Chapter Twenty-Nine
The living room lighting in Elliott’s house is dim, casting a greyish-yellow haze over the group of mostly boys sprawled out across the huge mustard-coloured corner sofa Laura agonised about buying last year.
They’re staring so intently up at the TV mounted on the wall across the room, where slightly pixelated soccer players run up and down a field, that it takes a few seconds before anyone clocks my arrival.
‘Indie!’ Elliott exclaims, an Xbox controller in his hands and an opened bottle of beer between his knees. He tosses the controller to someone beside him and flies to his feet. ‘You’re here! I knew you’d show. Julian owes me five bucks.’
Arms outstretched, Elliott wraps me in a hug that smells like beer and his spicy cologne. In all the time I’ve known him, I don’t think we’ve ever hugged. Still, relief, though tiny, flickers in me. At least one person is happy to see me.
Mostly everyone is still wearing their tuxes minus the suit jackets, the few girls draped on the couch in their dresses but without shoes.
Though I at least took a shower and brushed my teeth, I’m still majorly underdressed in my oversized black-and-white striped sweater and jeans, my wet hair hanging limp around my face.
I couldn’t even wear the blue dress Sam bought me if I’d wanted to, though, after I threw it down on the cafeteria table and didn’t look back.
At the memory, I fight a cringe. I need to find Sam, make this right.
‘Let’s get you a drink,’ Elliott says.
He sets a gentle hand on my shoulder and leads me towards the kitchen.
My head is on a constant swivel, searching the crowd for my best friend.
There must be at least forty people here, most of whom are varsity soccer players and their dates.
No wonder it was so loud. Sam is probably outside somewhere with Julian.
The kitchen floor is sticky with alcohol, and I try not to think about what Laura will say when she gets home tomorrow.
Scattered across the counter are at least five half-empty bottles of liquor and a stack of red plastic cups.
A couple of girls are talking loudly and filling shot glasses with an unidentified alcohol the colour of pool water.
‘Okay,’ Elliott stretches out his arms, the ringmaster of this drunk circus, ‘we’ve got beer, some really disgusting vodka, beer, a couple White Claws – although actually, I think Julian finished those – and more beer.’
I sling my backpack down on one of the last free scraps of countertop. ‘Sounds like you have a lot of beer,’ I say.
‘It’s mostly beer, yeah.’
‘Then I will drink beer, please.’
There’s a half a handle of strawberry gin in my backpack, but it feels too strong a start to the night. I hadn’t necessarily even planned on drinking anything, but now that I’m here, surrounded by the warm fug of drunk teenagers and preparing to talk to Sam, a beer might actually be helpful.
‘Good choice.’
Elliott downs whatever’s left of his beer and drops it in the recycling can. He retrieves two bottles from the inner door of the fridge and twists off their metal caps.
‘I’m really glad you came,’ he says, handing me a bottle.
His black tuxedo jacket is a little big for him, the arms baggy and hanging over his wrists. A gold bow tie is cinched at his neck, where tendrils of his shaggy hair curl just above his white shirt collar.
‘Yeah, well, I could already hear everything that was happening, so I felt like I might as well actually show up.’
He pretends to grimace. ‘Yeah,’ he says, drawing out the word apologetically. ‘Sorry about that.’
Tipping the bottle back, I take a long drink, the bubbles so sharp as they fizzle down my throat that my eyes prick with tears. They leave a warmth in their place that’s slow to spread down my arms, pool in my stomach.
‘So, how was prom?’ I say, feeling perked up. ‘Where’s Maya?’
Elliott’s face darkens for a fraction of a second, but it’s quickly followed by a cynical smile. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘The last time I saw her, she was by the bathrooms making out with some junior from the water polo team, so …’
‘What?’ I say. ‘Are you serious?’
He takes a drink of his beer. ‘I’m used to it,’ he says with a shrug.
My hand reaches out to touch his elbow but before it lands, Julian bursts through the back door.
‘Holy shit, you’re here!’ he bellows, swallowing me up in a bear hug. You’d never know he’s been icing me out for the last four days.
Elliott, as though he’s thinking the same thing, smiles at me around the mouth of his beer bottle.
‘Where’s Sam?’ I ask once Julian finally lets go.
His tux is more or less exactly the same as Elliott’s, except his bow tie is emerald. But because he’s a little taller, his suit fits better on his arms, his long, slender frame making him look every bit the soccer player.
