Chapter Thirty

      “And then she was like, ‘Uh, we don’t have that color,’ so I was like, ‘Yes, you do, I saw it! Do you even speak English?’ and she was all like, ‘I’ll go look again,’ and yeah,” Lauren concluded her tale that had something to with questioning the legality of immigrants and getting her nails painted. I kind of spaced out when she mentioned something called “shellac”.

      “But you’re nails are pink, just like you wanted,” Alice pointed out.

      “Yeah, but they’re the wrong shade of pink. I wanted Dusty Rose, and this is Rose Pedal; they’re completely different,” the girl protested, sending an unapproved glance down to her nails. They were pink. To me, every variation of the color looked the same. It was fucking pink.

      “Of course,” I humored, though I wasn’t sure if the girls with whom I was seated detected my subtle nod to sarcasm.

      “I’m glad you understand, Liz,” Lauren said sincerely. Evidently, she did not pick up on my tone.

      I was about to reply, though was rudely interrupted by an attack from a boy who went by the name of Eric Wilson. His hands landed on my shoulders, and I didn’t even need to turn around to know it was he. Jerk.

      “Hey!” he greeted cheerfully, oblivious to the disturbance he had made.

      “I was about to say something to Lauren, but, thanks to you, I forget it now,” I huffed, intersecting my arms over one another.

      “Well, I’m sorry,” he apologized, as Alice moved aside on the bench we were seated at to make room for him. He plopped down between her and me, wrapping an arm loosely over my shoulder.

      “You two are just so cute it’s disgusting,” Lauren muttered playfully.

      “Thanks,” Eric said, as I felt his lips collide with the side of my face. “So, what are you doing after school today?”

      Oh, ya know, going to the gym and running around with an orange ball in my hand to the point that I pass out due to a lack of oxygen flow to my lungs, I thought, wondering how he would take it if I actually were to utter those words. Instead, I opted for the oh-so boring, “Nothing, as far as I know.”

      “That’s not true,” he declared. He was right, it wasn’t. I raised a brow, wondering what he meant by his words, as he continued to speak, “We’re going over Alex’s house to chill.” And now, I suppose, I could safely kiss my date with a basketball goodbye.

      “Who’s going to be there?” I queried lightly.

      “Well, Alex, obviously, Joey, Brandon, Alex’s girlfriend,” as he listed the last person I swore that I said Alice grimace slightly from the corner of my eye. “Oh, that reminds me, you guys are more than welcome to come too,” he addressed the rest of the individuals at the table.

      “Thanks!” Tara said genuinely.

      “Do you mind if I bring someone?” Alice inquired, her voice possessing a small quantity of something I couldn’t quite discern. Vengeance? Resentment? Apprehension?

      “No, not at all,” Eric said, leaning in closer to me. His hand reached up onto the table, his intended target the tray of French fries I had bought to serve as my less than nutritional lunch. My own hand immediately shot up, gripping his wrist before he had a chance to accomplish his mission. “What the hell?”

      “Don’t. Touch. My. Food,” I said, explaining the reasoning behind my actions.

      “Holy crap, Liz, you just scared the shit out of me,” he laughed, exhaling deeply as he clearly found the situation humorous, though it wasn’t even remotely.

      “I’m serious, don’t touch my food,” I repeated, wanting to make sure that I got the important message across clearly.

      “All I want is a fry, that’s it, one,” he tried to reason, grasping at air as I kept his wrist captive.

      “No,” I said firmly, aware of how controlling I was being over a plate of fried potato slices.

      “Just one,” he pleaded, looking down longingly at the oil-dipped slivers.

      “Nope,” I picked one up, guiding it into my mouth as he watched me.

      “That was mean,” he complained about not getting what he wanted. I shrugged, not really caring if Eric was content or not. “We have English next?” he surprisingly dropped the subject of my food completely.

      “Yeah,” I nodded, slowly shoveling a handful of fries into my mouth.

      “You’re gross,” he commented in repulsion.

      “Thanks,” I fluttered my eyelids innocently.

      “Anytime,” he laughed, extending his legs, so that his was bottom was no longer in contact with the bench. “Can you let go of my arm now?”

