Epic Fail (7 page)

I smiled right into those blue eyes and said, “It’s us against them.”

We made our way through the dance room. Crazy swaying girl was still there, but I successfully dodged her this time, and we made it back safely to the living room, which was even hotter and more crowded than before.

“Let’s grab something to drink for the road,” Webster said, raising his voice so I could hear him over the noise. We moved toward the bar. “What do you feel like?”

“Diet Coke,” I shouted back.

“Ah, the hard stuff!” We made it to the bar, and Webster reached for a bottle of Diet Coke.

That’s when things got weird.

Over Webster’s shoulder, I could see a bunch of guys pushing through the crowd, heading toward us. They were all big, with the broad shoulders and overdeveloped biceps that basically functioned as a
Hello, I’m a Jock
name tag.

Derek was one of them. In fact, he was leading the way, his face grim, his shoulders hunched forward, and his arms curving down, the way guys do when they want to make you think that their muscles are almost too big. He walked right by me like I wasn’t there and grabbed the bottle out of Webster’s hand. “Time to go, Grant.”

“Excuse me?” The polite smile on Webster’s face made me think maybe he really hadn’t heard. Other people must have, though: there was a perceptible lowering of voices all around us.

Derek put the Diet Coke back on the bar and gestured to another guy to come forward. This guy had overgrown wavy red hair and the widest shoulders I’d ever seen. Too bad he didn’t have a neck—just a big head that sprung directly from the middle of those enormous shoulders. He said in a growl, “I don’t remember inviting you to my house. Leave. Now.”

“
What?
” I exclaimed, but Webster gave a resigned shrug and just said, “A couple of people told me it was an open party. Sorry. I was on my way out, anyway.” He turned to me. “Let’s go.”

“This is nuts,” I said.

He gave a short laugh. “Eh, I’ve been thrown out of better places than this.”

I looked at Derek. “What’s going on?” He didn’t bother to meet my eyes, just kept glaring at Webster. “Why are you guys acting like such jerks?” I asked.

Jason heard that. “Who are you? You come with Grant?”

“No, but I’m leaving with him,” I said hotly. “The hospitality here sucks.”

Derek stepped forward. “She came with me, actually. She’s Juliana’s sister.”

“Juliana?” Jason repeated blankly.

“The new girl,” Derek explained, and Jason nodded, recognition dawning. “Oh, her.”

“Don’t you think this is a little much?” I asked Derek, who didn’t reply.

“It’s okay, Elise. No big deal. Let’s just go.” Webster crooked his elbow toward me, and I threaded my arm through his.

“You can’t go,” Derek said, addressing me directly for the first time. “Your sister is expecting you to come home with us.”

“Tell her I made other plans,” I hissed. But then I heard my name being called.

Juliana was rushing over, Chase right behind. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Give me a second,” I said to Webster, releasing his arm.

“Don’t know if I have one,” he said, with a wary look at the hostile faces surrounding us.

“Yeah, okay. Go ahead and I’ll meet you out front.”

“I’ll wear a carnation in my lapel so you’ll recognize me.” Amazing that he could still crack a joke under these circumstances.

He sauntered calmly across the floor, apparently indifferent to the people whispering all around him. Once he had closed the front door behind him, Jason’s gang melted into the crowd, their community service completed for the night.

I dragged Juliana over to a quiet corner of the room.

“What was that all about?” she asked. “Who was that?”

“This guy I’m friends with—he just got thrown out of the party. Because of Derek.”

“Why? What did he do?”

“Nothing. Webster didn’t do anything.”

She tossed her hands up in the air. “I don’t understand!”

“I don’t either. All I know is that Derek has it in for Webster, and of course everyone does whatever Melinda Anton’s son says, so—” I shrugged irritably. “It’s all weird and annoying, and I’m getting a ride home from Webster. You want to come with us?”

“What about Chase?”

“Just tell him you got another ride.”

She looked down at the floor. “I don’t want to.” No surprise there.

“Fine. I’ll see you later.” I turned to go.

“You’ll go straight home, right? Mom and Dad will freak if I get home and you’re not with me.”

“I’ll text you once I know what I’m doing.”

I headed toward the front door, confused and a little overwhelmed. The evening had started off badly, then had gotten better, then had turned strange . . . and now I was leaving with a guy I hadn’t arrived with. Not my usual m.o. But as far as car companions went, I was trading up. Better to ride in a lousy little car with someone fun than in a limo with a jerk.

