2. Kendall
CHAPTER TWO
Kendall
THEN
Whoever invented commercially manufactured
HAPPY BIRTHDAY signs should’ve thought of a better way for them to be hung. Two flimsy strings on both ends are just not efficient. And not to mention, completely unfriendly to those with a height disadvantage.
“It’s crooked.”
I look over my shoulder with a flat look of disapproval. Sylvia’s smug smile greets me along with her palms braced to her hips. Her hair is up in giant pink rollers, and one eye is lined with black eyeliner.
“You are not supposed to be here,” I remind her. “This is your party, and it’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“It’s not my fault Tommy can’t keep a secret.”
“Hey,” Tommy argues. “I can keep a secret.” His side of the HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign starts to slip.
“You literally told her the second I texted you we were throwing her a surprise party,” I remind him. “A puppy at a dog treat buffet has better self-control.”
“Wha—” he starts to argue.
“Come on,” I interrupt. “This sign isn’t going to put itself up.” I motion my chin at his corner, urging him to maintain his focus. I turn to Sylvia and add, “And you. Finish getting ready for your party.”
Sylvia turns toward her room, muttering under her breath, “Gosh, she’s so bossy.”
Tommy and I manage to finish our sign. The edges are even enough that we can hide it behind some curled ribbon and balloons.
More people arrive. Some from Joss Elementary, checking their academic hats at the door and plucking figurative party hats under their chins.
As his punishment, and as a part of his boyfriend-of-the-birthday-girl responsibilities, I assign Tommy snack duty.
Refilling chip bowls when they’re empty, making sure the drinks in the coolers are cold, keeping a constant eye on the playlist we have hooked up to an amp.
When Sylvia comes out dressed in her party dress, one she picked out during an after-school shopping trip I took her on, everyone cheers. Shot glasses are filled, party wings are passed around, and rambunctious music fills Sylvia’s small one-bedroom apartment.
I’m nursing a plastic tumbler filled with wine, despite Sylvia’s protest I should be opting for something more daring like vodka or tequila, when she stumbles into me.
“Have I told you how much I love you?” she slurs, wrapping her arms around my neck.
“Uh, yeah,” I answer. “You told me about eight minutes ago when I got you the last chicken wing.”
“Because you know how much I looove chicken wings!” The tip of her tongue curls over her top teeth when she says “love,” making me wonder whether she’d choose a chicken drumette over me if we were to call her from opposite corners of the room.
I laugh at her unfolding affection as she disappears back into the party, looking for more people to pour her adoration over.
The cupcake display is bare, with the exception of the last red velvet cupcake, cream cheese frosting and all.
After stuffing myself with chicken wings and salty potato chips, the craving for something sweet hits my tongue like a fresh wave of thirst. My mouth starts to water at the thought of sinking my teeth into a large bite of equal parts cake and frosting.
But it seems I’m not the only one ogling the white swirls. Just as my fingers carefully wrap around the near translucent wrapper, someone else’s hand curls over mine.
“Excuse me,” I say to the faultless, innocent eyes surveying my cupcake as if they’ve already licked the tip to mark their territory.
“No problem,” he answers politely. Too politely. His jaw squares when it’s obvious I have no intention of stepping aside and gracefully relinquishing my dessert to him. As if I’d be so kind to someone who’s trying to steal what is so obviously rightfully mine.
Though we’ve exchanged pleasantries—a common discourse when two strangers are mucked up in a misunderstanding—our hands are still on the cupcake. His large one on top of mine. I feel his fingers flex, making my middle finger dig into the delicate spongy cake.
“Your fingers are leaving indentations in my cupcake,” he informs me, as if I don’t already know something so airy and light needs to be handled with care.
“Well, if you weren’t squeezing my hand, I wouldn’t be squishing my cupcake,” I refute, emphasizing whose hand is literally on the damn cupcake.
“I saw it first.”
“Yeah, well I touched it first.” My eyes narrow at the same time his lips twist into what I can only deduce is a smile. We play an unauthorized round of the staring contest when he falters.
His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. “So, finders, keepers?”
I nod.
