In Too Deep

by Amanda Grace

  Then he clears his throat and raises his eyebrows. My smile falters. I can’t read his look.

  “Um, you’re blocking the beer,” he says. His voice is booming. So loud.

  I think I hear someone snicker.

  “What?” Every move I make is weird, jerky, mechanical. I have lost all ability to control myself. My heart lands somewhere in my feet. I’m making a fool of myself. This will never work.

  I twist around and realize I’ve been standing in front of the beer trough. And since there are so many people gathered around, Carter can’t get to it.

  “Uh … oh.”

  I step back, knocking right into someone else, and Carter reaches forward. He grabs two bottles by the neck and then steps away from me.

  “Thanks,” he says, and for one millisecond he meets my eyes and I feel the glow of his look, realize what it would feel like if he cared who I was, if I was one of the pretty girls. I truly get why other girls are enamored of him, why they’d do anything to catch his eye.

  But I can’t say “you’re welcome” before he’s already gone, vanished into the crowd. This isn’t how I imagined it. It’s not how it would work in one of my books.

  I pop the top off a beer and take another long, lonely drink.

  I’ve lost Nick. He vanished at least an hour ago. And he’s my ride home.

  I picture him flirting with Reyna, and it stings. And that’s why I haven’t moved, haven’t gone to look for him. Because I don’t need to see it, don’t need to confirm it. The crowd has thinned out some and we’re quickly approaching midnight. If I don’t get home soon, my dad will know the model U.N. excuse was a complete fabrication. There aren’t any schools we would compete against that are more than an hour and a half away.

  I’m thoroughly drunk. Not “I’m going to puke right on my own high heels” drunk, but “dancing on a couch sounds like a really good idea” drunk.

  Ever since the epic fail with Carter, I’ve been sitting on a stool in the kitchen, sipping beer. Even though I’ve known all these people my entire life, no one really seems to care if they know me. Sure, they know who I am. We all know each other. I share at least two classes with every one of them. But picking me out of a lineup and knowing who I really am? Two different things. A year from now, when they’re all in college in some far-flung state, if someone asked them my name, they’d probably squint, tip their head, and vaguely remember me as that blonde who sat behind them in math. Who they were paired with in gym.

  I wish I’d worn my jeans, because the stool is sticking to my thighs and I can’t stop tugging at my too-short hemline. People keep glancing my way, as if shocked I’m wearing something other than jeans, and I want to snap

  at them to take a picture because it would last longer. But I don’t.

  There are four bottles sitting next to me. Four empty bottles. Everything is so warm and fuzzy, I can barely muster annoyance at Carter any more.

  I guess I knew this wouldn’t work. That I didn’t have a chance at getting Carter’s attention. I just thought if I dressed the part, he’d notice me, react to me enough to catch Nick’s attention.

  But Nick probably knew all along that Carter would blow me off.

  I sigh and take another sip of the now-empty bottle. Maybe I didn’t come on strong enough. Maybe I should give it another shot. Go find him, flirt with him, make sure Nick sees us. That’s all I need. Maybe there’s a way to do it where Carter’s participation is limited. I can just laugh like he said something outrageously funny. Touch his knee or slug him in the arm or something.

  I get up, wobbling more than ever on the tall heels, and make my way down the hall. I’m pretty sure there’s a game room somewhere down here, as I’ve heard people talking about a pool table. The hall seems like it’s tilting just a little bit as I cross the space. It’s like walking across the deck of a boat.

  Just as I round a corner, I see Carter. Tall, muscular, perfect, in that long-sleeved cotton tee that barely stretches across the muscles he’s built during four years of nonstop sports. Normally, guys like Carter stay here in town after graduation, waste away forever. Have two kids, find work at the lumber mill in Morton. Buy a house when they turn twenty and stay put forever.

  I wonder what his plans are.

  He slips into a bedroom, and my heart thumps even harder. I wonder if it’s his. But I need him to go back to the party, where Nick and everyone else is.