I let the door swing closed behind me and looked around. Webster wasn’t anywhere in sight.

That was weird: I thought he said he’d wait for me. I walked down to the open gargantuan metal gate and looked up and down the street. There were no sidewalks in this neighborhood, just big, gated houses and the dark street that divided them.

To my relief, a tall figure moved out of the shadows and came toward me. I went to meet him, but my greeting died on my lips as he emerged into the street lamp’s glow. It wasn’t Webster at all.

It was Derek Edwards.

“Hi,” he said.

“Where’s Webster?”

“He’s gone.”

“What do you mean? He’s supposed to take me home.”

He shook his head. “He drove off a minute ago.”

“You’re lying.”

“No,” he said, so calmly I believed him.

“Did you tell him to leave without me?”

“More or less.”

“Why?”

Derek was silent a moment. Then he said, “Webster’s not a good person. You don’t want to hang out with him.”

“He’s not the one knocking into people and throwing them out of parties!”

“Why are you in such a hurry to be on his side?” Derek kicked at a piece of metal lying on the side of the road and, without looking up, said, “Because he’s funny? Because he says bad things about me?”

“He doesn’t say anything bad about anyone!” I hated how shrill my voice was getting, but I couldn’t stop it. I felt totally confused about what was going on, and I hate feeling confused. “That’s where you’re wrong. He’s only ever been nice about you. He likes you. He understands that you—” I stopped.

“What does he understand?” he asked sharply.

“That things are weird for you,” I said. “That having famous parents makes you a little . . . you know . . . paranoid.” I tried to say it gently but realized too late that a word like
paranoid
comes out sounding pretty harsh whether you want it to or not.

“That’s what Webster says about me?”

“Yeah, well, it’s kind of true, isn’t it?” I said, speaking rapidly to cover my discomfort. “I mean, the first time I met you I didn’t even know who your parents were, but everyone seemed to assume I did. And then every time anyone even mentions your parents, you act like they’re invading your privacy or being rude or something. It’s impossible to be normal around you.”

He took a step back. “Is that your opinion or Webster Grant’s?”

“It’s the
truth
,” I said. “Ask anyone—only no one will tell you because they all want to be friends with you.”

“What makes you the noble exception? No interest in being friends?”

Was he angry? His voice was quiet but heavy with sarcasm and something else—disappointment, maybe?

“I
am
interested in being friends,” I said. “But not because of who your parents are. And not as much as I was before I saw you acting like a jerk to a guy who hadn’t done you any harm.”

“You don’t know anything about it.”

“Yes, I do—he told me you guys used to be friends, and then there was this thing with your little sister . . .”

He shook his head. “He didn’t tell you everything.”

“Look,” I said, trying to be conciliatory. “I get that you feel protective of your little sister. Layla’s always getting in trouble and I try—”

He cut me off. “My sister isn’t like yours,” he said coldly. “She’s a good kid.”

I drew my head back. “What exactly are you saying?”

“Nothing. Just don’t assume my sister is anything like yours.”

I dug my nails into my palms, furious at how condescending and unpleasant he sounded. But I tried to stay calm. “Fine,” I said. “Whatever. Let’s say you’re justified in disliking Webster—and that’s a pretty big leap, but let’s just say it for the moment. Does that also give you the right to kick him out of parties and keep me from getting a ride with him?”

“I did you a favor.”

“Oh, please,” I said. “I can make my own choices.”

“Webster Grant knows how to get people to like him—”

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s pleasant and outgoing and friendly. What a jerk. Why can’t everyone be rude and standoffish? That’s so much better. So much classier.”

Derek took in a quick breath and then let it out in an angry puff. “Forget it,” he said. “You’re determined to think I’m a jerk, no matter what I say. And frankly, I’m not that high on you either right now. I thought you’d be a better judge of character.” He raised his hands and let them drop. “Let’s just go find Chase and your sister and get the hell out of here.”

“I’m not going with you guys,” I said. “Not now.”

“Really, Elise? How exactly are you planning to get home?”

Good question. It’s not like I had other options. Derek knew it and I knew it. “Come on,” he said in a gentler voice. “The sooner we find the others, the sooner you’ll be home.”

“I’ll wait here.” I crossed my arms and leaned against the street lamp.

“Suit yourself.” He walked away and strode through the huge metal gate.

Chapter Seven

T
he ride home was about as awkward as you could get.

Juliana’s eyes kept straying anxiously over to where I sat opposite her, all curled in on myself.

