Just Another Girl (15 page)

I shake my head. “No. I didn't realize we were coming here tonight.”

“Well, I'm glad you did.”

And somehow I believe her.

“Let's go say hi to Miles,” Owen says.

“And get some fresh air,” I add. Sometimes I can begin to feel claustrophobic in a crowded room or even an elevator. I begin to imagine there's not enough oxygen for everyone.

Out on the patio, I notice that Owen grabs what appears to be a beer from the cooler. Now, I'm determined not to make a big deal about one single beer, but I am wondering how I'll feel if he drinks more than that. Will I want him to drive? Will I ask for his keys? What will I do? Was it a mistake to come here?

“They've got sodas in the cooler too,” he tells me as he
pops open the can. So I fish through the ice, digging past what's mostly beer, until I locate a Squirt. Then I go and join Owen and Miles on the other side of the pool. They're both on chaises, and since there's not another place to sit, Owen pats the front part of his chaise. “There's room for two here.”

I sit down in front of him, and to my surprise he pulls me back to lean against him. I don't know why, but it makes me uncomfortable. I mean, sure, we've kissed, and I really do like him, but leaning against a guy like this, in front of God and everyone, and at a drinking party . . . well, it just feels awkward. And yet, to be honest, it feels kind of good too. So I stay leaning against him, pop open my soda, and listen as he and Miles talk about baseball. And, as shallow as it sounds, I begin to feel like I'm as cool as everyone else here. Or nearly.

And it's a relief not to have to carry on a conversation. For one thing, I'm kind of in shock that I'm here at all. But besides that, it gives me a chance to observe others. While Owen and Miles talk sports, I people watch. And this is what I see: teenagers trying to act like adults. Or how they think adults act. But mostly they look ridiculous, and I wonder why they don't want to do something that's more fun than drinking, smoking, flirting, and making out. Why are those activities considered to be fun?

Then Katie comes out with a big sheet cake. Like the rest of the decorations, it's our school colors (black and gold), but I must say that black frosting has no appeal to me, and I wonder what everyone's teeth will look like after a few bites.

Before long they all gather around Miles. And since I'm sitting right next to him, with Owen, I suddenly feel like I'm in the limelight too, and I'm not sure I like it. We all sing “Happy Birthday,” and Miles blows on the eighteen candles, but they're those candles that refuse to go out. I got them for Lily's twelfth birthday, and she blew and blew and finally got mad when she realized the joke. She was afraid her wish wouldn't come true. But Miles just laughs at his still-burning candles. No big deal . . . he's probably used to having all his dreams come true. Then Katie leans down to kiss him on the mouth. She lingers for what seems a long time, and she's bent over so low that her top gaps and her cleavage is like in-your-face. And I notice that Owen is looking too.

“Happy birthday, baby,” she tells Miles in a very seductive voice.

Now I don't even know why, but this whole scene just triggers something inside of me. And suddenly I feel mad. Really, really mad. I mean,
where are Katie's parents?
How do they feel about her throwing a party with alcohol? What do they think about all these kids who are having way more than just one beer and will eventually drive home? Aren't there laws that hold people responsible for serving booze to minors and drivers?

If anyone here could read my mind, they would probably laugh and call me a party pooper, or worse. But I think that out of all these kids pretending to be adults, I am probably the most grown-up person here.

Katie carries the birthday cake back into the house. I stand up and tell Owen that I'm going to get him a piece of cake, but I actually plan to give Katie a piece of my mind. I find her in the kitchen studying the sheet cake with a big knife.

“Need any help?” I offer, thinking this might be a good way to win her trust so she'll listen to me.

“Sure. Want to cut this into about fifty squares and put it onto plates?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“So you and Owen seem fairly serious,” she says as we work together.

I shrug. “We only started going out this week.” “Well, I think he really likes you.” She tosses me an uncomfortable glance as she plops a scoop of ice cream onto a black paper plate, then hands it to me for cake. “Uh, has he met Lily?”