  My feet seem to propel me forward of their own accord, following Carter as if magnetized. Somewhere along the way the hallway wall looms closer, and I have to put my hand out to keep from knocking right into it. Maybe I’m a little more drunk than I thought. I take in a deep breath to steady myself, then continue on.

  I stop briefly at the door, which he’s left open a few inches. My hand shakes as I reach out and rest my palm flat against the painted, six-panel slab. I nudge it open. It’s nearly dark inside; a small lamp on the desk in one corner illuminates the space enough that I can see shadows. Carter’s broad back is to me, and he’s rifling through a drawer in his dresser.

  I step further into the room and look around. It looks exactly as I’d expected it to: masculine, filled with dark woods and rumpled, navy blue sheets, sports memorabilia adorning the beige walls. A big Seahawks pennant hangs over his bed. I close my eyes and breathe deeply just to see how it smells. Fresh. Like laundry or Pine-Sol, but something spicy, too, like aftershave. Carter has a smooth, clean-cut jaw. Does he have to shave every morning?

  My heels sink in the thick carpeting, and my eyes pop open as I wobble, putting a hand out to save myself. It lands on the door and slams it shut.

  Carter whirls around, spooked.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say. I clear my throat. My heart is galloping so hard in my chest it might break free and leave the room entirely. “I, uh, lost my balance.”

  “What are you doing?” His words are so loud they seem to fill the room up.

  I take in a long, slow breath. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “So talk,” he says. His voice isn’t harsh, but it’s not all that inviting either. In the darkness of the room, shadows fill his face and it’s hard to make out his expression.

  I run a hand through my hair, and it tangles in my curls. “I just … ” I step forward, the heels still sinking terribly in the plush carpet. The space between us diminishes until I’m so close I could touch him.

  I take the last step, but my heel lands on something uneven, something I hadn’t seen in the dark. My ankle turns and my arms fly upward, and Carter reaches forward, but his dresser is closer. I hit my cheek on the edge of it and my body twists, and one of the knobs on the middle drawer catches the delicate lace strap on my tank top.

  It rips as I hit the floor. My face could burst into flames at any moment. I probably should not have had that fourth beer. Or was it the fifth? There was that hard lemonade …

  I feel myself being pulled upward, feel Carter’s strong hands under my arms. I teeter in front of him, staring upward at his intense, dark eyes. “Thank you,” I say.

  He hasn’t let go of me. My cheek pulses as his hands slide off of me, and I sway for a half a second until I regain

  my balance.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “What?” my voice sounds ridiculous, high-pitched and squeaky. Why am I so nervous? It’s not like I actually want to throw myself at him. “Uh, I don’t know. I just thought … ” My voice trails off. I hadn’t actually planned in advance how to get him back out to the party. “I just thought … ”

  “Thought what? You thought I’d want you?”

  I blink, my eyes finally adjusting to the darkness enough that I can see him. See his sneer and the cold, disgusted look in his slightly glazed eyes. He’s drunk, like me, and his look of pure disgust isn’t even a little guarded.

  Carter has never looked so ugly.

  “Are you kidding me?” he asks.

  My jaw drops. It’s like my tongue is swollen, blocking me from
talking. I swallow two, three times, the pain growing. Of course he doesn’t want me. “No. Not at all.

  I just—”

  “Look, your body isn’t bad,” he says, scanning me, pausing at the place where my skirt barely covers six inches of my thighs. “Nice legs, and all. But you’re like … a two-bagger. Get real.”

  A tear runs down my cheek before I even feel my eyes moisten, my heart twisting in a vice as new heat blooms on my cheeks. Even drunk, I know what he’s saying. Once, at a football game, I heard two guys talk about how a girl was so ugly, if they wanted to sleep with her they’d have to put a bag over her head, and one over theirs, too, just in case her bag fell off.

  She was a two-bagger.

  I swallow a gag.

  The room spins harder. I reach up to slap him but he’s faster, and grabs my wrist. He shakes his head, slowly, staring me straight in the eyes with a mocking look. It’s like he loves that I tried to hit him. My murky brain can’t seem to process that.

