Prince Charming (6 page)

“That’s me,” I said in their direction. God, that nickname was so uncreative. You’d think they might come up with something better. Couldn’t they get over that, and move on to something else?

“What do you want?” Bruce asked again.

“Well, this is a party, right?” I reached out to a table next to the steps, grabbed a beer, and popped open the can. “I love parties.”

“You’re not invited.”

A few murmurs spun through the crowd. Some people giggled. Others gawked at Josh and me. A few looked uncomfortable and some stepped backward, as if to give the showdown between Bruce and me more space. Everyone knew life inside Heritage High meant being a part of a hierarchy, just like I did. Blake and Bruce enjoyed the comforts of pseudo friendships with people they thought mattered while Josh, Nathan, Mark and I swam along the bottom next to the band geeks, computer freaks and poor kids. A fight between the two circles always made for good entertainment.

“Sure I’m invited,” I told Bruce after a few seconds of stalemate. “This is my house.”

He stood up from the couch and took a purposeful step toward me. “Get the fuck out of here, Geoff.”

“I’m not going to—”

“Get the fuck out of here, now.”

“Come on,” I said locking my eyes with his as I took I sip of the beer. It tasted like sour water, and I wanted to spit it out, but I didn’t. “You don’t mean that.”

“This isn’t a party for you, or assholes like you.”

“Come on, Blake,” Bruce said, but he shut up when Blake shot him a glare.

“You weren’t invited, asswipe.” His voice grew louder, until it made Kanye West sound like a whining child. “And if you’ll go on ahead and leave—”

My laughter cut him off. He took another step toward me.

“Seriously, you aren’t invited. And you know not to come in the basement. What the fuck do you want, Geoff?”

“Oh nothing,” I said. “Just wanted to let you know—the neighbor was complaining.” I switched my attention to the rest of the crowd. “About the loud music.”

Bruce crossed his arms and gave me one of those looks that told me he didn’t buy what I was selling. I had to try harder. A lot harder.

“I think they called the cops.” I glanced back at Josh, looking for someone to back me up on my lie. He nodded in agreement. “Yeah. They did. Said they could hear the music in their kitchen.”

“Which neighbor?”

“The Andersons. Mrs. Anderson.” I looked down at my watch. “That was about fifteen minutes ago. I think—well, I wouldn’t be surprised if the cops showed up soon. She was really pissed. Like,
really
pissed.”

“I didn’t think she was home.” Bruce sounded skeptical.

“I took the call,” I told him, making sure I didn’t waver on my lie. “Didn’t I, Josh?”

Josh answered my question with an emphatic nod.

Bruce still didn’t seem convinced. “You don’t—”

“I tried to stop her from calling,” I said. “But I don’t think she wanted to listen to me.”

“Shit,” Evan said from the back of the room. “I gotta—I can’t get arrested again. I don’t want to risk my scholarship.”

“I should leave, too,” a brunette junior girl who was sitting on the large leather chair near the sofa, said. “I can’t get arrested again—” She stood up and brushed pizza crumbs and marijuana off her skirt. “Oh my God. I really should go.”

“Wait.” Blake held up his hand from his place by the stereo. He turned the volume down. “We don’t know she called. Geoff could just be lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

Bruce’s lips twisted. “I bet you are, you little piss ant.”

“Do you really want to find out?” I asked.

“I don’t,” said the junior girl as she pulled on her puffy red Columbia jacket. “I really don’t.”

“Yeah, I’m leaving, too,” said a girl right beside her. “Where did I put my coat?”

“Where did I put my shirt?” asked the girl in the bra. She began searching the room for it, and I had to bite back a grin. Her boobs looked kind of funny as they bounced around in black lace.

“Goddamn it,” Bruce muttered.

Once I heard that, I full on smiled. Nothing could break up a party like the threat of the cops. It was funny, really, how easy it was to do it. They were all lemmings—all followers.

“Nice work,” Josh said under his breath.

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W
EDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 6

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T
HAT WINTER, I would stumble through the aisles of Target three times a week. I couldn’t really place why I wound up there so much. Sometimes I just went there and walked around to pass the time. Something about the wide shelves and red paint attracted me. It was a good place to get lost and blow the $50 a week David and my mom gave me for chores around the house. Plus, Target had cheap graphic tees and a decent video game selection. Just so long as I stayed away from the Megadeth t-shirts.

