Populazzi (15 page)

Nate didn't want to talk. He played the Ruse's CD to prep us for the show. It was perfect for me: I knew nothing about the band. I didn't exactly fall in love with them on the drive, but I loved watching Nate listen to their music. He tapped the beat with one hand and drove with the other, and sometimes he'd unconsciously work the guitar fingerings. There was an intensity to it all, like he wasn't just listening to the music but inhabiting it. I was positive he was the most passionate person I had ever met.

The Works was an all-ages club, and packed with people. We maneuvered ourselves to a good spot, then Nate leaned close so I could hear him over the roar of the crowd. "Want a beer?"

"What?" I shouted. Clearly I'd heard him wrong. I thought he'd asked if I wanted a beer.

"A beer!" he repeated. He leaned his head back and mimed tipping a bottle into his mouth. "Want one?"

Ah. So I hadn't heard him wrong. But we were only sixteen. At least I was only sixteen. Maybe he was older than me. Still, no way was he twenty-one. "How?"

Nate rolled his eyes. "Do you want one?"

I'd never had a beer. With the exception of four sips of Manischewitz at last year's Passover Seder, I'd never touched a drop of alcohol. Okay, there was the time Claudia and I were twelve and tried to get smashed on a box of amaretto cordials we'd found deep in the back of her freezer, but I'm pretty sure the all-night giggle fest that followed was more of a sugar rush than anything else.

What if we got caught and arrested for underage drinking? Isn't that the kind of thing that lands on your transcript and keeps you out of college? Nate didn't look worried about that, but maybe Nate wasn't interested in college. Nate
did
look a little impatient, which meant that I really should answer and soon.
Did
I want to have a beer?

Big Picture, this seemed to land in the "don't look a gift horse in the mouth" category. After all, I didn't have to actually
drink
the beer.

"Sure!" I said.

Nate gestured for me to wait where I was. I wanted to pull out my phone and text Claudia, but I thought it would look really lame if he came back before I was done.

I shouldn't have worried. It took him a half hour. By the time he got back, the show was about to start.

"Long line." He handed me a bottle with a lime stuffed in the neck. "Corona okay?"

"My favorite."
My favorite?
What was I saying? And how did he get the beer? Did he have a fake ID? Did they not card at the bar? Did he have someone else buy it for him? Had anyone else noticed? Were we about to get busted?

Nate pushed his lime all the way into the beer bottle and took a big swig.

What else could I do? I followed suit. I pushed in the lime, tipped the beer into my mouth...

...and nearly snarfed it out my nose.

I didn't realize it would be so bubbly! People don't warn you about these things!

I somehow held back the snarfing reflex, but to avoid a coughing fit, I needed liquid. And the only liquid I had?

I took another sip.

I didn't love the taste. It was a little bitter. But it wasn't awful. It was cold, though, and that felt great; the club was stifling.

I drank some more.

The lights went down and the Ruse took the stage. Nate chugged the rest of his bottle and cheered wildly. As the Ruse started playing and the whole room reverberated with sound, I took another long drink. The stuff wasn't bad once you had enough of it.

Was the room supposed to be swimmy? It wasn't unpleasant or anything, just ... swimmy. And a little fuzzy. And a little...

Wait a minute ... was that Robert Schwarner?

I saw him off in a corner several feet ahead and to the side of me. He was wearing that
BeastSlayer
cloak and nodding to the music. He turned and saw me with my beer, then lifted his chin and raised his Coke can in a toast.

I closed my eyes and shook my head to clear it. When I opened my eyes the crowd had shifted and Robert was gone.

If he had even been there. Maybe the beer was giving me hallucinations. Could beer do that? I didn't think so, but maybe...

I took another long swig. I felt really good. Who cared if everything was swimmy and fuzzy and hallucinatory? I was happy. I was really happy—until I tried to dance. I tripped sideways into a short girl in a low-cut, fitted tank top, and spilled the last of my beer right down her cleavage.

She was not pleased.

"What the
hell?
" she screamed. "Are you insane?"

"I'm so sorry!"