Chelsea sat between me and Derek. As we’d gotten into the limo, I’d remembered our Ping-Pong wager, but neither Derek nor I brought it up. We were both being stiffly polite but didn’t meet each other’s eyes or address each other directly.

When her first few attempts at engaging Derek in conversation failed, Chelsea yawned and stretched and said a little too loudly, “God, I’m tired.” She daintily laid her head on Derek’s shoulder. “This is nice,” she said with a contented sigh. She fluttered her eyelashes up at him and then let her eyes close, thus missing the annoyed look he shot her.

I caught it, though, and my eyes met his, briefly and unintentionally. We both quickly looked away again. Then he twitched his shoulders with a sudden violence that made Chelsea’s neck bounce. She lifted her head and said, “Hey!”

“Can you not do that, please?” he said.

She made a face, but shifted back into an upright position. “You’re not nice,” she said, with what I’m sure was supposed to be an adorable and irresistible pout.

“So I’ve been told.” Those were the last words he spoke for the rest of the drive to our house.

When we pulled up, I opened the car door before we’d even come to a full stop and headed up the front walkway with one quick and muttered good-bye tossed over my shoulder. I figured Juliana could thank them for both of us—I wasn’t in the mood.

My father must have heard the car because he opened the door for me. “Did you have a good time?” he asked as he let me in.

“Not really.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said cheerfully. “You’re like me, Elise,” he added. “You don’t want to be gadding about, going to silly parties, making inane conversation with shallow people. You’re happier curled up at home with a good book.”

I almost laughed at that. Me, like my dad? No way. He was a social recluse—almost never left the house except for work.

How could I be like him? I was young. I was a girl. I had long hair and liked to wear pretty clothes and go out at night. I
loved
my dad, but I was nothing like him.

But then I felt a flutter of panic. I had his genes. What if they were just lurking in me, waiting to be expressed? He was always telling me that I was the most like him of his four daughters. Maybe someday in the future, I would be the one puttering around in an old cardigan with stretched-out pockets, carrying cups of strong tea to my office where I’d read books and journals hour after hour and complain about how standards were being compromised.

I had a sudden violent desire to run out and get a tattoo.

My mother came bustling into the foyer. “Oh, good, you’re home, Elise. Juliana outside?” She opened the front door, just as Layla came dashing down the stairs, wearing her pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt.

“I want to see the limo,” she said and darted out the open door.

“Layla!” I called and headed after her, terrified she’d say something embarrassing to Derek. Right now, that would be unbearable.

She had reached the curb by the time I caught up to her. “Can I see inside?” she asked Chase who was standing there, saying good-bye to Juliana. “I’ve never been in one before.” Before he could respond, she had crawled through the door. I could hear her “Hey, Derek! Nice limo!” and his muttered “It’s not mine.”

“There’s a whole cabinet of food in here! With Oreos! And a TV! Look—DVDs!” Layla stuck her head out the limo door. “Mom, you have to see this. It’s incredible!”

I hadn’t realized that Mom had followed us out, but there she was, right behind me. She smiled, a little patronizingly. “Yes, I know, Layla. I saw it earlier.” She stooped and peered inside. “Hi, kids! Did you have a good time? No drinking, right? Who needs alcohol to have fun?”

“Mom, they have to get going,” I said, desperate to stop her before she launched into an entire PSA. “Come
on
, Layla.” I hauled her out of the limo.

To my surprise, Derek followed her out onto the sidewalk. “I think this is yours,” he said and handed me the cardigan sweater I had shrugged off hours earlier and completely forgotten about.

“Oh, right. Thanks.” I accepted the sweater without meeting his eyes.

Layla tugged at his arm. “You have to take me for a ride one day. It would be so cool to show up at a rave in this!”

“Layla!” my mother said. “What do you know about raves? She’s very advanced for her age,” she told Derek. “I worry about it sometimes, but, really, what can you do?”

“Tie her to a tree,” I muttered and I could have sworn I heard a smothered laugh, but when I glanced at Derek, his face was blank.

“Please thank your parents for the use of their limo,” Mom said to him.

“It’s not theirs,” I snarled. “It’s the Baldwins’.”

“Anyway, good-bye!” said Juliana, clearly as eager as I was for this farewell to end. Chase and Derek quickly—and with some relief—said good night and climbed into the limo.

Mom leaned in. “Come back soon and stay awhile!” she said gaily. “Both of you are welcome anytime. And your families too, of course. We just set up a croquet course in our backyard. It’s a little cramped but it’s fun!”

