The problem with going to see Trenton Alexander Montgomery the Third’s band is that he’s in the band, which gives me no one to hang out with.
I thought nothing could suck more than another night in my parents’ sad house, but it sucks enough to be solo at a party that I call Spencer and guilt-trip him into coming down for a while. I don’t mention that TAM3 sound even worse than their name does. He’s still acting weird around me, so I try to drink away the awkwardness, which gets me a lot drunker than I should be. It works, though. Once he realizes it’s okay to joke and give me crap, he loosens up, and if I try really hard, I can pretend it’s just like old times. Except I’m the one getting trashed for once.
I understand now why Raychel got so shit-faced falling down drunk all the time. It pisses me off that I understand, and it pisses me off that I feel bad for her, and it really, really pisses me off that she and Andrew did the “being a screwup” thing so thoroughly that I don’t even get the option.
Still, I glance around the room with new, somewhat blurry eyes. “You gonna take any of these girls home tonight?” It sounds bizarre, coming from my mouth.
Spencer’s forehead wrinkles. “I don’t know, man. Feels like it’s not worth it.”
I laugh and drink more beer, pretending I was kidding. But there’s some pretty girls in the corner, and they’re definitely checking us out. I’m leaving in a few weeks. What could it hurt to pick up a girl?
Then I remember the party that feels like forever ago, when I wished I was more like Carson. I think of Mindy, and remember what it can hurt. I’m just not a one-night-stand kind of guy. At least I’m figuring that out before college.
So I stand around with Spencer and wait for Trent’s band to get done. He does look like a Muppet when he plays, down to the Animal-style inarticulate screaming at random moments. I’m ready to split when he steps off the stage, but he claps me on the back and takes the extra beer I offer. “Whoo! Gotta take a break between sets.”
“You’re not done yet?”
“Just getting warmed up!” He slaps Spencer on the back. “How’s life? Campus man!”
Spencer laughs, glancing nervously between us. He always let Asha do all the talking, and now I’m wondering if she did it out of kindness. “You want to grab the next round?” I ask him.
“Yeah, man. Be right back.” He makes his escape, looking relieved.
“You havin’ the time of your life yet?” Trent asks.
“Best night ever,” I say. “You?”
“Nah.” He pretends to get dreamy. “Best night of my life was kissing Rosa Gallegos in the ninth grade.”
“Bullshit,” I say, spilling some beer. “Rosa?”
“The one and only.” He sighs. “Nobody’s really compared since.”
I look at the rim of my cup. I am just drunk enough to ask him this. “Let’s say you found out Rosa was dating your brother on the sly.” I meant for my phrasing to be a little more subtle, but alcohol has other ideas. “Would you still want her back?”
“Well, my friend, I do not know. Trenton Alexander Montgomery the Third is an only child.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “And that, my friend, is why she picked your brother.”
“Asshole.”
“And that,” he says, giving me a shake, “would be you.” I stare at him, trying not to let on how much that word stings these days, until he laughs and lets go. “Seriously, was she your girl?”
Yes. “Not exactly.” I take another gulp of beer.
“Did she know how you feel?”
I wipe my mouth. “He did.” There’s no way Andrew didn’t know.
“I said ‘she.’”
“No,” I admit. “I didn’t tell her in time.”
Trent has the balls to laugh. “So you’re mad she ended up with the man who expressed an interest?”
“No, I…” I take another big drink, and it’s hard to swallow. “Yeah, I guess. But she slept with him! How do I overlook that?”
He shrugs. “Details, man. If she’s not yours, she can screw whoever she wants. You’re just mad it wasn’t you.” His guitarist bangs on the cymbals a few times. “If Rosa came to me tomorrow and said, ‘Trent, I messed around with every guy on earth, but it made me realize I only want you—’” He drains his cup and hands it to me. “Well, I’d want her to get tested first, but I’d thank my lucky stars to be the one taking her to the clinic.” He gets back onstage and pauses. “You can repay me for my wisdom by bringing me beer during our next set.”
“I’d rather piss in it,” I say, and he laughs. But I don’t let him get more than half empty for the rest of the night.
RAYCHEL
Asha’s plan is easy, but we have to buy a lot of tape. We also invest in Pringles, Dr Pepper, and a bag of Hershey’s miniatures. Just the essentials.
Since Asha’s had a beer or three, I drive her car to a residential subdivision on the west side of town. The houses are smaller than I expected. We jump out, motor running, but my phone rings when we’re only halfway through plastering the Blazer in flyers. “Shit!” I whisper, and get back in the car. “Hello?”
“Raychel?” A girl’s voice warbles through the speaker. “Hey, what are you doing tonight?”
It’s a very drunk Keri. “Not having as much fun as you, apparently.”
“Not that fun,” she says. “This guy I met brought me to a party on campus, but he ditched me.” She manages to lisp the word “ditched,” which is impressive. “Can you, like, borrow your mom’s car or something? My parents will kill me…” She pauses.
“Where are you?”
“At the…” She makes a frustrated noise. “Oh, I can’t keep them all straight. The one at the very end of Greek row? That party we got handouts about. That Trenton Montgomery was begging everyone to come to.”
“I can’t believe you ended up going.”
“Me neither,” she says.
The door slams and Asha jumps in, cracking up beside me. “Go!” she yells, pointing at the porch. The light has come on.
“We’ll be right there.” I toss Asha the phone and hit the gas, squealing away in a gale of laughter.
*
The frat house is less crowded than last time I was here, but it’s a lot colder outside and I’m glad I’m wearing more clothes. “Where did she say she’d be?” Asha asks.
“Out back.” Keri called twice while we drove over, once to give better directions and once because she needed to pretend like she was too busy to talk to a creeper. “She said the band’s so bad that everyone’s outside.” I step off the red-brick sidewalk, trying to see if there’s a way we can walk around instead of through the house. But the backyard is enclosed with an eight-foot privacy fence. “No way out but through,” I say, quoting my therapist. I suspect she didn’t mean braving a kegger when she said it.
I was worried we’d look out of place, but no one pays us much attention since everyone else appears to have gotten dressed at the mall circa 1987. “Does that girl have crimped hair?” Asha asks, indicating with her eyes.
“Pretty sure.” I sound like Matt. Annoyed, I stretch up on tiptoe, but I can’t spot Keri. She’s even shorter than me—she’ll be impossible to find in this crowd.
But I do see one familiar face. And suddenly the room feels way too small.
MATT