by Sarah Dessen
I felt a bump at my back and turned as much as I could, considering the tight space, to see the boy Jilly had introduced me to earlier—Jeff? Jay?—was back beside me, a fresh beer for each of us in his hands. His friend was behind Jilly, his arms around her waist as she leaned back into him, smiling as he whispered something in her ear. This was as Out There as I’d ever been and I was trying to be a good sport about it. So when Jeff—I was pretty sure it was Jeff—held one of the cups out to me, I took it.
“It’s punch!” he yelled in my ear. “Keg was out!”
I looked down at the drink, a bright blue concoction with specks of something floating in it. “Great,” I yelled back. No way in hell was I drinking that. “Thanks.”
He nodded, slipping his now free hand around my waist as he started bopping up and down to the beat. Tall and thin, with very large ears and visible tattoos under his shirt collar, he went to another school in the area, wore a chain wallet, and had already squashed my foot more times than I could count with the heavy boots he was wearing. But he seemed nice enough, and I knew Jilly was thrilled to see me with any guy other than William. Sure enough, as I thought this, she untangled herself long enough to lean forward toward me again.
“Isn’t this the best?” she hollered, spilling some of her beer on me. “Bring on college. I am so ready!!”
I nodded, smiling at her while at the same time quite aware of Jeff’s arm tightening around me to pull me back in his direction. I felt myself tense, by reflex, and tried to put a bit more space between us. No luck: he was latched on, and now leaning into my other ear.
“I’ve never seen you out here before,” he said. “What’s your story?”
How do you even answer such a question? Stories, as a rule, had to be told. Could you really do that while pushed together on a hot dance floor where you couldn’t even hear yourself think?
Maybe I was overthinking this, I thought. I’d just give him the quickest answer I could. I turned toward him, formulating my response, but when I opened my mouth to begin, suddenly he was kissing me.
In no way did I see it coming. There was not a lean in, the slow shrinkage of space between us. Just lips, big ones, suddenly engulfing mine. He tasted like beer, and all I could feel was his tongue.
Immediately, I wrenched my head away from his, although his hand was still tight on my hip, holding me in place. “Don’t,” I said, in the loudest voice I’d used all night.
“What?” He smiled at me, sleepily, then ran his other hand down my back. “We’re just dancing, baby.”
I turned, trying to catch Jilly’s eye, but a group of girls in shiny plastic CLASS OF 16! tiaras, boas around their necks, had wound between us. The music seemed louder, suddenly, and my face was hot as I tried again to pull loose from Jeff’s grip. I was starting to panic, feeling wholly trapped, as the last girl bumped past me, her feathers tickling my face. It was that same feeling I got sometimes of things being too much, too full, more than I could take. I had a flash of people running from a building, arms over their heads, and my stomach lurched.
Breathe, I told myself, closing my eyes for a second. You’re here, you’re okay. But the images kept coming, wide shots, narrow ones, helicopter view. And then, suddenly, something totally different: a boy on the beach in a white shirt, hand reaching out, an instant of comfort, safety, home. Even though it hadn’t happened in months, I could feel what was about to happen, the panic rising like a liquid, filling me up. I pulled away from Jeff again, and as he yanked me back, my vision started to blur.
I closed my eyes, saying that familiar prayer. Ethan, I thought. Ethan. Then I felt someone standing right in front of me. I blinked, and found I was face-to-face with Ambrose Little.
“Conga!” he yelled past me at Jeff, who just looked at him, confused. Then he reached for my hand and without thinking, I grabbed on tight and let him pull me away.
“Did you see the ears on that guy? You think the world sounds really loud to him, like, all the time?”
I was trying to catch my breath, which was made harder by the worry that I might not be able to do it. For once, I was glad for Ambrose’s nattering, if not clinging to his stupid words with every inhale.
“I mean, I’m all about distinctive features,” he continued, as I glanced over to see his own trademark curl, damp with sweat, tumble over into his eyes. “And it’s not like he can help it. Cards you’re dealt, and all that. But I bet he got called Jughead a lot as a kid. And if he didn’t, someone was falling down on the job. Hey, are you going to drink that?”
I blinked, then looked down at the cup in my hand, which I’d forgotten I was holding. “It’s blue,” I managed to say.
“Pie in the Sky, i.e., Blueberry Yum Punch and vodka. Cheap, strong, and yes, blue. What, you don’t like it?”
I handed him the cup, still focusing on inhaling as he took a big swig, winced, and then set it down between us. We were outside the A-frame, on the front deck, where we’d ended up after our conga exit from Jeff and the dance floor. Nearby, a keg stood, surrounded by crumpled cups; in a dim corner, a couple was making out. It wasn’t cold outside at all, but I had chills. Still.
“Ambrose!” One of the boa girls, tall with red hair and freckles, stumbled through the door and over to us. “There you are. I lost you!”
“And now I’m found,” he replied, smiling. “You’re amazing, Grace.”
She beamed, her face seeming to almost light up in the dark. I had a flash of that girl in the country club parking lot, looking at him in the same way. Attention from a cute boy—you could power the world with it.