‘She’s outside,’ Julian says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder towards the backyard. ‘I was just coming in to grab us a drink.’
‘I’ll do it,’ I say.
Julian opens his mouth like he might have something to say about this, but Elliott nudges him with his elbow and gives him a look. Before either of them can speak, I grab another beer from the fridge and slip outside.
Out back is more of a concrete courtyard.
The patio is boxed in by tall wooden fences and anchored by a square firepit that’s propped up on four metal legs.
Only two other people are out here – I think one is a guy who plays soccer with Elliott and Julian, but I can’t really tell, because his face is buried too far in the girl’s neck as she giggles shamelessly.
Trying my best to ignore them, I sit down in the empty chair beside Sam.
‘Oh my God,’ I say, holding out the new beer to her. ‘You look … incredible.’
She’s wearing a deep, Christmas-green dress with thin straps and a long slit up the side, displaying one pale leg that glows orange in the firelight. Combined with the soft waves in her dark hair, nude-coloured lips and a simple cat eye, she looks like a classic forties movie star.
‘Yeah, no thanks to you,’ she grumbles, grabbing the beer from me.
I press my hands between my thighs and stare at the flames as they bend and stretch across each other.
The only sound is the music that’s leaking in from the kitchen, and the couple beside us, who are whispering to each other.
I glare in their direction, willing them to get the message that I’m about to embark on a kind of delicate topic, but they’re too wrapped up in each other to notice or care.
Freaking prom.
A minute or so of uncomfortable silence passes between me and Sam, both of us sipping our beers, before she says without looking at me, ‘I’m not just some lovesick loser.’
I look up at her. ‘I didn’t call you a—’
‘You basically did.’
I sigh through my nose, turn back towards the fire. ‘Well, I didn’t mean to,’ I say. ‘And I’m sorry for everything I said. I know you really like Julian, and I’m happy for you—’
‘Could’ve fooled me.’
‘I just felt …’ My argument with Sam had felt like a slow burn, a bunch of tiny reasons piling up until eventually the tower toppled.
But as I’ve played the scene over and over again in my head the last week, one particular reason for it has stood out.
Something almost too embarrassing to admit: I want what Sam has. ‘Jealous, I guess …’
Sam turns in her chair to face me. ‘Wait,’ she says. ‘Did you ask Max to prom and he said no?’ Panic sparkles in her eyes. ‘Why didn’t you tell me—’
‘No, no,’ I rush. ‘I didn’t ask Max. I didn’t ask anyone.
’ My brain cycles through possible explanations, something to make her understand.
‘I think – I think I was jealous because … because it’s so easy for you.
You like someone, you go after it, and they like you back. Happily ever after, the end.’
The couple exchange awkward glances before scrambling out of the patio chair and hurrying up the stairs that lead back to Elliott’s kitchen. Finally, it’s just me and Sam.
Confusion flickers across her face. ‘But you could have that too.’
‘No, I know,’ I say. ‘Maybe. One day, I mean. At least, I hope so.’ Because if not— ‘But I wasn’t ready for it,’ I say, cutting off that thought before it can root itself too deep. ‘The blue dress, Max’s prom ticket. It … it was—’
‘A lot,’ Sam finishes for me. Her shoulders deflate a little. ‘I know, and I’m sorry too. Even Julian said I was acting like a momager.’
‘Jesus,’ I say. ‘Julian was the voice of reason?’
Sam peeps up at me through her thick curtain of hair and smirks.
‘Don’t.’ She uses her nail, painted with silver sparkles, to pick off the corner of her beer bottle’s label.
‘I just want you to be happy. You’re my best friend.
I think that’s part of why I went full on Kris Kardashian about prom.
Because I just wanted to be there with you. ’
‘I want you to be happy too,’ I say, thinking of my mom. ‘And I’m sorry I’ve flaked on so many Flirty Fridays, I just—’
‘No, you didn’t need to care about that stuff any more just because I do.’ She smiles at me sadly. ‘I think because it used to be our thing, when you stopped caring about it, it felt like you didn’t really – I don’t know, like you didn’t care about me any more either.’
My brain scrambles to compute her words. ‘I could never not care about you,’ I say. The thought is so outrageous, I can feel my whole body recoiling from it. ‘You’re my best friend too.’
Sam’s eyes glisten as she gives me a small, watery smile.
Before I know it, we’re both crying, draped over the arms of our respective chairs and clinging to each other’s necks like we’re Buttercup hitching a ride up the Cliffs of Insanity in The Princess Bride.
