“I’ve really got to get home.”
“You been party-hopping? Heard there’s a great one down at the Holiday Inn. That’s where we’re headed after this. Had to stop by Ezra’s, though—good party, except it’d be a hell of a lot better if he’d just let us in the fucking house. Ezra’s all about the rules, you know? And no beer. No drinks. Fucking crazy.” He leaned in and whispered thickly, “A lot of us just got drunk before we came. But you got to watch out for Jordan. He’ll take your keys, you know.”
I extricated myself from Marty as quickly as I could with an “Okay, yeah. Thanks.” I ducked my head and continued through the crowd, my phone clamped firmly in one hand. I tried calling Foster again, but I still couldn’t get a signal.
As I wandered around searching for both reception and Foster, I took in the surroundings. The porch was strung up with lights, and in the center of the backyard, there was a huge pool. The lights were on underwater, and soft wisps of steam rose from the water’s surface. There must’ve been at least a hundred people here, and everywhere you looked a cooler full of soda, a sea of plastic cups. So many brightly colored Homecoming dresses, music that was just loud enough (I was coherent enough to appreciate that), and everywhere the happy, raucous sounds of (mostly) sober partying.
The delicate wisps of steam floating from the pool were upset as someone cut through the air and broke the water’s surface, quickly followed by several more people. A cheer rose among the crowd. It was hard to recognize the shapes in the water when they were thrashing around like that, but one figure was undeniable: Ezra.
I was surprised. He was the last person on earth you’d ever fancy jumping into a pool on a whim. I scanned the crowd for Foster once more and tried not to care.
It was only when someone cried out that I looked back at the pool. More people—mostly guys from the team—had jumped in and were all trying to dunk each other. Girls on the sidelines squealed as water splashed their ankles. The boys were all yelling jubilantly, laughing loudly. Someone cried out again.
I blinked. Stanton Perkins, square-headed Stanton Perkins of the defensive line, was gripping Ezra hard and forcing his head under water. I wouldn’t have placed the sound if I hadn’t seen it escape from Ezra’s own lips: a strangled cry caught up in the general chaos.
Stanton pushed Ezra under and wrenched him back up hard by the front of his shirt, only to shove him back down again. Ezra’s arms were flailing, but he wasn’t fighting back.
All the other guys in the pool were busy messing around. The onlookers were laughing, drinking, dancing, talking loud, taking no notice.
Why weren’t they doing anything? Stanton shoved Ezra back under. What was wrong with these people? It wasn’t right.
Stanton pulled Ezra up again and I caught sight of Ezra’s face. He looked terrified.
All thoughts of Foster left my mind. All thoughts of the crowd were gone. I dropped my phone, kicked off my shoes, and threw myself into the pool.
The water was pleasantly warm, but I took no notice as I kicked over to Stanton. I had never swum in clothes before—a Homecoming dress, no less—and I wasn’t ready for how much the fabric would pull me down. Those bridal shop commercials where the bride and groom happily hop into a fountain at their reception are so full of shit. No one would elect to do this.
I had no plan for when I reached Stanton and Ezra, but I knew any attempt to reason with a guy as probably drunk and as definitely stupid as Stanton Perkins was useless. I ducked under the water (a rainbow of ugly dress socks flailed out at me) and closed the distance between us.