“Yeah. He's not only met her, he's chauffeured us around town. Lily likes him.” Oh, she's probably not thinking very fond thoughts toward him tonight . . . or me either, for that matter, but I don't tell Katie this.

“That's nice. Owen really is a good guy.”

“Yeah.”

Now a couple other girls come in and offer to help. Katie gives them trays to load the cake pieces on and deliver them. Then it's just Katie and me again. “So . . .” I begin carefully. “I assume your parents aren't home tonight.”

She laughs. “No way. They went to the beach for the weekend.”

“But they're okay with you having this party?”

“Oh, sure. They really like Miles. I think my mom is hoping we'll get married someday . . . I mean, after college, of course.”

“Of course.” I slide another piece of cake onto a paper plate, then wipe the frosting off the knife onto a golden napkin. It makes a smear that resembles black tar—oh so appetizing. “So, are your parents okay with the alcohol here?”

“Are you kidding?” She rolls her eyes. “You do remember my parents, don't you? Total teetotalers.”

“That's kinda what I thought. So I was a little surprised there was booze here, Katie. Aren't you worried?”

“Worried?” She turns and looks at me with those big “innocent” blue eyes. “About what? My parents won't be home until Tuesday, and that's plenty of time to clean everything up. Miles even offered to pay for a cleaning service, and I stashed all the breakables away. It's under control.”

“But what about kids who drink here and then drive home?”

She frowns slightly, then shrugs. “That's not really my problem.”

“I don't know . . . I mean, I've heard that the person supplying alcohol can be held accountable if there's a drunk driving incident.”

“Oh, well, that would be Miles's problem then. He supplied all the booze.”

“Yeah, right.” I can see I'm beating a dead horse here.

“I thought you were cool, Aster. But you're starting to sound like a wet blanket.” Then she opens the fridge and pulls out what looks like some kind of fruity alcoholic beverage. She opens it and takes a swig, as in, “So there!”

“Excuse me for caring,” I say in an aggravated voice.

She takes another swig. “You know, Aster, you are a real buzzkill.”

I nod, set down the knife, and walk out of the kitchen. She's right. I am a buzzkill. And I know what I need to do now. I need to get out of here. This is nuts. But when I find Owen, he's just popped open another beer.

“Hey, where's my cake?” he asks me.

“I, uh, I forgot. And I'd like to go now.”

He frowns with disappointment. “But the party's barely begun, Aster.”

Now I fold my arms across my front and look down at him. Has he forgotten his promise that we could leave if I was uncomfortable? “I'm not really comfortable here,” I say quietly.

He seems to consider this. “Just relax, Aster. Have a piece of cake. Chill. We'll go pretty soon, okay?”

I notice now that there are several empty beer cans between him and Miles. I want to ask him if that's his second beer, or has he had more? Then I realize that if I
have
to ask, I should probably just get out of here and find another way home. So, without saying anything, I just nod and then casually stroll back into the house like it's no big deal.

Owen probably assumes I'm helping Katie in the kitchen or getting something to eat or whatever. Or maybe he doesn't
care. Maybe, like Katie, he thinks I'm a real buzzkill. Maybe he would be relieved to get rid of me.

Seriously, why did I ever think this would work? What made me think I could fit in—or that I'd even want to fit in—with this crowd? I guess I really am a misfit. But maybe I don't care. Maybe it's better to be yourself and an outsider than to lose your soul just to fit in.

Even so, I'm disappointed in Owen, and I feel a huge lump growing in my throat as I walk through the house toward the front door. But no way do I want anyone here to see me crying. I hold my head high as I push my way through the noisy partyers. It's obvious that some kids are already getting wasted, and it smells pretty bad in the house, although I suspect it'll smell worse before the night ends. A girl who looks like she's about to barf seems to confirm this. With a hand over her mouth, she's staggering down the hallway. I hope she makes it to the bathroom in time, but then again I don't think I care. It's Katie's problem, not mine. God knows I have enough problems of my own to deal with.

