Angela: Hey, thanks for the coffee.
Steve: It was so good seeing you.
Angela: When are you going to tell Huxley about us?
Steve: Soon. I promise.
26
It’s weird when you find out your suspicions are correct. I knew from a young age that the tooth fairy wasn’t real. But I still felt a pang of disappointment when my dad woke me up cramming a dollar under my pillow. It’s not always fun being right.
I step over couples making out on the stairs. These parties are the same as school dances, just switch out booze for dancing.
“Becca?”
Fred waves at me from the bottom of the staircase. What’s he doing here? Did Ashland’s social strata get rearranged while I was in the bathroom?
“Hey.” That sounded awkward. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Likewise. I helped Chris pass bio last semester, so I got an invite. It’s like I’m infiltrating some secret underworld.”
“I know how you feel.”
Fred brushes his hand across his wild hair. Upon further review, he’s one makeover montage away from being decent-looking.
“You know, the lunch table isn’t the same without you.”
“Too much testosterone?”
I spot Steve semiconscious on the couch. His phone presses against my leg, and it won’t be long before he’s eager to drunk dial.
“I have to go. I’ll see you around.”
Fred tries to say a farewell, but I’m already charging into the foyer.
I navigate my way through the crush toward Steve, picking up snippets of chitchat. These are the same conversations I could have in the halls at school. Why are we here? So that other kids can see that we got invited to this party? I guess it’s not about what you talk about, just that other people see you talking.
Steve is loosely clutching a beer he’s too drunk to drink. I lean on the couch arm and rub his shoulder for friendly support. I slip his phone in between the couch cushions.
“How’s he doing?” I ask Huxley. She brings him a glass of water.
“He’s fine. He just has to learn when to stop.”
If only she could see his phone, then she’d realize just how true that was.
I settle on a spot, watching the beer-pong game. This way, I can seem social without having to talk to anyone. Zach Hershkovitz has to pull Ally Zwick in for a kiss every time before he shoots. It all screams superficial. Steve and Huxley in training. My phone buzzes with a text from Val.
You busy tonight? Let’s hang out! I’m going through Becca withdrawal.
This is the second night in a row that she’s texted me to hang out. Ezra is probably busy, and I ponder what he’s up to. Maybe at the indie theater with Jeff and other guys, catching up on classic cinema, engaged in an hour-long debate about an old movie with the guy selling popcorn, his eyebrows bobbing around his forehead as he makes his case, eyes beaming.
Stop it!
Mason Carroll sinks a Ping-Pong ball in the back left cup. The crowd goes wild, and he chest bumps his partner. I put my phone away. I’ll text her later. I’m taking a sabbatical from Val’s histrionics tonight.
I lean against the fireplace mantel. My head rests next to a picture of Chris, his girlfriend and his parents at the beach sipping margaritas.
“You’re in my history class?” Bari asks, though she knows the answer. It’s less awkward than asking my name. She and Calista share the chair beside me. They’re skinny enough to make that work.
“Yeah, and Latin.”
“I heard it helps with SAT stuff. So not true,” Bari says.
I look down at my cup as Calista gives me a once-over. My ridiculous Break-Up Artist costume seems to have been effective since she just goes back to drinking. The girls confer among themselves, then stare at me again. I pretend to care about the game.
Bari taps me on the shoulder, and a shock of nerves rushes through me. “Have you heard of the Break-Up Artist?”
I strain to remain nonchalant. “The what?”
“There’s this person, the Break-Up Artist, going around breaking up couples. She created that stupid binder and planted it on Derek. I would never make that. Now people think I’m crazy! She needs to be stopped.” I smell coconut rum on her breath. “She’s probably some pathetic fat girl who got cut from the cheerleading squad or something.”
Calista nods supportively. “Calm down. We’ll find her.”
I guess Bari only figured out half the story.
“I thought that was an urban legend or something,” I say.
“Nope. She’s real. We found out she also broke up Michael Mulroney and Kimber Diaz. Made Michael look like he was stealing from her!”
I act intrigued even though breathing has become a little more difficult now. My memory of digging through Kimber’s purse while she was in the nurse’s office rears its ugly head. I take a sip of beer to hide the red flushing through my face.
“Well, I haven’t heard of her.”
“You will. We’re going to find her. We’re pretty sure she goes to Ashland.” Bari tosses back the last sips in her Solo cup. “I can’t wait to expose that bitch.”
The beer pong stops. People shush those around them as the commotion in the kitchen becomes clearer. Faces light up as they pass the news to others like a current of electricity. It can only mean one thing: fight. I join the crowd flocking to the living room for a better view.
“I love fights!” Bari says. They do make parties worthwhile.
We find a pocket of space behind a papasan chair. My jaw tumbles to the floor when I see who’s in the ring.
Ashland’s favorite couple. And Angela.
Greg Baylor holds back Angela’s boyfriend from clobbering Steve.
“What the hell’s the matter with you, dude? You think you can mack on my girlfriend?” the boyfriend asks. “I’m going to destroy you.”
He tries to push through Greg, but there’s a reason Greg’s one of our best football players. Steve grabs a kitchen chair for support. The situation is sobering him up fast.
“What are you talking about?” Huxley asks. She turns to Steve. “What is he talking about?”
“I don’t know!”
“Don’t act dumb. I saw the text you sent her tonight.”
“What is he talking about?” Huxley asks. She struggles to keep order. Having spectators is probably killing her inside.
Angela’s boyfriend rips the phone out of her hand. She’s letting him do all the talking. He reads from her phone. “‘Angela, I need you. Come to Chris’s party. I’m ready to tell Huxley about us. I love you.’” He tries to dodge Greg but no luck. Mr. Gomberg helps Greg out, the most mature thing he’s done tonight.
My classmates go nuts, conferring with each other about the message. I was not expecting her boyfriend to quote me. Why would she show him the text?
Huxley can’t keep it together, not after that, not with the audience commentary. Nobody cares to notice that a lone tear forms in her left eye. It bobbles on her lashes before falling down her cheek. That’s all she lets out. One tear.
This is probably for the best. I sped up a conversation they were bound to have in the future. Right?
“Hux, I didn’t write that,” Steve says. He tries to hold her hand, but she pulls away. “I promise.”
“But it’s from your phone.” Huxley sits down on a chair and takes deep breaths.
Steve pats his pants. “Where is it?”