      I blinked, realizing that my fingers were still clutching his wrist. Hesitantly, my clench recoiled from his wrist, anticipating further movements. “Sorry about that,” I apologized.

      “It’s fine,” he brushed it off. Before my brain had the ability to register what was occurring, his hand flew back down to the table and seized a single fry.

      “Eric!” I exclaimed, witnessing him devour the stolen form of sustenance (or lack of). “What the fuck?”

      “See you in class,” he said quickly, beginning to walk away from our table as I seethed in my own self-pity. Unbelievable. That boy was un-fucking-believable! He turned back to face me, a smirk chiseled on his face as he spoke, “Oh, and thanks for the fry!”

      I was livid. Nobody messed with my food.

I smashed my locker door shut, the cool metal echoing as I did so. Once, when I was younger, my mom had the brilliant idea that a child of my stature clearly belonged in private school. I was about ten or eleven at the time. Basically, we toured about one school and I was done. I didn’t want to leave my crappy, public, school system, and I had no interest in separating from my friends. One of the first signs I saw that led me to the conclusion that I didn’t belong in a private was the type of lockers they had.

      It was a minimal thing, really, to dislike about a school. Lockers were, well, lockers. There was nothing special about them. Their purposes ranged from storing books and binders to coats and smelly lunch boxes packed with month-old bologna sandwiches. The lockers in this particular building were wooden. Whoever the fuck decided to put lockers made of tree trunks was undoubtedly trying to relay a message about the school as a whole. To me, wooden lockers didn’t feel real; they symbolized superficiality and a shallow insincerity. Maybe I was thinking too much into, after all, they were just lockers, but I had never been one for artificial exteriors…

      I slung my backpack over my shoulder, maneuvering my way through the maze of adolescents scurrying to get out of the building as soon as possible. My feet continued to carry me through the flow of people, trying to dodge the end of the day rush to escape the building. All of the sudden, I felt my head knock into something— well, someone, actually.

      “Watch where you’re going, Lizzie,” Dylan laughed, straightening me up. How was it that I always managed to somehow bump into that boy? It was like fate was crashing us together for some unknown reason. If I were the protagonist in a book, it would be as if the author was purposely colliding us together. Weird.

      “Sorry,” I mumbled, regaining my composure fully.

      “Why the rush? Breathe a little,” he winked, sending a bolt of energy through my spine. It was a different feeling than chills. I knew what getting the chills felt like, and this was definitely not it. It was a hard reaction to explain. It was as if— as if a spurt of adrenalin was shot through my spinal cord, but I wasn’t sure why. I was comfortable with Dylan, why the fuck would I have any anxiety towards interacting with him?

      “Right,” I said, shaking my head in an attempt to stop overthinking things.

      “Oh, Lizzie, you’re not going to go hookup with Wilson, are you? Is that why you’re in such a hurry?” he smirked accusingly.

      “Yes, actually, it is,” I chose to be honest, my voice coming out more irritable than intended.

      “Naughty, naughty, naughty,” he shook an index finger at me disapprovingly. “Well, I hope you don’t contract herpes nor accidentally moan my name—”

      “We’re not having sex!” I interjected.

      “Well, that’s a relief!” he dramatically exhaled. “But, still, try not to think too much about me when Wilson’s mouth rapes yours.” And that was all he needed to say to send my brain into a frenzy. When someone told you not to think about a particular entity, you couldn’t help but think about it. Jerk.

      “Goodbye, Dylan,” I said simply, walking past him.

      “Bye, Lizzie!” he called after me loudly. A small smile was etched across my face as I continued my journey out of the building.

      When I finally reached the anticipated promise land of the outer grounds of the school, I began to look around for my ride, which happened to be the same boy Dylan and I had been discussing. The plan was that we would go over to Alex’s house, chill for a while, and then Eric would drive me back to my house because of the close proximity our dwellings possessed. It sounded like a simple enough afternoon.

      “Liz!” I heard my name being called out. I looked up, spotting a frantically waving Eric Wilson. I nodded, my feet commencing to carry me in his direction. When I finally arrived before Eric, he took one look at me, and shook his head. “Give me your backpack,” was the demand that left his lips.