"Not good enough! This top is new! It's
silk!
"

The swimminess ended. Everything came into sharp focus as Silk Tank Top grabbed a huge handful of my hair and yanked it—hard. Was she on steroids or something? She was
strong!
And she wouldn't stop. She just kept pulling and yanking me in crazy-fierce tugs.

"Ow! I'll buy you a new shirt! Just stop!"

Either she didn't hear me or she didn't like the offer, because she kept pulling. She'd buried her other hand in my hair now, too. I was doubled over, staggering through the crowd as I tried to claw her off me.

Finally a bouncer came over. "Hey—break it up or you're both out of here."

The girl finally let go. She flipped me off, then disappeared back into the crowd.

I tenderly put my hand to the back of my head, convinced it would be gushing blood. It wasn't, but I had an unbelievable headache. Each beat of the music made me feel like I was being yanked across the room all over again.

Where was Nate? I didn't see him anywhere. Panic rose in my chest as I struggled to work through the ocean of dancers.

"Nate!
Nate!
" I cried. It was no use. Unless he was right in front of me, he'd never hear me. Oh God. I'd lost him. I was alone. I had no ride. I'd have to call my parents. How could I call my parents? I'd had alcohol; they'd smell it on my breath. And look at what I was wearing! And look at where I
was!
I was supposed to be at Claudia's! I couldn't call my parents. I was on my own.

"
Nate!
" I screamed.

"Hey!" he said.

He was right in front of me. I'd somehow stumbled back to where I'd started.

"Great show, right?" he shouted over the music, then turned back to the stage.

Great show? Did he not know I'd just been wrestled across the room and nearly scalped by a midget with biceps as big as her boobs?

No. Nate had no idea what had happened to me. He was only interested in the music. I may as well not even be here, as far as he was concerned. I felt like an idiot. I never should have come. Nate didn't care about me at all. I should just call a cab and take it to Claudia's. It couldn't cost that much money, could it? Maybe a cab would take a credit card...

I was halfway through approximating the cost of a cab ride from Philadelphia to Yardley when the Ruse swung into their first ballad of the night: a cover of My Chemical Romance's "Disenchanted." Three notes in, Nate sidled behind me, wrapped his arms around me, and leaned his head next to mine.

"It's our song," he murmured into my ear. Then he kissed my neck. My brain melted into nothingness.

Oh. My. God.

Every time Nate kissed my neck, I felt chills in parts of my body I didn't know I had.

And he didn't stop.

He held me the whole song, rocking me in his arms and singing the words softly into my ear.

I don't know what I thought. I couldn't think. I didn't want to think. I could just feel ... and it felt incredible.

When the song ended, he gave my earlobe the tiniest bite, and I almost lost consciousness. I wanted to fall back into his arms and stay there forever, but the Ruse had already swung into their next song. It rocked hard, and Nate immediately moved away to give himself room to pound his fist and dance.

I wondered if the band took requests and if I could ask them to play "Disenchanted" another thirty or forty times in a row.

Turns out I didn't need that particular song. Any ballad was good. Each time they played one, Nate curled his arms around me again, rocking me, kissing my neck, and doing that crazy nibbling thing that made my knees buckle.

During the band's final encore—a power ballad that was fast becoming my favorite song ever—Nate let his fingers creep ever so slowly toward my chest. Part of me froze in terror at the idea of him actually touching my breasts, especially in the middle of a crowd of people. But I didn't stop him.

The song ended before it could happen. Nate immediately released me to cheer and scream like crazy. I joined in—it seemed like the thing to do—but really I was obsessing about what would happen next with Nate.

I hoped he would kiss me. I wanted him to kiss me. I
really
wanted him to kiss me. But the near-public boob touch made me nervous that for him kissing would just be the start. If he tried more and I asked him to stop ... would he be cool with that? Would he think I was a loser? Would he even listen?

When the lights went on, Nate looked at me in a way that both thrilled and scared me. "Let's go," he said. He led me through the crowd to the car, holding my hand the whole way.

I liked that. It felt like he was taking care of me.

He didn't kiss me before we got into the car or once we were inside. He just drove, blaring the Ruse's CD so we could "keep the concert mood."
My
mood was 100 percent eager anticipation. I spent the whole ride imagining every possible way Nate might give me a good-night kiss.