I picked out a shirt that said, “Trust me, I’m a doctor” and walked, as usual, to the video game section. Racks of games stretched out on one side, while rows of computer parts and accessories lined the other. My hand skimmed through the games, but I didn’t really see them. Shoppers strolled past me on their way to the toy section and the food, and boredom arrived. Maybe I’d buy this game, or that game. Or none of them at all. I’d been there a few minutes when a twist of my stomach told me to look up.

Laine stood at the end of the row.

“Hey. What are you doing here?” I asked, as I walked over to her. She had one hand on her hip, a red basket in her other hand, and a large grin on her face. And, God, she wore that leather jacket like she’d just come from a Victoria’s Secret catalog photo shoot.

She held up the basket, half full of makeup, shoes, and books. “Buying stuff. Since that’s what people do here.”

“Just like how they study in a library.”

“Exactly.” She grinned. “Sometimes they study there.”

“Other times, they just go there to get away from people.”

She stepped closer and everything about her body language enticed me, from the smile that danced on her lips to the way her body showed off her breasts. And again, she smelled like bubblegum lip-gloss. Damn, I was going to have to bottle that scent. “Is that what you do in the library?”

“No,” I whispered.

“I thought maybe you liked to be alone.”

“Well,” I faltered, my voice growing weak as my neck flushed, “I don’t know—”

“Like here in Target,” she said, her voice low. “Do you like to be alone in Target?”

“Well, I mean...” I struggled to find something to say as I realized her voice had just given me a hard-on.

Shit.

Her eyes widened after another second of uncomfortable stuttering from me. “How’s the selection?”

“Of what?”

“Video games. Computer parts.”

“Oh, right,” I replied. “It’s fine. Good. No, great. You know, since it’s Wal—I mean, Sam’s—I mean, since it’s Target.”

She giggled, and I wanted to disappear into the floor. I really needed to stop getting so flustered whenever she was around me. I was starting to annoy myself. Not a good look for me—even if she was the most intimidating girl in school. I needed to pull my ass together.

“Hmm.” She took a few steps past me, and out of instinct I followed her lead. “I was thinking of getting something myself.”

“Like what?”

She paused above the games marked with a ‘M’. “
Mass Effect 3
.”

I gawked at her. “You do not want to buy that game.”

“Why not?”

Her fingers flipped through the cases, and I watched her do it with interest. This must have been a joke. Surely, there couldn’t have been something for sale in this section of Target that she’d want. She belonged somewhere else, like trying on cheap boots in the shoe section, or scooping up trendy necklaces in accessories. And didn’t she like scarves? Target sold plenty of those.

“I’ve played all the other ones,” she said. “My older brother, Todd, got me into it when he came home from Kent State at Christmas.”

“Really?” I didn’t even try to hide the surprise in my voice. I had so much trouble believing that the school goddess liked a first-person shooter game about the end of the world. She wouldn’t want something like that. She wouldn’t even know about a game like that. Right?

“You know,” she said as she pulled
Mass Effect 3
off the rack. Her eyes didn’t meet mine. “I’ve told you before. You really should stop being so judgmental of people.”

“Why do you think that? I’m not judgmental.”

“Yeah, you are.” She slipped the game into the basket. “You like to put people in boxes, don’t you?”

“No.”

“Do people put you in a box?”

“No,” I replied. “Well—I mean—kind of . . .”

“I think it’s a defense mechanism.”

“It is not.” We fell into step together as she started walking down the aisle and away from the electronics section of the store.

“You know, not everyone at Heritage is so bad, Geoff.”

What the hell did she mean by that?

“I wouldn’t say I like putting people in boxes,” I said after a few moments of awkward silence. “And I just know my place in the world.”

Laine stopped in between a rack of workout clothes and the shoe section, which already showed a display of sandals. She narrowed her eyes at me. “And what place is that?”

“I’m a dork. You’re popular. We don’t mix.”

“Pfft. That is such a stupid rule. This is senior year. We’ve been at the same school together for years, and it’s almost over. What does all that stuff matter?”

“I think it matters to a lot of people still.”

“That’s where I think you’re wrong.” She braced herself against the end cap of shoes, and studied me. “By the way, that was an awesome stunt you pulled the other night.”