“Dance with me,” she said now, extending a hand to him. The lone outside light was behind her, catching the feathers of her boa as they trembled in the mild breeze. Too much, all at once, again. I looked away. “You promised, remember?”
“I am a man of my word,” Ambrose replied, reaching out to her. Instead of taking her hand, though, he opened his palm flat, prompting her to do the same. “But Louna and I here are talking business. I’ll come find you.”
Grace dropped her hand, her mouth forming a pout. “I don’t like waiting.”
“Five minutes,” he told her. He spread his fingers, and I watched the mechanics of her moving her hand into his, suddenly so intimate, so quickly. Then he let go. “Meet me at the punch bowl. I’ll be the one about to sweep you off your feet.”
There was that look again, like a surge of electricity moving over her face. “I’m counting on it,” she said, and then turned, walking away slowly the way someone does when they want to be watched, and know that they will be.
Once she was back inside, Ambrose picked up my cup again, finishing off the contents. As he crumpled it in his hand, I said, “Are you serious, with all this?”
“What this?”
I nodded at the door, which Grace had left slightly open behind her. “The way you talked to her. Is it a joke, or not?”
“I never joke when it comes to pretty girls,” he replied.
Of course he didn’t.
“Don’t feel bad about not understanding me, though,” he said. “I’m kind of an enigma. Mysterious, hard to know.”
“People that are hard to know don’t often announce the fact they are hard to know,” I pointed out.
“That’s part of the enigma thing. Always staying unexpected. So what happened to you back there?”
I blinked, surprised by this sudden left turn in conversation. “It was hot,” I said. “I got light-headed.”
“So old Jughead groping you wasn’t an issue.”
I reached up, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “It was a grope, wasn’t it?”
“More like a grip.” He stretched his legs out in front of him, leaning back on his palms. “If you have to clutch a girl, you’re doing something wrong. Definitely not a mysterious enigma.”
“My friend set
me up with him,” I said.
“Might be time for a new friend.”
I shook my head. “No. She means well. I haven’t . . . I’m not that social lately. She’s trying to change that.”
“Not social? What’s that like?”
As if on cue, the door slid open again. At first I thought it was Grace, as the figure that emerged also had a boa and tiara. As she got closer, however, I realized it was one of her friends, a shorter girl, curvier, with dark hair. “Ambrose! Are you hiding from me?”
“I thought you knew you were It,” he told her with a smile.
She struck a pose, one hand on her hip. “You know that’s true. I am all It and a bag of chips. Now come on back inside, you promised to take a shot with me.”
“You had me at chips. Just give me five minutes.”
Again, a pout. Was I the only girl who didn’t have this move already down? “I don’t wait for anyone.”
“I’m not just anyone. I’m Ambrose.” He winked—winked!—at her. “Five minutes. I’ll be the one ready for some chips.”
She shifted her weight to the other leg. “Hope you’re hungry.”
I was struggling not to make a disgusted face when I realized that I wasn’t having trouble breathing anymore. For all the ridiculousness of these exchanges, the distraction had been helpful. “See you inside,” Ambrose said now, and after a beat, the girl turned and walked away, fluffing her hair as she went.
“Wow,” I said, as the door shut behind her.
“Agreed. I’m all for innuendo, but you can take it too far.”
“How do you even know those girls?” I asked. “Didn’t you just move to town?”
“They picked me up when I was walking here.”
“You walked here?” The A-frame wasn’t in the country, but neither was it in the town center. “Why?”
“I walk everywhere.” He lifted one foot, then the other. “Just me, Pete, and Repeat.”
“By choice?”
“By order of the state of California,” he replied. “I’m currently between licenses.”
I was pretty sure that wasn’t even a thing. “Is this about wrecking your mom’s car?”
“Partially. So are you not social by choice, or due to your personality?”
Again, I was struck by how he could turn the subject from himself to me as easily as flicking a wrist. “What do you mean, my personality?”
He shrugged. “You are a bit prickly.”
“I am not prickly,” I said, sounding exactly that way. I took a breath, resetting. “I just . . . it’s been a hard year. Dating hasn’t exactly been a priority.”
He shuddered. “God, who wants to date?”
“Not you, apparently.”
“I like the process, not the endgame. Courtship is my thing.”
I just looked at him. “Did you really just say courtship was your thing?”
“Prickly and hard of hearing, are we?” I made a face, which he returned, before saying, “There’s a reason they call it the thrill of the chase.”
“So you don’t do commitment.”
“Why would I? That’s what they do with crazy people,” he said. I sighed. “Look, it’s not like I’m tricking anyone. I am clear in the fact that my intention is to have, well, no intentions.”
“Did you not just promise a dance, a shot, and a bag of chips?”
“That’s not a relationship, it’s a list. There’s a difference.”
The door slid open again. I was expecting yet another girl in a boa, but it was Jilly who stuck her head out, scanning the deck one way, then the other. When she saw me, she exhaled and hurried over.
“I have been so worried!” She’d taken off her shoes, which were actually a pair of mine, at some point. “What happened to you? One minute we were having fun dancing and then you were gone.”