      “No,” I said simply, allowing a small yawn to escape my mouth.

      “Liz, I don’t want to argue, but, please, let me be courteous in this one moment in time and carry your bag,” it came out as more of a request this time.

      I sighed, not having enough energy to fight back, and handed him over the pack that contained my beloved homework and notes that had amassed from the day’s classes. After taking two of the longest, most boring tests I ever had in the history of my education during my last two periods, I was wiped out. Accumulative assessments on the knowledge I already possessed were always a party. Besides, I was also lazy, so not having to transport twenty pounds on my back wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

      “Thanks,” I murmured quickly.

      “Of course,” he draped my belongings over one of his muscular shoulders, most likely built up from the hours of football practice and working out. I liked guys who were in shape. “Shall we?”

      Without a word, I began walking in the direction of the parking lot, Eric taking the cue that I was, indeed, ready to go.

      “Bye, Eric!” a girl cried, smiling sweetly as she walked past us. Unsurprisingly, a hostile glare was directed my way. It was a relatively normal action to occur when I spent time with Eric. Girls were always giving me nasty looks. Lauren had once explained it to me as, “Because Eric, like, likes you, they’re just, like, jealous.” It didn’t make a ton of sense to me, but I had never been one to start a fight over something as small as a glance, so tended to brush them off.

      I resisted from asking the identity of the girl, figuring that it didn’t actually matter all that much to me.

      We arrived at Eric’s car, and inserted ourselves with little to no conversing (thankfully, he refrained from preforming the idiotic gesture of opening my door). Eric started up the car, turning the radio onto to some pop station that was playing the marginally dated song by Katy Perry, Teenage Dream.

      I had heard the song many times before, and each time it confused me. To some, it was a relatively straightforward song: a girl’s in love and wants to have sex. The concept wasn’t the thing that bewildered me, though. The title of the song “Teenage Dream” was what has always put me in a state of perplexity. The two words I understood perfectly. Teenage: adjective, relating to individuals between the age of thirteen to nineteen. Dream: noun, what one’s brain thinks about while sleeping. The definitions weren’t the problem, but rather the meaning behind them when combined.

      What was a teenage dream? It varied from person to person, leaving the song to feel quite broad. “You make me feel like I’m living a teenage dream”. I was almost positive that my “teenage dreams” were completely different than those of just about anybody else on the planet. When I was younger, I dreamt about playing in the NBA; most thirteen-year-old girls were simply hoping that her crush would notice her new haircut or brand of masc— the eye stuff. I wasn’t like “most” teenage girls, leading me to the conclusion that Katy Perry’s composers really generalized when they came up with the brilliant idea for a song entitled “Teenage Dream”.

      I had no issue with the song itself; in fact, it was a very nice song. Pop wasn’t really my thing, but it was a catchy song and I didn’t mind it. What I did mind, however, was that the song never specified what type of “teenage dream” Katy was referring to. Was she singing about a fantasy of a teenage boy’s? Being a center for the Celtics? A princess? Or doing something meaningful with her life that would help humanity?

      I knew it was inferred that the “teenage dream” was indicating the process known as falling in love, but how was that an explicit dream of teenagers? Some weren’t looking for love, or even a relationship at all. It wasn’t that I had a problem, per say, about the song itself, but rather what exactly it insinuated about “teenage dreams”.

      “Liz, we’re here,” Eric said, as I slowly blinked my way out of the transfixed state. I nodded, reaching to unbuckle my seatbelt, when a hand prevented me. “Are you okay?”

      “Fine,” I attempted to jerk my thoughts out of the cloud of incomprehension the song had planted in my mind.

      “Are you sure?” he pressed.

      “Yes! I’m fine!” I assured him, brushing his hand away from me.

      “And if you weren’t, would you tell me?”

      “Probably not,” I replied truthfully.

      “You can tell me anything, you know that, right?” an intense and serious gaze was directed my way.

      “I don’t like artichokes,” I chose to steer the conversation in a lighter direction.

      “Okay then,” he laughed. “Let’s go!”