  Then he steps back, away from me, and heads for the door.

  I follow him. I want to scream, leap on his back, rip out his hair. I want to tell him what I was doing, make him understand that I don’t even want him like he thinks I do, but that would make me seem insane.

  I want to do something … anything … to make him understand he just shattered me, spoke the very things I always hear in my head, the things I know Nick thinks about me. The reason I’m stuck firmly in friend territory. But I can’t get my legs to move any faster, and he’s leaving the room before I’ve figured it out.

  I’m only a few steps behind him, and I’m out in the hall before I realize I’ve made a mistake. I should have composed myself first. My eyes are filled with tears, shimmering, making everything dance. I rush to fix my top, but there’s nothing I can do. The strap just kind of hangs there, exposing the edge of my bra.

  “Oh my God, are you okay?”

  I look up to realize I’m standing directly in front of Michelle Pattison. We did a project together once. I can’t remember what it was. Her jaw is hanging loose, like it’s completely unhinged.

  I blink rapidly, trying to clear my eyes. My cheek is pounding now, and I wince when Michelle reaches out like she’s going to touch it. I step back.

  “Carter Wellesley is a complete, total asshole,” I say. My voice is wobbly and gargled. My lip starts to tremble as the hurt prevails over my attempt at composure. “I can’t believe him. He … he … ”

  A dark look passes over Michelle’s refined ivory features. Her eyes sweep over me and then she looks over her shoulder, in the direction Carter went. “Did he … I mean, did he just … ”

  I nod my head, though I’m not really listening to her. Her words just float around me, land somewhere at my feet. I think she’s still talking. More tears slide loose and I nod again and then stumble past her, shoving her out of my way as I stagger down the hall.

  I have to get out of here before I totally fall apart.

  I knock into a couple making out and trip over their feet, which sends me careening into a closed door. I hit it so hard the sound seems to echo everywhere, even over the loud music.

  Everyone is staring.

  I rush toward the foyer, yank open the door, and walk out into the night.

  I don’t care if I have to walk all three miles home.

  Two

  I burrow my head deeper into my pillow, ignoring the yellow beam of light warming my face. How can it be morning already? I can’t possibly get up while my head pounds this hard. Without opening my eyes, I reach out to find the quilt and throw it over my head.

  I twist around, trying to find a comfortable way to lie that doesn’t make it feel like the black on the back of my eye lids is spinning. But it doesn’t work, and my bed feels like I’m bobbing on the ocean current. I sit up quickly, nausea burning my throat. I rush to my little bathroom, tripping over my discarded stilettos and landing on my knees just in time to vomit the meager contents of my stomach into the toilet.

  I will never drink again. Never, ever again. My dad was right to tell me I shouldn’t do it. His rules usually have purposes, and this is one of them.

  I grip the porcelain as I heave one more time, then flush the toilet and rock back on my heels, wiping my mouth with toilet paper. The bathroom swims into focus as I lean against the wall, the heater vent beside me kicking on and blowing my hair around.

  My heels lie next to me on the linoleum, caked with mud. I narrow my eyes. How did I get mud all over

  my shoes?

  I blink, some fuzzy memory swimming to the surface. The ball fields at the elementary school down the street. I cut through them on my way home, my heels sinking into the dirt and making it impossible to walk in a straight line. I was halfway across when I pulled the shoes off and walked barefoot the rest of the way, my fingers hooked around the straps.

  I try to remember why I walked home, but my mind is spinning so hard it’s impossible to think. I groan and rub my face with my hands, but I jerk one hand away when my cheek throbs. I gently probe the skin with my fingertips, wincing.

  I use the towel bar to stagger to my feet and go to the mirror. The reflection staring back at me is mine, and yet there’s an angry red mark on my cheek that doesn’t belong there. I blink, willing the pounding to cease long enough for me to focus.

  The last thing I remember is … sitting in the kitchen at Carter’s house. Drinking. Stupid drinking! Why did I think that was a good idea?

  No … I remember following him. Somewhere. A room. His room.

