A Midsummer's Nightmare (10 page)

About halfway through my third trip around the room, just as the tequila started to kick in, I spotted Wesley, the hot host. He was sitting on one of the couches, talking to some blond girl with a ponytail. When she stood up and walked away, I took my chance and dropped into the seat she’d abandoned.

“Hey,” I said, crossing my legs and leaning a little toward him. “Nice party.”

“Thank you. It took me forever to convince my parents to leave long enough for me to have something like this. But I figured a year away at college deserves a big welcome-home party.”

“I think it does, too,” I agreed. “Where do you go to college?”

“Columbia. I’m a business major.”

“Wow. Smart and ambitious. That’s a pretty big turn-on for girls, you know.”

“That’s what I’m told,” he said. “Anyway, I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk earlier, and even sorrier I didn’t get your name.”

“Whitley.” I didn’t mention my surname. Last time I’d done that, the guy had totally admitted to crushing on my dad. No way was I letting that happen again. “And let me guess—you’re Wesley, right?”

“That’s right. Good guess.”

“It was, huh?” I said, rubbing my lips together. “Hmm… In that case, I think I deserve a prize.”

“A prize?” He laughed.

“Of course,” I told him. “I totally deserve to be rewarded. On TV, when people guess the right answer, they get a prize. I want a prize, too.” I scooted a little closer, my leg brushing his. “But I’d be glad to share. I’m not greedy.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but before the
words came out, a girl collapsed onto the cushion on his other side.

“I hate parties,” she growled.

Wesley turned his head to face her. She was short, with wavy auburn hair and a horrific sense of style. Her red Converse tennis shoes looked about six years old, and her T-shirt was so faded it looked like it would be a prime choice for a detergent commercial. Not the cool, store-bought faded, either. She needed a severe wardrobe check. Harrison would have had a field day with this girl.

“Hello there,” Wesley said. To my surprise, he slipped an arm around her shoulders. “I see that it’s working, then?”

“What is?” she asked.

“My strategy. The bigger the party gets, the sooner you’ll retreat upstairs to my room, and then my victory can be secured.”

She rolled her eyes as he placed a kiss at the junction between her shoulder and neck. “Perv.”

He laughed. “Plus, you’re hotter when you’re annoyed.” He looked back at me. “Whitley, this is my girlfriend, Bianca. Bianca, this is Whitley, the amazing name guesser.”

Wait. His
girlfriend
? Seriously? In my experience, boys this hot rarely committed to anyone less than a supermodel. He was way out of this girl’s league. Hell, Wesley was way out of
my
league.

“Well,” she said, glancing at me, “it won’t be long before I retreat if every girl here is going to insist on flirting with you.”

“Can you blame them?” he asked.

“Of course I can. A smart girl would find your egomania repulsive.”

“You know you like it.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But it took me a while. Your first impression? Not exactly charming.”

“Hello to you, too,” I muttered, even though I’d already been forgotten.

This was the second time I’d been shot down since arriving in Hamilton. Once because the boy was more interested in my dad, and now I’d been rejected for a girl in saggy jeans.

He kept his arm around her, and they started having a whole conversation that I was clearly not a part of. Names I didn’t know. Places I’d never been. After a while, I stood up and left them on the couch. I wasn’t drunk enough yet to think this was funny.

I didn’t see Bailey when I pushed through the crowd. I thought about looking for her, since I’d promised Nathan I’d keep an eye on her, but after a second I decided against it. Nathan was being ridiculous and uptight. Bailey was probably having a great time, meeting kids from her school. She would hate me if I interrupted her fun or embarrassed her by checking in on her. Bailey was smart; she could handle herself. Smarter than I was at her age, anyway.

I poured myself another shot. Two more shots. Within ten minutes, I was smiling from ear to ear. Tequila made everything better.

“Hi.”

I turned around and found a guy—kind of cute, nothing
special, but I wasn’t picky—smiling at me. I grinned, putting my glass on the counter and leaning back against the cabinets. “Hey.” I giggled. He had a nose like a pug’s, and his hair was all spiky—it reminded me of a porcupine. “How are you?”

“Better now that I’ve met you.”

Wow. That was lame. I snorted with laughter.

“So, what’s your name?” he asked.