      And with that, we exited the vehicle, beginning our journey up the driveway that looked as though there was no end.

      It was an understatement to say that Alex had a big house. He had the type of house that made big houses look like shacks. From the outside, I saw a structure of white that was at least four stories high, if not more. There were windows everywhere and a door the height of a regulation basketball hoop in the front.

      As we walked up the driveway, I noticed freshly kept lawns on either side, not a leaf in sight, which was odd, considering the amount of trees I saw on the property and the time of year. While my stomach was starting to churn do to an uncalled occurrence of apprehension, Eric seemed to be completely at ease. But, then again, the somewhat intimidating house did belong to his best friend, and he had probably been here about twelve billion times, so why worry?

      We walked up the stoop, and Eric rang the doorbell dully. Almost immediately follow the action, yelps belonging to canines were heard within, spiking my heart rate up marginally at the sudden noise. Eric turned to me, studying my face briefly before saying anything.

      “Oh, I forgot to ask,” he paused hesitantly, “do you like dogs?”

      “I’m not really big on animals in general, but I don’t mind them,” I shrugged easily.

      “Okay, because Alex has two of them,” he continued, as the large, cherry door swung open.

      “Wilson! Turner!” Alex greeted cheerfully, a smile on his face as two four-legged creatures flew out of the house, and practically attacked Eric and me.

      One was a large dog with a shiny, yellow coat, and, judging by its level of excitement, probably downed a handful of Pixy Stix before our arrival. As Eric bent down to pet it, it practically humped his leg. The other was the mellower of the two, though, not substantially. It was smaller than the first and had curly, black fur. I was its chosen target. It was jumping up and licking my hand, completely freaking out.

      “Goldie! Blackie!” Alex called sternly. “Down!” As the command left his mouth, the dogs retreated from Eric and me, looking to Alex for further instructions. “In!” Alex pointed to the house. The dogs sent one pleading look our way, before marching back into the house calmly, as if the entire encounter hadn’t occurred. “Sorry about that!”

      Instead of saying something like, “Oh, it’s fine!” or, “Don’t worry about it!” I opted for the smug, “Goldie and Blackie?” The names had struck me as odd and unimaginative.

      “Yeah, I know, I was one hell of a creative nine year old,” he smiled proudly at the names that he, apparently, had selected. “Come on in!”

      We did as told, Eric instantly kicking off his shoes as he entered. “You don’t have to take your shoes off if you don’t want to,” he then assured me, as I stared at his footwear. I glanced down at the articles on my own feet, and elected to keep them on. They were a new pair of teal sneakers that were European, according to my mom, the brand of which starting with an “S.” They were nice enough shoes, and matched with my top, though they weren’t the same as Jordans.

      When I put on a pair of Jordans, it allowed me to express who I truly was. As moronic as it sounded, a dose of swag was added to my step as I walked in them, and a level of comfort ensued from being able to display to the world who I was. Though they were just shoes, they symbolized so much more to me.

      “So, everybody but Alice is upstairs—as always. I have no clue where the hell that girl is, nor do I really care,” Alex rolled his eyes, though I sensed something more to the gesture and his words than annoyance.

      “And that, Liz, is a perfect example of someone trying to be apathetic, but failing miserably,” Eric informed me, lightly punching his best friend’s shoulder in a way that certain boys so often did to show affection to one another.

      “Honestly, I don’t freaking care!” Alex insisted, walking over to a sizable, coiled staircase that looked as though it went on forever.

      “Whatever you say,” Eric smirked, the two of us following closely behind.

      As three pairs of feet met the wood of an infinite amount of steps, voices belonging to Eric Wilson and Alex Campbell sounded in somewhat quarrelsome tones. They were going on and on about Alice, something having to do with Alex’s apparent relationship with her in the past. Eric was arguing that Alex was still “madly in love” with her, while Alex continued to deny it, claiming to be perfectly happy with his current girlfriend, whoever she was.

      After my lungs were just about ready to die, Alex finally stopped on a floor, the top floor, signifying that we were at the wanted place. As we emerged from the staircase that was the same shape as the effect that curling a segment of hair left, I knew as to why we had come to this room—if it could even be called that.

      To the left, a full bar was arranged, glasses hanging overhead, and bottles of liquor lined across the back wall. Metal stools with small backs on them were placed in front of the ornate, alcohol dispenser, all an equal distance from each other. In the back corner was a leather couch in an “L” shape, and an entertainment system equipped with a TV slightly smaller than a car, a mess of wires, and little lights flashing about. On the other side of the room, to the right, there was a door, leading to a secondary room. The center of the space consisted of a pool table, the green felt making it stand out from other fixtures in the room.

      The ceiling was slanted, creating an almost pyramid-like shape, due to how we were indeed on the top floor of the house, the roof the only thing separating us from the sky and beyond. Dark wood made up the constellation of the floor, polished and clean, much like the rest of the house. To sum up, the room was the perfect example of what a playroom for big kids looked like.

      “Wilson! Turner! So glad you finally decided to join the party!” a boy I recognized as Joey said, turning away from the couch he was seated on to face us. A girl and a boy sat on either side of him. The girl’s head was leaning on Joey’s shoulder, her coffee-colored hair visible to me, while a darker-haired girl was draped over the other boy. Lauren, Joey, Brandon, and Tara. Next to Lauren was yet another girl, though I didn’t have any recollection of her.

      From the back, all I saw was a brown ponytail bobbing. As the girl’s face turned to look at us, I figured out who she was: Alex’s girlfriend. She was pretty. Freckles were peppered about, from the bridge of her nose to the sides of her cheeks. She had green eyes with flecks of hazel in them that were scrutinizing me as I did the same to her. Despite the beauty that her outside appearance possessed, she wore an almost bored expression, uninterested in everything around her. It didn’t suit her.

      “I’m Liz,” I introduced as our eyes met.

      “Casey,” the name lolled off her tongue as she continued to analyze me. Eric dropped am arm to my waist, bringing me closer to him. The girl looked between Eric and me for a moment longer, before more words exited her mouth, “Oh. Are you and Eric together?”

      The entire room seemed to be on edge, waiting for a reply, but the person filled with the most anticipation was the quarterback standing beside me. His body tensed as eagerness grew for what I would declare. Even I found myself clamming up as I contemplated how to answer.

      “No,” I found myself saying, unsure of how the room would receive it. Eric and I weren’t dating. Neither one of us had made a move to take our “relationship” any further than the occasional make-out session, talking constantly, and spending time with each other. I guess one could say that we were dating, but we weren’t “together”. There was a difference.

      “Oh,” she blinked, taking one more sight of the two of us in before averting her gaze to Alex.

      “So, what do you guys want to do?” Alex took initiative.

      “Watch a movie,” Joey said, picking up a remote to skim through channels.

      “Or,” began the girl I had just met and was trying to formulate an opinion about my emotions towards her, “we could play a game.”

      “Yeah! I’m sure Alex still has that Princess Monopoly game he did when we were younger!” Eric said.

      “It was my sister’s!” Alex protested. “Besides, if you were so against princesses back then, why’d you still play? We could’ve played football outside, but no, you wanted to play Monopoly; Princess Monopoly.”

      “I was in the mood to play Monopoly! You’re just still mad that you lost,” Eric said, the two bickering about what I assumed to be a childhood memory.

      “Damn right, I am! Fuck it. Casey, what game do you want to play?” Alex tried desperately to veer the conversation elsewhere.

      She was silent for a moment, before her eyes lit up with mischief. “Spin the Bottle.” As clichés went, at least she had decided on a classic.

      “What are we, in eighth grade?” Lauren scoffed, perceptibly not impressed by the sophistication level of the game.

      “I’m down for playing,” Alex proclaimed, as the others in the room, myself included, reluctantly followed in agreeing.

      “Yay!” Casey exclaimed, her dull façade melting momentarily into one of contentment. “Alex, babe, do you have a bottle?”

      “Yes,” he said slowly, walking over to the bar and grabbing an unopened beer bottle. All eyes were on him as he popped it open, chugging down the contents in a matter of seconds. I was definitely impressed. He smiled victoriously as he held out the now empty bottle. “Will this do?”