“Stunt?” I feigned ignorance.

“Yeah. Faking the police call.”

“It wasn’t fake.”

She crossed her arms, and grinned. “Did they ever come? Monica said Blake told her they didn’t.”

“They came,” I lied.

“Sure they did. I believe you.” A conspiratorial look crossed her face. “I know Mrs. Anderson lives three houses away from yours. There’s no way she heard the party. It wasn’t that loud.” She shrugged. “Not that it matters. It wasn’t that great of a party, anyway.”

“What? You don’t like Blake and Bruce’s epic parties?”

She laughed.

“Smelled like it had some good pot,” I said.

“I don’t smoke pot, Geoff.”

“Me either,” I admitted, then looked down at my watch. “Oh, wow. It’s already like five p.m.”

“It is? Really?” She backed away from me, and her eyes darted around the empty aisles, as if she expected to see someone creeping up on us.

“Yep.”

“Whoops, I gotta go. Now.” She moved into the aisle. I followed her, curious about the drastic change in her voice and mannerisms. Did I hear panic in her voice? Why had her eyes widened so much?

“Laine, wait—”

She shook her head. “I’m gonna be late.”

“For what?”

“Dinner,” she said quickly. “I’m supposed to have dinner with Evan’s family.”

“Evan.” The word tasted like rotting onions in my mouth. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t want you to be late for that.” The panic I heard in her voice reminded me of that day in the hallway, and the bruise. “What about your arm? Is it any better?”

“My arm?” Now she really sounded panicked. “Why are you asking about that?”

“I don’t know. I just saw the bruise the other day, and it’s been bothering me. Is it still there?” It was one of the many times in life I wished I had laser vision, or the ability to read minds.

“Oh, that. Totally healed. See ya later, Geoff,” she said, already ten feet away from me. She turned, and kept walking to the front of the store. I watched her round ass get smaller and smaller as she took the smell of bubblegum and floral perfume with her.

Once again, I was all alone.

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T
HURSDAY, FEBRUARY 14

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O
F ALL THE days I hated at Heritage, Valentine’s Day was one I hated the most. Every day of the week leading up to it, sophomore members of the Student Council sat in the front lobby selling candy grams and carnations at a large table decorated with a big sign. They sold these with gusto, as if they relished this job the same way a baker relished a new recipe. No one escaped the sales pitch.

“Would you like to buy a candy gram?” a girl with long black curls shouted at everyone who walked by between 7:45 a.m. and the first bell at 8:15 a.m. “How about a carnation?”

“They’re only three dollars,” a guy with braces and a blue polo shirt chimed in, a plastic smile affixed to his face. “Goes to a great cause.”

They never added that not getting one of these during first period on Valentine’s Day equaled being branded a loser. Oh no, they never mentioned that.

Each sale acted as a fundraiser for the Student Council Scholarship, a $500 award given each year to a senior. Most years, the valedictorian won the money, which meant Harvard-bound Nichole Reese would get it this year. Damn her. She had a better GPA than me by two tenths of a point, cried when she didn’t make an A on a test, and held the state record in tennis. We were not friends. Not even frienemies.

We competed in an open war.

I’d heard people talk about Valentine’s Day in almost every conversation for the two days prior to the fourteenth. It had covered the halls like slime, and strangled the conversation between classes.

“Do you think Greg will send me a carnation?”

“I’m not sure who to send my candy grams to this year.”

“Oh my God, I just, well, I was thinking I might tell Kevin how I feel about him on Valentine’s Day.”

“I can’t believe Amanda broke up with me right before Valentine’s. She’s such a bitch.”

“I hate this day. Don’t even want to think about it. Maybe I’ll tell my parents I’m sick, and stay home eating chocolate.”

Which is why today, Valentine’s Day itself, my stomach constricted as I sat in AP English. All around me, classmates sat patient, expectant, and awaiting their deliveries. I heard Heather Smith tell Kendall Ace she thought she might get a candy gram from Bruce this year. Kendall then confided her hopes for one from Vince Stephens. Other students speculated on who would get candy grams and carnations, the same way people talked about who might win the NCAA. Even Nichole Reese, who sat diagonal to me, seemed excited this year, a wide smile on her face. Disgusted and annoyed, I shook my head, opened up my binder, and waited for Mr. Langston to start his lesson on British poetry.