“Care to negotiate a…barter?” he suggests.
My right eyebrow curves upward. “A barter?”
With his hand still crooked over mine in a more possessive and less protective manner, he reaches into his back pocket. “The cupcake for a bag of peanut M&M’s.”
“Do you always keep a bag of candy in your back pocket?”
“I saw some in line at the checkout.”
“Maybe you should’ve gotten some cupcakes while you were there.”
“I was getting the ice.” He tilts his head toward the coolers in the kitchen, and I start to wonder who this cupcake burglar is. Especially if Tommy entrusted him with the ice delivery.
I look at the crinkled bag held between us, already opened with one end folded and rolled toward the center. “You already ate some of them.”
“And?” he asks.
“And it doesn’t feel like a fair trade,” I answer. “A spongy red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting for a half-eaten bag of M&M’s?”
He shoves the M&M’s back into his pocket, his ploy a dud. “Okay then. How about we split it?”
“Like share?”
He smirks as if he finds our current predicament amusing. “Yes, I believe they taught us that in kindergarten. On the first day, in fact.”
My free hand furls into a fist and rests on my hip. “I think I know a little bit about kindergarteners.”
“Ah, so you’re one of them.”
A frown undoes the curiosity that laps over what sounds like an accusation. “One of them?”
“Teachers?” He says the word as if it should have a set of air quotes around it.
“Is there something wrong with being a teacher?”
He shrugs, like the question might be up for debate. “No.”
“But…”
“Just seems like a lot of menial work for such little reward.” He pauses, finally letting go of the cupcake. “Sylvia seems to bring a lot of that shit home, and—”
“Wait. Who are you?” I cut in.
“James,” he answers. His shoulders square, and he stands a little taller. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it. “Tommy’s roommate,” he adds.
My hand ditches the cupcake, and it sits there, unattended. “You’re James James,” I say, a loose, accusatory finger pointed in his direction.
He leans closer with a tilted smile. “She talks about me?”
I nod, my lips twisting closed. A key twisting in a lock to secure a secret. “Something like that.”
His brow knits together as if he’s playing into my personal guessing game. “Should I be worried?”
“Worried about what?”
“About what she said,” he answers matter-of-factly.
It’s my turn to throw out an ambiguous shrug. “I don’t think so.”
“‘You don’t think so,’” he parrots. “Well, what did she say about me?”
Whatever negotiation we’ve attempted to draw up has rippled into other more important things. Like gossip and reputation.
“Just that you’re Tommy’s roommate,” I finally answer. “And…”
“And?”
“And that you have a very concerning obsession with homemade kombucha.”
“Kombucha.” His indignation cleaves its way through our repartee, and I can tell his priorities have shifted.
“Apparently it makes the apartment smell like vinegar,” I explain, “and it puts a damper on Sylvia and Tommy’s…sex life.”
“How so?” he demands. I start to feel a little culpable for the magnifying glass placed over his lifestyle choices, and I offer a rueful smile that teeters a little closer to amusement rather than compunction.
“It gives her a headache, so she can’t spend the night,” I confess, twisting my fingers in a knot. “And she might’ve mentioned that the scoby jars look like fermenting body parts.”
I don’t miss the grimace pinching his brows together. “So, I’ve become an unintentional cock block.”
“I’m afraid so,” I admit. I clamp my teeth over my bottom lip, hoping if I do so, I’ll stop making the poor guy feel bad.
“Sounds like something I should be worried about.”
“Probably.”
Just as we’re mulling over his newfound guilt and my inability to keep my mouth shut, the cupcake disappears right in front of our eyes. We see it enter the gaping mouth of another partygoer, and our sugar-filled dreams wither away into dust.
We face each other, our jaws a few inches closer to the floor than they were a second ago.
“I think it’s time you share your M&M’s.”
“Kendall!” An uncoordinated body stumbles into mine at the same time my name is mixed into the raucous chatter and upbeat pop music. Sylvia leans her wobbly head on my shoulder. “You met James!”
I purse my lips through an impish smile. “I did.”
“You know, he loves kombucha.”
“You don’t say.”