Trinkets (5 page)

“What’s wrong?” Kayla asked when her cousin waddled over like she had on a diaper full of fire ants. Her cousin pointed to her crotch and whispered to Kayla, “Sticky side up, right?”

Brady lets go of my waist. “We’re going to Jason’s for an after-party. You ready?”

I stare at him. “I just got here.”

“So?”

“So, I haven’t even finished my drink.” I hold up my daiquiri as proof, then look at his perfect mouth, which I once again want to punch.

“So? Finish it in the car.”

I stare at Brady. How did I end up with a boyfriend like this? A boyfriend whose talents are scoring points in lacrosse, monitoring my body fat, and being a dick. He knows I don’t like Jason Baines. I’ve told him that a hundred times. I don’t like this Jason or any Jason. “Jason” is the universal moniker of assholes. I’ve never met one who’s cool. And this particular one—with his jock complex and his self-absorbed, IQ-limited girlfriend, Dakota—is definitely
not
cool. I see the night unfolding exactly as every night with Jason unfolds: Brady and Jason staying up until four in the morning, getting drunker and drunker and stupider and stupider, and me sitting there talking to Dakota. Who, by the way, has been known to make racial slurs when she’s hammered. Sometimes I wish I could kidnap her and drop her smack-dab in the middle of Felony Flats in the middle of the night and see how far her mouth gets her.

Brady knows how I feel, but he’s decided to trap me into going to Jason’s by suggesting it in front of ten other people. If I say no, I’ll look like a bitch. As of right now, he’s winning this battle. I gulp my daiquiri.

“Can I talk to you in private for a second?” I say, fake-smiling.

“We can talk on the way. Right, guys?” He grins at the guys and then turns back to me with an even smugger smile.

“I’m not going.” I glare at him.

“Oh, really?”

“Yep.”

“Typical,” he sneers.

Kayla shoots Noah a look. Jason gloats. Dakota looks bored.

“What do you mean, ‘typical’?” I retort.

“You’re making a big deal out of nothing. Typical.”

“Fuck you,” I blurt.

Everyone starts to look uncomfortable now. Because of all the people who’d be fighting at a party in front of everyone, it shouldn’t be me and Brady Finch. We’re supposed to be this awesome prince and princess of the high school, two people who look great together and are madly in love.

“I kind of wish you’d pull that giant stick out of your ass,” he says.

Brady and Jason and Noah all laugh. Kayla doesn’t look at me. Suddenly, I don’t want to punch him anymore. I just want to run away. I’m hit with the realization that this is what happens to princesses in real life. They don’t get kissed awake by princes. They don’t get handed the keys to the kingdom. They don’t live happily ever after. In real life, they are publicly humiliated; they are thrown from their towers. This is what they don’t tell you when you are
a little girl: Everyone secretly hates a princess. Everyone wants to see her fall.

Feeling sick to my stomach, I turn and walk out, pawing my way through the drunk crowd like a newly crowned pariah. Finally I get to the front door and walk out of Derek Godfrey’s house, fighting the overwhelming feeling that if I keep going, I’m on my own now, and I’m on my own for good.

“Fuck!” I yell.

I’m drenched in beer, spilled on me by a girl who looks vaguely familiar, with shoulder-length wavy brown hair and a slim build, wearing leggings and a lavender sweater. Basically, she looks like every other girl at LO: utterly, blandly normal.

“Oh! Are you okay?” She looks at my tight white Vanessa Bruno shirt with regret. I stole it six days ago, and tonight was the first night I wore it. Now it’s coated in sticky pink ick. Thanks, bitch.

I hear somebody cackle, and I look back over my shoulder into the house, where Brady and Jason are staring at me. Dakota has her hand over her mouth. A pang of rage zips through me.

I spin back around and snarl at the girl. “Why don’t you watch where the hell you’re going?!”

“I’m—so sorry,” she stammers. “I know people always say they’re sorry when they don’t really mean it, but I’m not one of them. Although—I guess there are some people who don’t say it at all, so maybe it’s better to be someone who says it but doesn’t mean it….” She trails off.

I stare at her. Seriously? She’s choosing to embark on a weird theory about apologies on Derek Godfrey’s porch right now?

The girl digs into her coat pocket for a second and then says, “Here. Use this.”

She holds out a small, folded square piece of cotton. It’s lacy and yellow. I yank it out of her hand and mop my shirt with it.

“You carry this for times when you spill shit all over people?” I snark. Then I realize how bitchy I sound. It’s not this idiot’s fault I’m in a bad mood. I curse the security guard at Nordstrom and low-self-esteem Jean and my wet shirt and Brady Finch and my whole life, before taking a breath. “Sorry,” I mutter.

The girl looks at me for a second, then says, “See? You just did it.”

“What?”

“Said you’re sorry and didn’t mean it,” the girl says. She grabs her yellow handkerchief out of my hand and walks off, down the driveway and into the night.

I got woken up by Noah knocking on my window. He said he left the party because “it was boring without you there.” I thought it was just the alcohol talking, that all he really wanted to do was hook up before going home and passing out, but then he actually started telling me about his night.” He told me Brady Finch is kind of a dick and one time pissed in Patrick Cushman’s locker for no reason. And Patrick, he said, is a guy who’s never done anything dicky to anybody. It confirmed my suspicions that I wouldn’t want to be friends with those types of people. That is, if they ever even tried to talk to me. Although maybe my friends are just as bad, who knows. None of us are perfect, I guess. Anyway, I kept waiting for him to lean over and kiss me, but instead we talked until he fell asleep mid-sentence, and I’m writing this now as he sleeps. He snores a little bit, which is kind of adorable.