“Whitley.”

“That’s a sexy name.”

“You bet your ass it is.”

He smirked.

Five minutes later, the guy and I were going at it in a downstairs bedroom. Around the time his hand slid under my top, I realized I was really, really bad about getting boys’ names.

I needed to work on that.

Less than twenty minutes later, I emerged from the bedroom with my hair in a state of total disaster.
And all for nothing. About ten seconds after getting my shirt off, Pug Face had passed out on top of me. Ew.

At least that had kept me from sleeping with him. I knew I was drunk, but I wasn’t sure if I was drunk enough to have let things go that far. Tequila always made me a little too agreeable, though. The thought made me giggle, but I wasn’t sure how funny it really was.

I’d barely taken two steps into the living room, already on my way to get another drink, when Harrison appeared beside me, grabbing my elbow and yanking me off in another direction.

“Whoa!”

“Guys,” Harrison said, dragging me along behind him. “Guys, okay, this is my new friend, Whitley.”

Since when was I his friend?

“She’s the one I told you about…. Greg Johnson’s daughter.”

I was being stared at by a mafia of skinny blonds. Well, okay, there was a redhead in the pack, but whatever. They all had on shiny lip gloss and nail polish, and each seemed to be carrying a different designer handbag.

“Did I just see you making out with Eric Higgins in the kitchen?” one of the girls asked.

“Was that his name?”

Even this drunk, I could see the way these girls looked at me. They stared down their perfect little noses, eyes narrowed in disgust. I knew these girls. They were the same everywhere. The rich bitches. The snobs. The girls who, my freshman year of high school, had convinced everyone—including my best friend—that I was a whore. Even by graduation, after all the parties and the boys, I still hadn’t done half the things those girls claimed I had.

“Eric is kind of a weirdo,” the redhead said.

“He’s not a great kisser, either,” I told her. “Too much tongue.”

“Isn’t she adorable?” Harrison said, squeezing my shoulders.

“Ouch. Watch the sunburn.”

“Whoops. Sorry.” He turned back to the girls. “She looks like him, doesn’t she? Like her dad.”

A few of the bitches nodded. The redhead was the first to
speak, though. For some ungodly reason—maybe because she was friends with Harrison, and he liked me—I half expected her to put aside the fact that I’d been making out with whatshisname, to give me a chance, to say, “Welcome to Hamilton. Where are you from?” I’d even have settled for, “Is your dad that tall in real life?”

Instead, she looked me up and down and said dryly, “Your shirt is on inside out.”

“Yeah.” I giggled, too giddy to be pissed. Plus, her lip gloss looked like clown makeup, and in that moment, it was the funniest thing ever. “I think it is.”

The Blond Mafia just stared at me.

I turned to face Harrison. “M’kay. Well, I have a date with that bottle in the kitchen, so I’ll see you—”

“Whitley!”

I paused, confused. Things were starting to get kind of hazy, and the fact that Harrison’s lips weren’t moving didn’t make sense. How could he say my name if his lips weren’t moving?

Then a very firm hand took hold of my upper arm, and I got it. Harrison hadn’t been the one talking. Nathan was standing next to me now, squeezing my arm kind of hard. I stared up at him. “Sunburn,” I whined, trying to jerk away. He loosened his grip but didn’t let go.

“Oh, Nathan,” Harrison said, smoothing his hair back with one hand. “Hi. Enjoying the party?”

“Not now, man,” Nathan said harshly. He was glaring at me. “We’re leaving, Whitley. Now.”

“What? Why?”

He didn’t answer. He just pulled me along after him as he began winding his way through the crowd. It wasn’t until then that I really looked at him and realized that he had something large and bright yellow draped over his left shoulder.

Bailey.

Shit.

Her long blond hair tumbled down his back, and I could tell by the way she was lying, limp as a rag doll, that she’d passed out.

I stumbled behind Nathan, my platforms slipping from beneath my feet, but he didn’t slow down. A few minutes later we were out in the humid night air. The rush of heat made me feel nauseous, but he just kept going.

“Wait, is she okay? Can we walk slower?” I complained as he pulled me down the sidewalk.

“I told you to watch her!”

He was yelling.