“I got light-headed,” I said.
“And groped,” Ambrose added. “Jughead and his big ears were all over her. You finally get a chance to make her social and that’s the route you choose?”
It said something about how concerned Jilly was that up to this point, she hadn’t paid much attention to Ambrose. Usually, she didn’t miss anything, especially a male anything. Now she’d spotted him, and she was pissed. “Who the hell are you?”
“Ambrose Little,” he said, sticking out his hand. “I work with Louna.”
“No, you don’t.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because she’s my best friend and I know everything about her, including whom she works with. I’ve never seen you in my life.”
“Well. Don’t you think a lot of yourself. You don’t know someone, so they don’t exist?”
She just looked at him, not used to being off her game in this way. Then, prioritizing, she waved him off, turning back to me. “I had no idea Eric was getting handsy. I’m sorry. It was crazy out there.”
Man, I’d been way off on the name. Not that I felt bad about it, at this point. “It’s okay. It’s just been a long day, and . . .”
“I know.” She looked at Ambrose. “Who is this guy?”
“Ambrose Little. I work with Louna.”
“No,” she said firmly. “You don’t.”
“Actually . . .” I began. Now she looked confused. “Since this afternoon, he kind of does. His sister is a client. He was dancing nearby when Eric was getting grabby and he . . .”
“Performed a conga extraction,” Ambrose finished for me. “Just one of my many specialties.”
Jilly gave him a level gaze, contemplating his face. Finally she said, “I don’t think I like you.”
“A common reaction,” he replied. “I’ll win you over. Eventually.”
She looked at me, flabbergasted. All I could say was, “I know.”
The door slid open again. This time, all I could see was an arm, a boa wrapped around it. Was it Grace? Bag of chips? Another girl? I hated that I was actually curious. “Am-brose! Where are you?”
“I guess that’s my cue.” He sat up, brushing his hands off. Then to me, he said, “You okay? All better now?”
If only, I thought. Was there even such a thing? I could feel Jilly watching me, aware of this moment, or whatever it was, between his question and my answer. “I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks again.”
“No problem.” He stood up, running a hand through his hair, then did a little bow to Jilly. “Lovely making your acquaintance.”
“You, too,” she replied, obviously guarded.
“See? You’re coming around.” He grinned, then turned on one foot, slid his hands in his pockets, and started to the door, where all the boas were now gathered, a wall of girl, waiting for him. He raised his arms, giving a fanfare as they all hooted, then reached to pull him in.
Jilly looked pensive as she took a seat on my other side. “Is it weird that I am strangely attracted to him, even as I dislike him totally?”
“Yes,” I said flatly.
“I figured. He’s not really my type anyway,” she decided. “Too good-looking, and he knows it. Not to mention he just screams of asshole.”
“You think?” I asked.
“Don’t you?”
If she’d posed this question earlier that day, or even at the wedding where we’d first met, my answer certainly would have been yes. Ambrose was cocky, entirely too confident in his own charm. He had little or no regard for other people’s time or feelings and was about as shallow in his “intentions” as anyone I’d ever met. And now he was most likely working each one of those boa girls against the others, adding to his list.
And yet, I couldn’t deny what had happened on the dance floor earlier. It wasn’t how Ambrose appeared when, in my panic, everything had gone wavery, that whooshing about to begin in my ears that would take me down. Nor was it the way he’d sat with m
e afterward, peppering the night with his prattle as I tried to fill my lungs with air. Instead, it was a beat in between, something small: when he took my hand and began to pull me out of the crowd, and I felt myself—my prickly, antisocial self—squeeze his fingers once, tightly. He squeezed back. Like a question and then an answer or call and response, without either of us saying a word.
I stayed at the party for another hour or so, for Jilly more than myself. I had pledged to make memories; I wanted to at least try to have them be good ones. So we danced, just the two of us, and toasted our futures with beer from a fresh keg when it arrived. I didn’t see Ambrose again, although I had to admit I did look for him every time I saw a flash of pink feathers in my peripheral vision.
At three thirty a.m., we piled into a rideshare with some guys Jilly knew and headed home with all the windows down, the night pouring in. I was dropped off second, and my house was dark. Once inside, I could see William asleep on the couch, where he often crashed when he and my mom stayed up talking late. His shoes were off, arms folded over his chest; he literally slept like a dead person. I picked the afghan off a nearby chair, shaking it out, then covered him. He didn’t budge.
I knew I should be tired too, as I’d been up close to twenty-four hours straight. But even under the covers in my cool room with the fan on, I wasn’t able to sleep. Finally, I picked up my phone from where it was charging on the nightstand and opened up one of my news apps. The story was right at the top, as I knew it would be, the featured picture that of a brick building, ambulances lined up beside it. I scrolled down past the bullet points of the story, then the introduction, looking for the only words that mattered to me.
ELIZABETH HAWKINS, 17.
DEMETRIOUS BARCLAY, 16.
SIERRA COPELAND, 17.
MARCUS SHEFFIELD, 15.