We pulled into his driveway and he turned off the car.

My insides felt fluttery. I was most likely less than one minute from having my first real kiss ever.

"Want to come in?" Nate asked.

"In ... the house?"

"Yeah. Come on." He got out and started walking toward the front door.

I followed him. I couldn't stay in his car by myself. It was weird, though. It was eleven. Were Nate's parents really okay with me coming in at eleven? Were we sneaking in behind their backs? And if we were, what did that mean?

I got nervous all over again. If Nate just wanted to kiss me, he could do that in the driveway. Inside seemed like a place to do more. I was pretty sure Nate wasn't a virgin. Did he expect us to have sex? I was
not
ready to have sex.

I mentally shook myself. Why was I imagining the worst? Nate might be totally fine with just kissing. Going inside didn't have to mean sex—it could just mean more than one kiss. And if I liked real kissing as much as I liked him kissing my neck, I'd
want
more than one kiss. Plus, inside we could be comfortable, like on a couch. What could be bad about that?

The foyer of the house was dark but glowed from ambient light in other rooms. Nate wrapped his arms around my waist.

"You look incredibly hot," he said. He pushed me gently backwards until my back was against the wall. Then he leaned in and kissed me.

I had always wondered why people closed their eyes when they kissed. Now I knew: they can't help it. The feeling is too overwhelming: the taste, the touch, the smell, even the sound. The sense of sight had to be excluded, or it wouldn't be possible to function.

I wondered if Nate could tell I'd never kissed before, but I quickly stopped caring. His lips were moving on mine, his tongue was deliciously inside my mouth, his hands were running over my back, my hair, my—

Suddenly he pulled away. I fought to catch my breath.

"Let's smoke," he said.

"What?" I gasped, but he was already walking into the next room. I followed, trying not to stagger.

We wound up in some kind of media room, with two huge couches, two overstuffed armchair rockers, a coffee table, a massive tower of endless electronic equipment, and a giant flat-screen plasma TV. Every piece of furniture was high-end expensive—the kind of thing my mom cut out of
Sunset
magazine and put on Karl's night table when he was having a good run at blackjack—but the place was disgusting. The hardwood floors were stained and sticky with spilled who-knows-what, and the upholstery on the couches and loungers was filthy. Take-out bags and boxes lay everywhere, and the room smelled like an odd combination of old food and something else pungent that I couldn't really place.

Nate and I weren't alone. A tweener boy sat in one of the loungers playing a Wii game that involved Pikachu and I think Sonic the Hedgehog battling for dear life.

"Dude, you've got to see this!" the kid said to Nate as we entered. Then he saw me. "Hey."

"Hey," I said.

Shouldn't he be in bed?

"That's Thackery, my little brother," Nate said as he rummaged through one of the coffee table drawers.

"Great," I said. I couldn't help asking what seemed like the obvious question. "Um ... are your parents around?"

Thackery snorted. Nate shot him a look, then turned to me. "Not so much. Mom's in a coma and Dad's out with his girlfriend."

I shook my head. I felt completely disoriented. "What? Your mom's in a..."

"Coma," Thackery finished. "It's okay; you can say it. It's been five years. Yes! Pikachu is going down!" He jumped onto the cushion of the rocker and did a little victory dance.

"Car accident," Nate said, completely matter-of-fact. "Drunk driver. The other guy, not her."

"Oh my God, that's horrible," I said. "And your dad..."

"Got a new girlfriend about a year ago. I think he feels guilty about it, so he mostly stays at her place. There's a housekeeper who comes in and cooks for us and stuff." Nate must have caught me looking around at the squalor in the room, because he laughed. "She won't even touch this room. Says it's too far gone for her. The rest of the place is nice, though. Really. Aha!"

He grinned and pulled out a baggie of small tapered paper rolls and a lighter. "You smoke?"

I froze. Nate was asking if I smoked pot. Nate was holding a baggie of pot, and he was asking if I smoked pot like he would ask if I drank water. "Surely you drink water, ma'am, do you not?" "Why of course I drink water! Who doesn't?"

Except I didn't smoke pot. I had never
seen
pot except in the movies, and I had never smoked anything in my life.