12 Julia
Julia
Westport, Connecticut
He told me to meet him at the Starbucks.
I have no idea where the hell Wendy was when I tried to find her after the last bell.
I wanted to tell her about my rendezvous with Casey.
Then there was the issue of getting here.
I had to promise the most unlikable girl at school that I would attend her upcoming birthday bash to get a ride.
I swear my parents are the worst. Every senior in my class has a car except me.
Well, and Wendy. She can’t help it, but it’s not like we can’t afford one.
I toss my now cold latte into the trash and start to pace the parking lot once more. Luckily there’s no one from school—at least no one I know—still here. How humiliating to be stood up like this. It’s now after six o’clock, and Casey still hasn’t shown.
I could die. I would rather die than go home. I’ll just stand out here forever, I guess. My parents think I’m spending the night with a friend. It’s the perfect opportunity for another sleepover with Casey. Damn it! Why is he wasting this opportunity for us to be together?
If I keep circling the parking lot, the manager will probably think I’m a hooker and call the cops.
Maybe I’ll just walk home and hide from the world.
I look away as yet another car rounds the back of the building heading for the street.
I refuse to fake a smile for anyone else or insist I’m okay to the next worried mom fueling up on her fave Frappuccino.
“Need a ride?”
My gaze snaps forward. My jaw drops, and then I laugh. “What the hell?”
Wendy is behind the wheel of an ancient Mercedes. A Mercedes! Hey, it might be old, but it’s a very nice ride. I’m certain it must belong to Colleen, Wendy’s foster mom.
“Colleen is in New Haven for a few days. Her daughter’s having a baby.”
I go for the passenger’s-side door. “And she left you her keys?”
Wendy shrugs. “She left the keys where she always does—hanging by the back door.” She surveys the dash. “It’s an oldie but in mint condition.”
“It’s a ride,” I say. “Who cares about anything else?”
“Where would you like to go?” Wendy beams at me. “I’ll be your chauffeur for the evening.”
“I was supposed to spend the night with him,” I admit, devastated.
“Guys are jerks.” Wendy rolls to the street. “Fucking you one day and ignoring you the next.”
She’s right and I hate her for it.
“I’m thinking how absolutely awesome we are,” she announces with a wicked grin, “and how we need to do something equally awesome.”
I grin. “What do you have in mind?”
“Music, dancing, and alcohol. Not necessarily in that order.”
“Sounds good to me,” I agree.
She changes lanes and speeds up. “Since we have all night, let’s go to my place and get you changed into something sluttier. We’ll find a club. Figure a way in and get shit-faced on the dance floor.”
“Let’s go to Norwalk. I know a place you’ll love.” I’ve been there with Casey. Maybe he’ll be there. I don’t mention this to Wendy. She would just tell me it’s a bad idea.
At her foster mother’s house, we climb out. The small in-town house is quaint. There’s a picket fence around the tiny yard. The seafoam-green paint is peeling from the exterior to join all the kitschy clutter in the yard. Nothing like the lake house where I live.
When I’m properly dressed in a skimpy lace cami, supertight black mini, and black combat boots, I stand back and hold out my arms. “Well?”
Wendy looks me up and down with a scrutinizing eye. “Perfect.” She reaches out, flicks the dainty heart on the necklace she gave me. “I like that you wear it.”
“Of course I do.” I loop my arm around her neck, and we stare at our reflections in the mirror.
“We’re really fucking hot,” she says.
“Yes, we are.” I turn to her and waggle my eyebrows. “Very hot.”
“Let’s get out of here,” she declares. “The night’s a-wastin’!”
We head out in the vintage Mercedes. On the way we gorge on chips and sodas that we snagged from the kitchen. We’re going to have the best night ever. I close my eyes and force away the image of Casey.
It’s just after eight thirty by the time we arrive at the SoNo club.
Kind of early, but we’re not the first ones to arrive.
Norwalk’s south side is where most of the clubs are.
But this one is different. Casey only brought me once, but I will never forget that night.
This club is off the beaten path in an old warehouse.
There’s no name outside. No designated parking area.
Nothing but the decrepit structure. However it looks, the music is killer, and the people are so into themselves they barely notice you. Utterly bitchin’.
Wendy parks the Mercedes in the alley, and we walk the half block to the side entrance. She has a fake ID claiming she is twenty-one, but I don’t. I’m hoping the guy at the door is the same one from my one time here with Casey.
I smile when I see the big man with the bald head. He’s like one of those huge football players who only has to step in front of another player to stop him. “It’s him,” I murmur to Wendy.
A few more steps and we’re at the door. It’s difficult to tell if the big guy recognizes me since his expression remains unchanged.
“Jeffrey, good to see you again. Are we too early?” I hold my breath.
The slightest hint of a grin tips one corner of his mouth. “You’re Casey’s friend.”
“Yes.” I can breathe again.
He opens the door, and the dance music flows over us. “You and your friend”—he eyes Wendy—“have a good time.”
“We will. Trust me,” Wendy assures him. The dress she wears is like skin, melted and poured from her breasts to the tops of her thighs. It’s black and sleek. She is so sexy.
Inside the place is packed. The lighting is so low you can hardly see where you’re going, and the smoke is thick. From the smell of it, I’d say mostly weed. Wendy takes my hand and pulls me through the fray of moving bodies until we reach one of several portable bars.
“J?gerbombs,” she orders. She leans close and whispers in my ear. “I hope you can pay.”
I nod. “I’ve got this.”
“Look,” she says as we wait for the drinks, her voice barely audible with the music thumping around us, “I’m not trying to be a downer, but your boyfriend gives me serious psycho vibes.”
“Please,” I drag the word out as I roll my eyes and lean closer so that our foreheads touch. “You only met him once.”
She stares into my eyes. “The things you’ve told me, like watching those young girls and chatting them up, that’s not right. He’s not right.”
Before I can argue, the bartender places the glasses in front of us, and I prepare to pay. He holds up a hand. “Your drinks for the evening are on the gentleman at the table.” He cocks his head to the left.
We both look in that direction. An older man—probably as old as my father—lifts his glass to us. Wendy and I look at each other, smile, and lift our glasses to him. As soon as we finish the drinks, another round appears.
When we’re feeling very, very good, we slip into the hot tangle of bodies moving to the music. Wendy pulls me close, her body sliding against mine. “I don’t know what that guy thinks the drinks are buying him,” she whispers against my ear, her lips warm and wet, “but it ain’t happening.”
We laugh and decide to give him a killer show for his generosity.
We dance, our bodies swaying together, our hips grinding . . . our arms around each other and our lips and tongues trailing over slick, hot skin. The man never takes his eyes off us. It’s crazy exciting.
I forget all about the thing Wendy said about Casey. She’s wrong . . . she just doesn’t know him.
I don’t remember going back to Westport, but Wendy took care of me. I vaguely remember thinking how lucky I was to have her as a friend.
I couldn’t know that was the beginning of the end of us.