When we both pull away, we each wipe the snot and tears from the other’s faces.
‘Tell me about prom,’ I say, taking a shaky sip of beer.
‘We don’t have to talk about it,’ she says. ‘Seriously, let’s—’
‘No, come on,’ I insist. ‘Tell me.’
‘Well.’ Her cheeks are flushed a light pink.
‘It was a dream come true,’ she says in a cartoon voice, then chuckles.
‘No, it was fun. Predictable. Cringy dancing, Avery was crowned prom queen …’ I flinch instinctively at the mention of Avery, but Sam doesn’t seem to notice.
‘Oh my God,’ she says, her eyes suddenly glimmering with excitement. ‘Did you hear about Shane Bartley?’
Even his name ignites a spark of ick in me. I shake my head.
‘Let me see your phone, mine died.’ Sam flaps her hands at me impatiently.
I hand over my phone. She immediately types in my password, then thumbs through to Snapchat.
The legs of her chair scrape across the concrete as she pulls it closer to me.
‘I can pretty much guarantee …’ Sam mumbles as she clicks on the first story at the top of my feed.
The screen switches to a darkened dance floor that’s illuminated only by flashing pink and blue lights. Prom. ‘Yep, here it is.’
She angles my phone so I can see the whole picture, its caption, PROM QWEEN’S FIRST DANCE!
! stamped at the bottom in rainbow bubble letters.
A huge crowd has opened up enough to create a circular patch of dance floor, where two people slow dance in the centre.
I recognise Avery immediately: the champagne-coloured dress, her waves of blond hair.
Her arms are looped around the neck of Shane Bartley, who looks a little wobbly as he and Avery sway back and forth.
‘Wait for it,’ Sam says under her breath. ‘Wait for it.’
Without warning, Shane spins away from Avery and doubles over, a thick stream of puke waterfalling out of his mouth. Avery rears back, disgusted, and it’s clear she’s screaming something, but it’s impossible to hear over the roaring crowd.
Sam shrieks with laughter. ‘It was so incredible,’ she says, lowering my phone to her lap. ‘Apparently he drank like eight Twisted Teas in the limo on the way there. Mrs Banks had to drag him off the dance floor and he vommed all over her shoes. Everyone was dying.’
I snort, though I can’t help but feel a little bad for Avery. It’s short-lived, though.
The video of Shane over, Snapchat immediately feeds the next Story in line.
It takes a few seconds for me to clock the face, smiling at the camera from a seat on the Metro.
His reddish-blond hair is mostly out of the frame, just a couple curls sneaking in across his forehead.
Even though his eyes are crossed, he looks so breath-crushingly cute, I have to clench my teeth together not to make a sound.
Max.
In the background of the picture, Jake is giving two thumbs up, but I barely register him. All I can do is gaze at Max’s mouth, his playful little smirk, and remember the shape it made when he said my name on his couch, when I’d—
I snatch my phone back and turn off the screen, but Sam has already seen. She presses her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh.
‘Don’t. Say. Anything,’ I grumble.
‘Oh, come on,’ Sam says, unable to hold her laughter in any more. ‘You don’t have to be weird about him, okay? I shouldn’t have pushed him on you – I just really thought you liked him.’
‘I – I …’ I stammer. Like Max? Of course I like Max. As a friend. A friend I may have enjoyed kissing that one time. ‘It’s more complicated than that.’
Ribbons of orange lash across Sam’s face, a breeze brushing back the delicate waves of her hair.
She reaches over to grab my hands and stares at me, her lips parted and one eyebrow quirked as though she knows there’s more to this story, because of course she does.
This is my best friend. My best friend, who I’ve been lying to for months.
‘Sam,’ I say, the sudden urge to just spill everything, finally, rushing to the front of my mouth. ‘I need to—’
The screen door bangs open and Julian appears at the top of the stairs. ‘You two,’ he says, pointing to us. ‘Beer pong. Right now.’
Sam squeezes my hands and shouts back up, ‘Just give us a second, we’ll be right there.’
I swallow hard. Just like that, the opportunity is gone. So fast, I wonder if it was ever there at all.
‘No, it’s cool,’ I say, standing.
‘Are you sure?’ Sam asks.
‘Yeah, totally,’ I say. ‘We’ll talk later.’
But I can tell from the look she gives me that we both know I’m lying.