music. “I know. You need to get out of here.” She looks at Z. “Where do you want to take her?” I can’t hear his response.
They’re pushing me out into the cool night air. I want to protest, but I don’t know why. Sam slides away from me and lets me fall across Z as she walks away. I feel his arms close around me as I fade into blackness.
…
Z
The window is stuck. I jiggle it, stick a pin in the lock, try everything to get it open. Judging by this window’s small size, I’m guessing and seriously hoping it doesn’t lead to the master bedroom. I drop the pin and pull out my pocketknife, jamming it underneath the wood. I wish one of the other kids were here, like Cameron. He’d have it open in ten seconds flat. A dog barks, making me almost drop the knife. Damn it. I’m glad Sam isn’t watching. She’d give me hell for this.
Finally, I manage to pry the window open and struggle my way through. For such a slender person, Liv is really heavy when she’s passed out.
I lay her down in the bed and pull off her shoes, feeling kind of weird about the whole thing. Rubbing my sore shoulders, I take in the surroundings, lit up by a thick stream of moonlight. It’s kind of blah for a girl’s room, but maybe that’s how she likes it. If this is even her room. Or her house. The last thought makes me laugh. If this isn’t her house, then Sam is definitely slipping.
A small moan draws my eyes back to Liv, but she’s still out. Bad dream, maybe. One thing’s for sure: this chick is toast. I stare at the long brown hair draped over her face. She looked so different tonight—wearing makeup and her hair down around her shoulders. It’s the thought of her in her usual ponytail that tugs at something inside of me, though, not this club look. On strange impulse, I reach down to brush the strands back with my fingers. Even though she’s passed out cold, black liner pooling in the corners of her eyes, it’s hard to ignore that she’s pretty. I bet Tyson was thinking that, too.
Tyson.
I had pushed him to the back of my mind after leaving the club, since I was more focused on getting Liv home without her throwing up in Sam’s car. But the thought of him now makes me want to pound a hole into the wall. I look down again at Liv’s smooth face, a pang shooting through my heart at her innocence. She must be innocent to let herself get drugged at a club. Or just stupid.
I trace her cheek softly with one finger. I’ll go with innocent.
As mad as I am, I feel slightly guilty about what we’re involving her in. I shake it off and move back to the window.
First things first.
Sam takes me back to the club to get my bike. She’s unusually quiet—both of us lost in our own thoughts.
“Who do you think it was?” she asks when we get to the parking lot outside the warehouse. It’s the first time she’s asked this, the first time I realize she has no clue. She turns to me, her face serious. “I didn’t see anyone with her.”
“It was that asshole Tyson,” I tell her.
“Tyson?” Her eyebrows knit. “Oh, yeah. I saw him talking to her at the bar.”
“He was trying to do more than talk.”
She pulls on her earlobe. “Should we do something?”
“Yeah.” I stare at the exit where a few people are leaving. “We should.”
The anger simmering inside of me starts to boil as I recognize the spiky dark hair of the guy now staggering out of the club. He’s waving to a couple girls and yelling something at them.
“Well?” Sam says. “What?”
I ignore her and step out of the car.
“Wait,” she calls to me before I close the door. “Want me to screw around with his records or something?”
“No, I’ll take care of him,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed on Tyson. “I’ll see you later.”
I slam the door and hang out for a moment until she pulls away, but I don’t get on my bike. Instead, I pull my jacket close around me and walk across the street, just in time to hear Tyson call out, “Hey, come back!�
� to the girls who are walking away. Preying on his next target. I start for him at a run, the anger finally bursting inside me like fire.
Tyson glances my way and I catch a look of surprise that turns to fear as I barrel toward him. He turns and runs to the side of the building, near the other parking lot. I’m faster. I tackle him to the ground, into the gravel, and flip him over. His cheek is scratched and bloody from the gravel, but I don’t care. I raise a fist.
“What? What?” he squeals as he tries to push me off him.
“You know what, you asshole. Drugging girls the only way you can get your kicks?” I wrestle with his arms and let my fist fly into his face. The shock reverberates through my hand, but I raise my fist again. Before I can punch him, he grabs at my arms and flips me off of him, then shoves me away with his knee. The son of a bitch is stronger than he looks. He grabs a handful of gravel and chucks it at my face. One of the rocks hits my cheek hard, and I reach up to feel blood. I start after him again.
He scrambles to his feet, trying to run, but immediately trips on a concrete block, sending him flying to the ground, face-first. He groans in pain and rolls over, his face a gravel-beaten and bloody mess. I stare at the pathetic sight in front of me, the desire to hit him again fading. I point a finger at him. “Try that shit again and you’re screwed.”
I turn and walk back the way I came, slightly sick to my stomach. Nancy would be upset if she knew I was fighting again, but punching that loser felt good. Too good. I run through the events in my head. What would make me lose control like that? All I can come up with is Liv’s face.
Am I buying into Sam’s plan to twist Liv to our side now? That’s got to be it. Makes sense—she’s a foster, a loner, an easy recruit. Another pretty face.
I don’t like picturing her face. All it does is make me want to go beat Tyson again.
No girl is worth losing control.
Chapter Five
“Through all these rapid visions, there ran an undefined, uneasy consciousness of pain, which wearied and tormented him incessantly.”
—Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist
