I burst out laughing. “‘Shatting’? She’s ‘shatting’ with a cute guy? Do you know how revolting that is?”
Stephanie furrowed her brows. “I don’t get it.”
“Never mind,” I said, and headed out the door. After tonight, no more playing mother to my drunk friends. They were all grounded. I could do that after all. I was the mother.
I forced my way into the basement, half listening to a handful of girls spit insults at me for shoving them aside. When I spotted Gretchen, my heart dropped to my feet. She was standing in the corner with Parker. My instinct was to run and jump on him, sink my claws into him and draw blood. Maybe make him bleed out. Instead, I hurried over to my friend and addressed her cheerfully, trying hard to mask my fear.
“There you are!”
Parker turned around and looked at me. He was clearly annoyed. I interrupted his game.
“Brookey!” Gretchen cried. “Oh my God. I’ve so been looking all over for you!”
“Have you?” I asked. I couldn’t hide the sarcasm, even at the risk of Parker hearing.
“This is Parker,” Gretchen said, ignoring my question. “He’s on the swim team at your school.”
“Hi,” I said.
He nodded. “How do you two know each other?”
“We’re best friends!” Gretchen said. “Brookey used to—”
“Hey Gretchen, I think we need to go check on Stephanie,” I interrupted. “She’s puking her guts out upstairs.”
“Gross,” Gretchen replied. “Why don’t you go deal with her? She drives me crazy.”
“She’s asking for you,” I said, tugging on Gretchen’s arm.
“Hey, let Gretchen stay,” Parker said. He pushed my hand away. “We’re getting to know each other.”
I wanted to strangle him. How dare he push my hand away! Another insolent bastard. Was that a personality requirement to get on the swim team?
“Maybe some other time,” I said.
“No,” Parker replied. “Maybe now.”
We stood staring at each other. I learned everything I needed to know about him in the few moments we locked eyes. He always got his way, and he considered himself superior to everyone. The problem was that he underestimated me. And that was a mistake.
“Gretchen’s coming with me now,” I said, wrapping my hand around Gretchen’s wrist. I wasn’t about to let go either. He’d have to slice my arm off. “Move.”
I shoved him aside perhaps harder than I meant to, but he got the point. He watched as I dragged Gretchen behind me, ignoring her protests to stay in the basement.
“You’re not staying in the basement!” I hissed. “So get over it!”
I chanced a backward glance at Parker. He stood with his hands in his pockets, staring at me, deciding how he would deal with me in the future. I’m quite sure he planned to since I stole away his fuck toy for the evening.
Stephanie did what she was told. She was still in the bathroom when Gretchen and I returned upstairs.
“I’ve got a lot of people pissed at me,” she said, as I helped her wash her face and hands. She was successful in making herself throw up—multiple times, I observed—but not so much in cleaning it up. At least she was no longer slurring her words and was slightly more coherent, or as coherent as Stephanie could possibly be.
“There are five hundred bathrooms in this house,” I replied. “They’ll get over it.”
Just then Gretchen decided she needed to get sick, too, and I barely pulled her mass of brown hair away from her face in time before she heaved into the toilet.
“I’m really mad at you, Brookey,” she said after the first round. She didn’t look at me when she said it. She was wise enough to keep her head in the toilet.
“Don’t talk,” I ordered. “Just keep going.”
I was annoyed, naturally, even though I could recall Gretchen doing the same thing for me, and on many occasions. I can’t believe I used to party like this. I can’t believe I ever wanted to. What was the point? I wasted all of the following day lying in bed with an herb-infused bean bag stuck to my forehead surrounded by bottles of Gatorade. And if the hangover was especially monstrous, I’d cry, which made it worse. Such a waste of time. A waste of life.
“He was cute,” Gretchen continued after the second wave. “I wanted to kiss him.”
“I know you did,” I replied. “But he’s a dick.”
“Who’s a dick?” Stephanie asked. She was sitting on the sink counter, her already too-short dress hiked up around her hips, long legs slightly spread and dangling off the side.
I turned around and looked at her. “You don’t sit like that in public, do you?”
She shrugged. “Who’s a dick?”
“Just this swim guy at my school,” I replied.
“He’s not a dick!” Gretchen said, then heaved again.
“Good grief, Gretchen. How much did you drink?”
I patiently waited for the wave to subside. She wiped her mouth with a bit of toilet paper and addressed me. “How should I know?”
I rolled my eyes. “Was he feeding you drinks all night?”
“He’s a gentleman,” she replied.