  His dresser. I fell down. Right in front of him, like a total idiotic klutz, I fell down.

  I blink several times to clear my fuzzy brain, but it doesn’t help. I had no idea hangovers could feel like this. The other time I drank, with Nick, we only dared sneak a few bottles. I must have had five or six last night. Maybe more, because it’s all pretty fuzzy. That’s probably a lot of beer for someone who weighs a puny hundred pounds.

  I sink back to the floor and end up lying down, my non-injured cheek smashed to the cool linoleum. I mopped this floor yesterday, so I know it’s clean. And right now I don’t even care. I cover myself with a towel and close my eyes, hoping all of this just … goes away.

  Two-bagger. He called me a two-bagger. I bury my face in my hands and groan.

  The house is gloriously silent; my dad is on the graveyard shift, and then he’ll go back to the station to organize his paperwork … then go by the coffee shop … he won’t be around for a few hours to harp on me about chores or homework or … hangovers. Horrible, horrible hangovers.

  I struggle to my feet and pull out my toothbrush, slathering it liberally with toothpaste before shoving it into my mouth and scrubbing for all I’m worth.

  I pause to spit out the foam in my mouth and then switch to scrubbing on the other side and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look like death warmed over, with a bright red splotch on one cheek and mascara tracks down both my cheeks.

  I turn and flip on the shower, twisting the handle to put it on as strong and as hot as it gets.

  It takes me thirty minutes, gallons of scalding water, and about seventeen makeup products, but eventually I look good as new. The pinkish hue of the bruise has been obscured, and the mascara tracks are scrubbed clean.

  I don’t feel good as new, but whatever. Fake it ’til ya make it.

  Or something.

  I go to my room and drop to my knees, pulling out the pile of notebooks under my bed. My failed attempts at writing books as good as the ones I read. I’ve never finished any of them, and I’ve definitely never shown them

  to anyone.

  Six, seven, eight of them. Filled with my loopy scrawl. Filled with romantic stories. I’m a cheerleader in one, a damsel in distress in another, a secret agent in the third. The only thing that’s constant is that Nick shows up every time and saves the day, then professes his love to me and we walk off into the proverbial sunset. No one knows about these stories, least of a
ll Nick. He knows I want to study English in college, but he doesn’t know about the creative writing part.

  I open the first notebook and rip. The first page, the second, the third. I shred everything out of it until there’s a huge pile of crumpled, mangled paper in front of me.

  I’m angry. Totally pissed off. Not only will Nick never want me, but Carter laughed at the mere idea of wanting me. Is it possible to be a bigger loser than I am? Probably not. It takes twenty minutes to shred every notebook and throw it all in the trash, then drag the bag out and toss it into the can at the curb.

  I’ll write something new. Something that actually resembles reality; I can’t pine over Nick for the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll be the crazy cat lady by the end of the story, but at least it would be real. How did I ever think Nick could want me? Carter sure didn’t.

  Minutes later I’m curled up in my computer chair, playing an online puzzle game that barely manages to keep my brain from wandering to last night, when Nick flings my bedroom door open without bothering to knock. “’Mornin’, sunshine!”

  I try not to wince at his loud, perky voice. Instead, I stare at my computer screen. “I’m not talking to you.”

  He furrows his brow. “Why?”

  “You let me walk home. By myself,” I say. Hello, did he not even notice I wasn’t in his car? Thank God the bruise is covered up now; I don’t even want to explain that one to him.

  “I did not. You left without saying goodbye. I was in the billiards room the whole time.” He pauses in the doorway. “Your dad going to be home any time soon?

  “No, not ’til at least one or two.” I spin around in my rolly chair, doing my best to glare at him. “And what were you doing in the billiards room all night? Killing Professor Plum with a candlestick?”

  Nick flings himself onto my bed. “Of course not. It was the lead pipe. Do I look like a guy who walks around with a candlestick?”

  I turn back to my desk and flip the laptop screen down, then give him another pointed look. “As if you walk around with a lead pipe, either. Though I suppose I’d buy that you were off in some corner with Little Miss Scarlett.”