      “Uh, yeah,” she said, her face grimacing slightly at the act her boyfriend had presently achieved.

      Casey… That was it! Her name! There was something about it that was off. When I thought of the name “Casey”, it reminded me of a girl I used to play baseball with for one season. She was the only other girl on the team besides me, and we never really bonded. I was more into talking to the guys, and she was quieter, simply enjoying the game itself. She was a good player— real good. Casey was a unisex name, and I always thought of it as being a tomboy (a term I absolutely abhorred for more than one reason) kind of name. It didn’t really fit the girl who was apparently “together” with Alex Campbell.

      Eric, Alex, and I went over and found space on the couch as Casey set the bottle down in the middle of a low table. She was about to explain the terms and conditions of the game, as if everyone hadn’t known, when two new voices entered the room.

      “We’re here! Sorry it took so long. Campbell, I love your mom,” Alice said as she walked in, a boy by her side. I knew the boy. Why he was with Alice perplexed me, to be perfectly honest, but I tried to mask it. Standing beside Alice was the one and only Holden Reece.

      “And she loves you,” Alex stood as they came over to join us on the couch. “How’s it going, Reece?” his voice was cold and unforgiving.

      “Fine, and yourself?” Holden returned, equally as strained.

      “Fine,” Alex said through gritted teeth. A goldfish could probably spot the tension between the two, and let me tell ya, they’re not the smartest of species, as I learned after doing a report on them in the fifth grade.

      “Well, you guys came just in time!” Tara said cheerily. “We were just about to start a game of Spin the Bottle!”

      “Sounds like fun,” Alice said dryly, her eyes shooting pretend switchblades at Casey.

      “Come, join us!” Lauren patted on the couch positively. Alice and Holden approached, uniting with the piece of furniture. Alice sat down on Holden’s lap, a feat I deemed too intimate for two’s sudden …association, but tried to brush it off.

      “So, shall we begin?” Casey proposed, her thumb and index finger in the proper position to flick the glass container. A digit brushed across the bottle, sending it whirling on the wooden table. All eyes were glued to it as it landed on Alex. A small squeal of enthusiasm exited her lips, as she attempted to compose herself before turning to Alex.

      They both leaned in, their lips grazing over one another’s. It felt kinda creepy to watch, so I looked away. Such a personal thing shouldn’t have been left for public viewing; it was one of the issues I had with the game. They pulled away after a few seconds, a smile on Casey’s face, and a look of realization on Alex’s.

      “Okay, your turn!” Casey shoved the bottle to Alex.

      “But he just went,” Lauren pointed out.

      “Yeah, but we’re going in a circle, so it doesn’t matter,” she rolled her eyes.

      Alex ignored them both, rotating the bottle without anyone else’s opinion. I watched as it slowed down after making a few revolutions. It stopped at Alice.

      “No! Absolutely not!” Casey objected immediately.

      “It’s just a game, chill,” Eric assured her, as Alex and Alice held a mini-staring contest. Alice was first to blink, forfeiting. She sighed, as they both awkwardly stood up to meet each other.

      Silence commenced, as they remained motionless, neither one pursuing the other. Finally, Alex took the lead, his lips hovering over Alice’s. She completed the action by moving her mouth up to his. Before long, all unease had vanished, leaving two passionate kissers with a history, brought together by a game of Spin the Bottle.

      “Okay! That’s enough!” Casey said after the kiss had outlasted her own. Alice and Alex aversely pulled away, sheepish grins on both their faces. They reclaimed their seats, the smiles still plastered on.

      It was then Eric’s turn to twirl the beer-holder. He did so, and, yet again, the hypothetical author who was dictating my life decided to write in a kissing scene between Eric and me. His face gravitated towards mine, and our lips connected, sending a nice feeling all over my body. But, for the second time, I heard someone else’s words play in the back of my mind as Eric Wilson’s lips crashed with my own. It was as if they were— what was it called it again? Oh, yes, foreshadowing. As I continued to kiss Eric, an inescapable tape had been set on replay in my mind: try not to think too much about me…