called Triple-A and Stacey called her stepdad and some guy came out of his house and he had the wheel off before anybody could say anything and then he said we could go in his house, but we were all like, Whoa, strange guy, I don’t think so, and then the Triple-A guy and the stepdad showed up, and anyway, that’s why we’re late. God, it’s freezing. Did you miss me?”
Somehow my hand slipped behind her head.
Somehow I bent my face down to hers. Somehow her lips opened. Somehow I kissed her and somehow she kissed back.
The bonfire roared and reached for the sky.
44.
Apparently we lost the football game. I didn’t notice.
Bethany started shivering right after we sat down on the bleachers, so she took off her wings and put on my jacket. I was frozen within minutes, but it didn’t matter. I kept her wings on my lap. I counted the freckles and the sparkles on her cheeks. I bought her popcorn and hot chocolate. I did not lick the spot of chocolate off the corner of her mouth. I did not make passionate love to her on the bleachers. Thought about it, but didn’t do it.
When I bought the second round of hot chocolate, she confiscated my wallet and went through it, snorting at the picture on my student ID, cooing at the photos of Hannah when she was little, and arching an eyebrow at the patient condom that had lived in there for years.
It wasn’t like we were going out. Not exactly, not officially. But we were at the she-gets-to-go-through-my-wallet stage, and I had kissed her—in front of police, armed with guns—and she had kissed back instead of having me arrested.
There was a chance that somehow this was really happening. I didn’t know how, but I wasn’t going to question anything.
The whistle blew. Game over.
I walked her to Stacey’s car, which was jammed full of girls.
In the middle of a crowded parking lot, Bethany kissed me again. It was a quick kiss but it was a) public, and b) her initiative. Two kisses in one night. I was on a roll. (There was also a chance that I was hospitalized in a deep coma and that this entire night had been a hallucination, but so what?)
Stacey hit the horn.
Bethany handed me my jacket and took her wings back. “I’ll see you at the party, right? Sorry we can’t give you a ride, but there’s no room.”
“No problem,” I said. “No, wait—problem. Where is it again?”
She rolled her eyes. “Rawson’s house? You doof, don’t you know?”
“Urn, no. How do I get there?”
She grabbed a pen out of her purse and wrote the directions on my palm. She blew on it to dry the ink. My knees buckled. She giggled and gave me a quick kiss good-bye on the cheek.
“Don’t be late,” she whispered.
45.
Okay, so maybe I should have admitted that I didn’t have a car, and that my father had confiscated my license when I was arrested for the Foul Deed, and that technically, going to a party like this would be a massive violation of my probation. But that’s the kind of thing you have to build up to in a conversation, and there wasn’t time for that, not with Stacey blowing the horn and cars squealing out of the parking lot.
I figured it would take me a half hour to get to the party on foot.
Idiot. Moron. Cretin. Fool.
Two hours and a couple of blisters later, I finally made it.
I’d heard of Josh Rawson (who hadn’t?) but never had classes with him so I wasn’t sure what to expect. Standing on his front porch, it was obvious the place was crowded and noisy, but I didn’t know the guy and wasn’t exactly invited, not by him, so was I supposed to ring the doorbell, or knock, or sneak in the back?
I rang the doorbell.
Nobody answered.
I reached out to press the button again. The door flew open and I jumped back. Two guys hustled a third guy down the steps as fast as they could. They made it to the driveway before he started ralphing. They yelled at him for splattering their shoes.
I walked in.
“Bacchanalia” summed it up nicely: a party that
Somehow my hand slipped behind her head.
Somehow I bent my face down to hers. Somehow her lips opened. Somehow I kissed her and somehow she kissed back.
The bonfire roared and reached for the sky.
44.
Apparently we lost the football game. I didn’t notice.
Bethany started shivering right after we sat down on the bleachers, so she took off her wings and put on my jacket. I was frozen within minutes, but it didn’t matter. I kept her wings on my lap. I counted the freckles and the sparkles on her cheeks. I bought her popcorn and hot chocolate. I did not lick the spot of chocolate off the corner of her mouth. I did not make passionate love to her on the bleachers. Thought about it, but didn’t do it.
When I bought the second round of hot chocolate, she confiscated my wallet and went through it, snorting at the picture on my student ID, cooing at the photos of Hannah when she was little, and arching an eyebrow at the patient condom that had lived in there for years.
It wasn’t like we were going out. Not exactly, not officially. But we were at the she-gets-to-go-through-my-wallet stage, and I had kissed her—in front of police, armed with guns—and she had kissed back instead of having me arrested.
There was a chance that somehow this was really happening. I didn’t know how, but I wasn’t going to question anything.
The whistle blew. Game over.
I walked her to Stacey’s car, which was jammed full of girls.
In the middle of a crowded parking lot, Bethany kissed me again. It was a quick kiss but it was a) public, and b) her initiative. Two kisses in one night. I was on a roll. (There was also a chance that I was hospitalized in a deep coma and that this entire night had been a hallucination, but so what?)
Stacey hit the horn.
Bethany handed me my jacket and took her wings back. “I’ll see you at the party, right? Sorry we can’t give you a ride, but there’s no room.”
“No problem,” I said. “No, wait—problem. Where is it again?”
She rolled her eyes. “Rawson’s house? You doof, don’t you know?”
“Urn, no. How do I get there?”
She grabbed a pen out of her purse and wrote the directions on my palm. She blew on it to dry the ink. My knees buckled. She giggled and gave me a quick kiss good-bye on the cheek.
“Don’t be late,” she whispered.
45.
Okay, so maybe I should have admitted that I didn’t have a car, and that my father had confiscated my license when I was arrested for the Foul Deed, and that technically, going to a party like this would be a massive violation of my probation. But that’s the kind of thing you have to build up to in a conversation, and there wasn’t time for that, not with Stacey blowing the horn and cars squealing out of the parking lot.
I figured it would take me a half hour to get to the party on foot.
Idiot. Moron. Cretin. Fool.
Two hours and a couple of blisters later, I finally made it.
I’d heard of Josh Rawson (who hadn’t?) but never had classes with him so I wasn’t sure what to expect. Standing on his front porch, it was obvious the place was crowded and noisy, but I didn’t know the guy and wasn’t exactly invited, not by him, so was I supposed to ring the doorbell, or knock, or sneak in the back?
I rang the doorbell.
Nobody answered.
I reached out to press the button again. The door flew open and I jumped back. Two guys hustled a third guy down the steps as fast as they could. They made it to the driveway before he started ralphing. They yelled at him for splattering their shoes.
I walked in.
“Bacchanalia” summed it up nicely: a party that
Similar Books