I laughed. Hearing him yell seemed so out of place. Cucumber-cool Nathan was yelling. It was hilarious. Like everything else about that night. Funny and hazy and strange.

“Damn it, Whitley, stop laughing,” he growled, releasing my arm and turning to face me. He was holding on to Bailey’s legs, her dress so short that I could see her pink underwear from where I stood. I wished he would change her position. That would embarrass the hell out of her if anyone saw. “You said you’d keep an eye on her,” Nathan said. “You promised me.”

“She’s fine, though, right?” I said. “She just had a little too much to drink. I told her to take it slow.”

“You shouldn’t have let her drink to begin with!” he shouted. “She’s
thirteen
, for God’s sake.”

“I had my first drink when I was fourteen,” I retorted. “Not much older than her.”

“Yeah, and look where it got you.”

I froze for a second, stunned.

It took a minute for the words to sink in. I stared up at Nathan, anger burning away the amusement I’d felt before. Scorching the insides of my stomach and chest.

“Hypocrite,” I spat. “I didn’t hear you complaining last time we were at a party. You got wasted, too. It’s not like I took advantage of you. You made the choice to sleep with me.”

“I know,” he said through clenched teeth. “And you were the biggest mistake I have
ever
made.”

I drew back, my hand flying to my chest, my fingers curling into my palm. His words hit me like a punch in the gut. I opened my mouth to say something. To yell at him. To deliver a good comeback that would sting him in the same way. But nothing came to me. My throat was closing in on itself.

Biggest
mistake. I was his biggest mistake.

He wasn’t mine.

He didn’t even make the top ten. Maybe not my top one hundred. Because, despite all of the shit going on, that night with him had actually been nice. Great, even.

Nathan’s eyes softened, and he reached for me with his free hand. “Whit, I—”

“Don’t touch me!” I screeched, slapping at his hand. “Get the hell away from me, Nathan.”

“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

But I was already walking away from him.

“Whit, where are you going? Whitley?”

“I’m walking back.”

“What? You’re wasted. There is no way you can make it home on your own.”

“Watch me.”

And, as if to punctuate this statement, the back of my shoe slipped out from under me, sending me stumbling forward on the pavement. I caught myself by grabbing hold of a lamppost, but it took a second for me to regain my balance. By then, Nathan was standing beside me again.

“Come on, Whit.”

“Don’t touch me,” I murmured. Tears were sticking to my eyelashes, and I was disgusted with myself. It wasn’t just about Nathan; I knew that. I hadn’t cried since arriving in Hamilton. I’d held back all the anger, all the hurt, everything I’d felt toward Mom and Dad and Sylvia. But being rejected by Wesley and kissing another boy I barely knew and wasn’t even attracted to and the way the bitchy girls had looked at me and what Nathan had just said… It all piled on top of the hell I’d been through that week, and I couldn’t keep it in any longer. But I hated myself for crying, especially in front of him.

Nothing was funny anymore.

“Come on,” Nathan repeated. He didn’t reach for me
again, but his eyes never wavered from my face. “Let’s go home, okay?”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, blinking back the tears. Then I knelt down and slipped off my sandals. When I stood back up, I held them in my left hand, letting them dangle at my side. The sidewalk was dirty, but it felt cool and solid beneath my feet.

“Okay,” I said, already walking toward the car. “Let’s go.”

Not home. It wasn’t my home. But it would have to do for a while.

We didn’t speak. Not a word. Nathan didn’t even turn on the radio or sing or anything. In fact, the only sound in the car was Bailey’s gentle breathing. She was asleep in the backseat of the Honda, letting out slow puffs of air through her nose.

My buzz was wearing off. I hadn’t had quite enough to pass out—I had a high tolerance after so many years of this shit—but the headache was already coming on. You’d think the silence would have been a relief, but it made my head pound worse. I wanted Nathan to say something. Anything. Even if he was going to yell again, at least I’d know he wasn’t ignoring me.

Anger was less painful than abandonment.

Anger, I could deal with.

I was so tied up in my own thoughts, trying to find a way to break the silence, that I didn’t even realize we were pulling into a parking lot until the car came to a complete stop. I stared out the windshield at the darkened building. The sign
on the door read
FIFTH STREET FILMS—
a movie rental shop. But it was closed for the night.