Finally I make it out to the front yard, and I just stand there and wonder,
What next?
I'm sure anyone else in my position— a teen trying to be responsible and avoid a potentially bad situation—would call a parent to pick her up. That's probably the normal thing to do. But if I call my mom, who is probably still angry at me and still dealing with Lily, I will only incur her wrath, and I seriously doubt she'd offer to pick me up. She'd probably tell me to walk, and it's like four miles home.
If I call my dad, he'll probably make up some lame excuse like “Jana won't let me use the car tonight” or “I can't afford gas” or “I have to take care of my sweet little boy.” I even consider Crystal, although that seems doubtful after last night. Besides, she's probably still at youth group.

Youth group at the church!

Suddenly I realize that our church isn't all that far from here, less than a mile even. In fact, it was Katie who first introduced me to that church, back when she used to go regularly. Of course, you don't see her there anymore, unless it's Christmas or Easter, although her parents still go. Anyway, if I hurry I can make it in time to possibly snag a ride with Crystal. I mean, what can she do? Refuse to give a friend in need a ride? Right there in front of the youth pastor? (She has a secret crush on Pastor Geoff and always acts more “spiritual” when he's watching.)

Blinking back tears, I hurry down the street. Once I'm out of sight of Katie's house, like I think anyone is watching, I begin to run. It's not easy to run in flip-flops, but it's a good distraction to this painful ache that's growing inside of me. This realization that Owen isn't really who I thought he was. Not really.

I should probably be relieved that I figured it out when I did—that I got away before he really broke my heart. Although I'm afraid it's still too late. It hurts. It hurts like someone plunged that big knife I used to cut the cake straight into my stomach and then twisted it a few times.

14

I'm out of breath and my chest is aching when I finally make it to the church parking lot. But Crystal's car isn't there. In fact, there are only a couple of cars parked back by the youth house. The beat-up minivan belongs to Pastor Geoff, and I'm not sure about the other old clunker. But I am sure of this—I'm not going to ask Pastor Geoff for a ride tonight. It's not that I don't like him. He's nice for an older dude. But I know he'll want to know why I'm here this late, why I wasn't at youth group, why I'm out of breath, and, perhaps worst of all, why I'm crying. I realize that my face is wet not with sweat but with tears. Anyway, as miserable as I feel right now, it would only make it much, much worse to have to admit how stupid I've been.

I lean against a lamppost that's not turned on, or maybe it's burned-out like me. I attempt to catch my breath and stop this stupid crying. But it's doing no good. Finally I just collapse down into a squatting position, wrap my hands around my knees, bow my head, and cry.

“Aster?” I hear a deep voice say my name, and for a
moment I think maybe it's God. But I look up to see a vaguely familiar face. It's a guy who recently moved to town and has been coming to youth group. He's kind of tall and gawky and never says much, and I can't even remember his name, but he seems to have remembered mine.

“Yeah?” I say without getting up. I wipe my cheeks and wish the parking lot would open up and swallow me.

“Are you all right?” He has a slightly British-sounding accent.

“Does it look like I'm all right?” I spit out at him.

He shakes his head and offers me a hand. Reluctantly I take it, and slowly he pulls me to my feet. “You actually look a bit like a train wreck,” he says.

“I feel like a train wreck.”

“Are you on your own?”

“Does it look like anyone is with me?” I don't know why I'm being so rude, but it doesn't seem to faze him.

“No . . . but why are you out here? I don't recall seeing you at youth group.”

“That's because I wasn't at youth group.” I look him in the eyes, realizing he's about six inches taller than me. “I was at a drinking party.” I wait for his reaction.

“Did you have a good time?”

“Does it look like I had a good time?”

“Not so much.”

Pastor Geoff comes out, notices us, and begins to approach. “Hey, George,” he calls out. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” George—so that's his name—calls back. “We're all right, thanks.”

“Is that Aster with you?”

“Yeah. I'm just giving her a lift. No worries, mate.”

“Okay then. Missed you and Lily tonight, Aster. Hope everything's okay.”

“Everything is just peachy, thanks!” I say.