"Really."
I nodded, putting my beer back on the rail. Inside, over the girls' heads, I could see Kristy, Bert, and Monica playing quarters at a long oak table in the dining room, the fancy centerpiece of which had been pushed aside and was now piled high with beer cans. More often than not at parties lately, I ended up sitting with Wes off to the side, while Kristy and everyone else trolled for extraordinary boys, or in Bert's case, desperate freshman girls. While they tried their luck and bemoaned the prospects, we on-a-break types just sat and shot the breeze, watching the party unfold around us.
"And they're surprised to see you here because…" Wes said, nodding at a guy in a baseball hat who passed by, saying his name.
"Because," I said, "they think I'm Miss Perfect."
"You?" he said, sounding so surprised I felt obligated to shoot him a look. "I mean, ah, I see."
I picked up my beer, taking another sip. "Shut up," I said.
"No seriously, this is interesting," he said, as the girls moved out onto the deck, disappearing behind a clump of people waiting in line at the keg. "Perfect as in…"
"Goody-goody," I said, "by association. Jason would never be here."
"No?"
"God, no."
Wes considered this for a second, as I noted at least six different girls around the deck checking him out. As much as I was getting used to this happening whenever I was with him, it was still a little unnerving. I'd lost count of how many dirty looks I'd gotten just by sitting next to him. We're not like that, I wanted to say to the girls who stared at me, slit-eyed, their eyes following me whenever I went to the bathroom or to find Kristy, waiting for me to be far enough away to move in. By now, though, I could spot who was and wasn't his type a mile off. The girl in the tight black dress and red lipstick, leaning against the keg? Nope. The one in the denim skirt and black T with the tan? Maybe. The one who kept licking her lips? Ugh. No. No. No.
"Let's say Jason was here," he said now. "What would he be doing?"
I considered this. "Probably complaining about the smoke," I said, "and getting very concerned about whether all these cans are going to be properly recycled. What about Becky?"
He thought for a second, pulling a hand through his hair. In the dining room, I could hear Kristy laughing loudly. "Passed out someplace. Or behind the bushes sneaking a smoke that she'd deny to me later."
"Ah," I said.
"Ah."
The girl in the tight black dress was passing by us now, eyeing Wes and walking entirely too slowly. "Hi," she said, and he nodded at her but didn't reply. Knew it, I thought.
"Honestly," I said.
"What?"
"Come on. You have to admit it's sort of ridiculous."
"What is?"
Now that I had to define it, I found myself struggling for the right words. "You know," I said, then figured Kristy had really summed it up best. "The sa-woon."
"The what?"
"Wes, come on," I said. "Are you seriously not aware of how girls stare at you?"
He rolled his eyes, leaning back on his palms. "Let's get back to the idea of you being perfect."
"Seriously. What's it like?"
"Being perfect? I wouldn't know."
"Not being perfect." I sighed. "Being…"
As I tried to come up with something, he flicked a bug off his arm.
"… gorgeous," I finished. Two weeks earlier, this would have mortified me: I could just see myself bursting into flames from the shame. But now, I only felt a slight twinge as I took another sip of my beer and waited for him to answer.
"Again," he said, as the parking lot girls passed by, eyeing both of us, "I wouldn't know. You tell me."
"Donneven," I said, in my best Monica imitation, and he laughed. "We're not talking about me."
"We could be," he said, as I watched Bert take note of a group of what looked like ninth graders who had just come into the living room.
"I'm not gorgeous," I said.
"Sure you are."
I just shook my head, knowing this was him evading the question. "You," I said, "have this whole tall, dark stranger thing going on. Not to mention the tortured artist bit."
"Bit?"
"You know what I mean."
He shook his head, clearly discounting this description. "And you," he said, "have that whole blonde, cool and collected, perfect smart girl thing going on."
"You're the boy all the girls want to rebel with," I said.
"You," he replied, "are the unattainable girl in homeroom who never gives a guy the time of day."
There was a blast of music from inside, a thump of bass beat, then quiet again.
"I'm not perfect," I said. "Not even close."
"I'm not tortured. Unless you count this conversation."
"Okay." I picked up my beer. "What do you want to talk about?"
"How about," he said, "that we've got an ongoing game of Truth to get back to?"
"How about," I said, as a guy from my English class stumbled by, looking sort of queasy, "not. I can't handle Truth tonight."
"You're only saying that," he said, "because it's my turn."
"It isn't. It's mine."