I just humphed.
“Nah, come on. Give yourself some credit.”
“If I’m so great, why don’t you go out with me?” I couldn’t believe my own daring, but I felt close enough to Jordan to say it.
“Oh, I would. But I’m set down for someone else. And I have a feeling you are, too.”
Jane would love Jordan. I loved Jordan. I wondered who his lucky person was. They must’ve been magnificent.
I rested my head on his shoulder. This was closer dancing than propriety called for, but Jordan was my friend, and I needed someone’s shoulder. We swayed back and forth to the music.
As per all school dances, eventually the deejay announced the last song and then flashed the lights to signal the end of the dance. I piled into the car with Foster and the highly perfumed Gwin and drove them, with a heavy heart, to Ezra’s house.
Foster directed me there, and I pulled up in front of the place. The street was already parked on both sides, so I kept the car running while Gwin gathered up her many layers of tulle and searched the backseat for her purse.
“It’s sparkly and it’s shaped like a cupcake,” she said. “I had it in the gym, didn’t I, Foster? You saw me carrying it out, didn’t you?”
I didn’t register Foster’s reply, because I was too busy staring up at Ezra’s house. Rather, up at the lush, sprawling lawn that led to Ezra’s house. Tall oak trees, a brick path, and then the monster-sized home.
It was grand. It deserved grandiose descriptions, but none came to mind. All I could think was that I didn’t know a person could be so rich and manage not to act like it.
“Mom and dad said twelve o’clock,” I told Foster, when Gwin finally located the sequined cupcake and extricated herself from the backseat. “Be out here waiting at a quarter ’til, because I don’t want to have to park.”
“No problem!” Foster said, and with a wave, he escorted Gwin up the brick steps.
I didn’t go home. I didn’t feel like hanging out for an hour and then going right back, so I went to a diner, settled in with a milk shake, and read some Jane. Edward Hopper could’ve painted me. The Glamorous Life of Devon Tennyson.
I made it back to Ezra’s house at the appointed time and double-parked out front, waiting for Foster. Eleven fifty. Eleven fifty-five. I called him twice, but there was shitty cell service.
I sighed. And pulled the car down the street in search of a parking space. I didn’t know what else to do. Foster had cut loose, apparently, and it would be my ass on the line if we were home later than it already was.
I kept my head bent low as I neared the house, rounding the corner to the backyard. This was possibly the worst social act a high schooler could commit.
In reality, no one looked twice at me. No one gawked or pointed or said anything at all, really, but mentioning that fact wouldn’t have made me feel any better. I was plunging headfirst into a pure and unbending sea of embarrassment of the very worst high school variety:
I was crashing a party. But it didn’t really count as crashing if you were just picking up someone, right? And, technically, I had been invited. But, technically, the invitation had probably died in the locker room when I killed the idea of Ezra and me going together.
Don’t be noticed, I thought. No one look at me. No one talk to me. I’ll just find Foster and leave and never speak of this night again. I’ll burn this awful dress for good measure.
“Devon!”
Damn it.
Marty Engelson, a pretty natural choice for linebacker, cut through the crowd and ran at me, lifting me off the ground and hugging me hard. When he put me down, there was a huge grin on his face. He was a happy drunk.
“Devon!” he yelled again, and I cringed. “Baby! Where you been?”
“I’m just picking up Foster.”
He grabbed my hand. “Come see the guys. Everyone’s been missing you.”