It goes quiet.
I have a million questions in my head I want to ask him. What have you been doing for the last eight years? What are you majoring in at college? What’s California like? Have you thought about me at all? But I don’t ask any of them. I just stare up at him like I wish he would do all the talking.
But he doesn’t seem interested—he seems like he’s in a hurry.
He holds up his cup. “I’m going to get something to drink. Do you want anything?”
I stare at the shiny red plastic. “No thanks. I don’t drink alcohol.”
There’s a glimmer in his eyes, and when he leans closer to me I can smell his aftershave. He smells like ocean and sandalwood, even though we’re miles away from any coastline. It makes my limbs feel like licorice. “I don’t either. I’m on Sprite, but don’t tell anyone. Otherwise they’ll spend the rest of the night trying to get me to do shots.” His laugh is deep and has sort of a hiccup at the end, but in the cutest way imaginable. I bet even guys secretly find him charming. He’s like Captain America and Batman had a baby—he’s polite, and cool, and mysterious all at once.
He holds up his cup again like he’s giving me one last chance to make any requests. I shake my head, but as soon as he turns for the kitchen I realize now he doesn’t have a reason to come back.
You should have taken a stupid drink, Kiko. God.
Jamie doesn’t come back.
But Emery does, and she’s holding two red plastic cups. She forces one into my hand. “It’s soda. Even if you don’t drink it, it’ll make you feel more comfortable holding it. Trust me.”
Strangely enough, it doesn’t take me long to realize she’s right. The red cup is like magic—I feel like I blend in more. I feel like I look like everyone else. I feel normal.
But then I see Jamie again. He’s in the dining room, walking toward the sliding glass doors, with two girls in ankle boots and cutoff shorts. He looks right at me, maybe because he wasn’t expecting me to be looking back, and as soon as our eyes click together, he hesitates. He looks at me with something I don’t understand—something that makes me feel small.
When he disappears into the backyard with the two girls, it occurs to me his priorities at a house party might not revolve around reconnecting with his strange childhood friend.
And just like that, I feel out of place all over again.
I don’t tell Emery about Jamie. I was going to, when less people were around. But the way he looked at me makes me want to keep it a secret. He looked at me like I shouldn’t be here, and now I feel like he’s right.
Emery tries to help, bringing me into random conversations now and then, but she mostly lets me blend in beside her as best as I can.
I don’t know how to act at a party, or where I’m supposed to plant myself to stay out of the way of constant traffic. When Emery says she has to go to the bathroom, I find a space in the living room, pretend to melt into the wall, and wish I had the legs and self-esteem to pull off ankle boots and cutoff shorts.
“Kelly!” Adam Walker’s hands are spread wide like he’s about to give me a bear hug. He doesn’t follow through with it, maybe because I glue myself to the wall, or maybe because he’s really drunk and forgot what he was doing.
He leans next to me, his breath sour and smoky all at once. “You having a good time?” he slurs.
I want to tell him my name isn’t Kelly, but to be honest I don’t really care. I feel like my energy is rapidly depleting. I’m thinking about Uncle Max, and being socially awkward, and how Jamie looked at me like he was making a conscious decision to avoid me. It’s draining thinking about so many things all at once, and even more draining to be around so many people. I don’t know how other people do it—don’t they ever feel like they need to recharge? Doesn’t talking to people for so long wear them out?
Adam is still waiting for an answer. I decide he’s drunk enough that I don’t have to lie in order to preserve anyone’s feelings. “Not really.” I shrug.
He tilts his head back and groans. “I know, right?” He drags out each word like his speech has become slow motion. “There aren’t even any girls here.”
I look around. There are literally girls everywhere. Pretty ones, too, and they all look like their wardrobes came straight out of an episode of The Vampire Diaries.
When I look back at Adam, he’s staring across the room. Caitlyn is leaning against the wall, her face buried in Marc’s neck, and his fingers are hooked through the belt loops on her shorts. Something tells me Adam was expecting the night to go a different way.
Blinking back to life, he looks around at the floor and then at his hands. “Oh, man. Where did I put my drink?” He looks at me like I should know, and then he’s smiling. I feel like he thinks we’re sharing a secret, except I have no idea what that secret is supposed to be. “So you’re friends with Emery, huh?”
I nod.
“How come I never see you at any other parties?” He grins in a way that I guess is supposed to be charming, but his eyes are so glassy and tired that I can’t see what any of the other girls at school seem to.
“I don’t really like being around so many people. I find it kind of overwhelming,” I say truthfully. It’s surprisingly therapeutic talking to someone so drunk.
Adam pushes his mouth forward like he’s sneering and nods. “I get that. It gets boring after a while, the same old thing. It’s just, like, every day is the same and it never changes.”
I’m not sure he got me at all, but his loopy train of thought makes me smile.
He notices. “You’re different. I like that.”
Different. The word makes me feel jittery and nervous, like there’s suddenly a spotlight glaring down on me, announcing to the entire room that I’m not like everyone else. It doesn’t matter how many red cups I hold—I’ll always be different.
“Thanks,” I say, my arms tightening into my rib cage. Do people always get so overfamiliar when they drink?
I look around again for Emery. What’s taking her so long?
“Are you waiting for someone?” he asks.
“Just Emery.”
“I’m pretty sure she’s out back.” He throws his thumb over his shoulder, even though the backyard is in the opposite direction. “Do you smoke?”
“No. I don’t drink either,” I say, cringing. I don’t know why I just admitted out loud how completely unfit I am for a house party. I guess I don’t know what else to say. Because I’m not the cool, carefree, fun person who plays beer pong and dances to all the songs on the radio. I don’t know the right words to say to sound cool, because “being cool” does not fall within my skill set.