I reached around her and slammed the door shut.

“So what was going on at the party with Derek and that Webster guy?” Juliana asked when we were both back in our room.

I told her the little I knew.

She furrowed her brow, clearly trying to make sense of it. “Derek thinks there was something weird going on with Webster and his sister?”

“I guess. Webster says she just had a crush on him.”

“Maybe the truth lies somewhere in the middle,” she suggested. “Maybe Webster flirted a little with the sister and it bothered Derek.”

“Webster’s chatty and outgoing, so it could easily come across as flirtatious—but he’s also obviously harmless. And if that’s the case, Derek way overreacted tonight: he threw him out of the party and then made him leave without me. Don’t you think that’s pretty bad?”

“Well,” she said, “there may be more to the story we don’t know.”

“You just want to side with Derek because he’s Chase’s friend.” She didn’t rush to deny it. “Did Chase say anything about Webster to you?”

“We didn’t have a lot of time to talk. He just said something like, ‘There’s a lot of history there.’”

There was a knock, but before we could even respond, the door opened and Layla came in. “Hey, guys,” she said in a low voice. “I need to use your room for a second.”

“What’s going on?” Juliana asked.

She shut the door behind her. “I got this text—” She raised her hand, which had been pressed against her hip, and revealed the cell phone hidden in her palm. “I
have
to call my friend Campbell. Some guy she barely knows sent her this weird message, and she desperately needs to talk to me.”

“You know you’re not allowed to use cell phones in the house,” I said. “Call her back on the landline.”

“I can’t use the phone—Mom’s downstairs and she’ll hear.”

“Jules and I are talking. Go call from your own room,” I said.

“It’s not fair that I have to share a room with Kaitlyn—she goes to sleep so friggin’ early. And she’s a tattletale. Just let me call Campbell, okay? I’ll be fast.” She looked back and forth between us. “You know who she is, right? Campbell McGill? Her dad is that guy on that show.”

“That guy on that show?” I repeated.

“You know,” she said. “On that entertainment news show—he’s the whatchamacallit. The one who sits at the desk and says what the next story will be.”

“The anchor?” Juliana said.

“Yes! That’s it. Her dad’s the anchor.”

“I know who she means,” Juliana said to me. “George McGill. He’s on
Entertainment Access
, and Mom said he has a kid at Coral Tree. Not that it matters,” she added, turning back to Layla. “You still can’t use your cell phone in here.”

“Just for like five minutes?”

“No,” I said. “Now get out. We want to go to sleep.”

She stamped her foot. “You guys are so mean. You get to have this room to yourselves and I’m stuck with stupid little Kaitlyn and her stupid little toys and her stupid little bedtime.”

“I know it’s hard to share a room with someone who’s so much younger.” Juliana stood up and tried to put her arm around Layla, but Layla knocked it away irritably. “I really am sorry. But it’s best to stick to Mom and Dad’s rules when we can. You know how they can be.”

“I hate their rules,” Layla said in a low, vicious voice. “I hate their rules and this family and everyone in it. It’s the most repressive dictatorship anyone’s ever had to live in and I’m going to run away first chance I get! God, I want
out
of here!” Clutching her cell phone against her chest, she flung herself out of our room and slammed the door behind her.

There was a pause.

Then Juliana said, “Well, at least she used some decent vocabulary words,” and we both laughed.

“If we’re really lucky, she won’t talk to us for days,” I said.

Jules moved over to her dresser and started to take off her earrings. “About all this other stuff, Lee-Lee, with Derek and Webster . . . promise me you’ll reserve judgment until we know more.”

“I’ll try,” I said. “If you’ll promise me you won’t automatically side with Derek because he’s Chase’s friend and Melinda Anton’s son.”

“I don’t care who Derek’s mother is,” Juliana said with an edge to her voice.

“Then you and I are the only two people in the world who don’t.” I slid off the bed and onto my feet. “I’m going to go brush my teeth.” Out in the hallway, the light was on in the bathroom and the door was shut. As I approached, I heard the low murmur of a voice.

Layla had found a place to make her phone call after all.

I had less luck with my own phone call the next day. The home number listed in the school directory for Webster kept putting me through to a generic voice mail message, so I wasn’t even sure it was the right one, and his cell phone wasn’t listed. I really wanted to touch base with him about what had happened at the party, so I kept trying the useless home number.

“Are you calling Derek?” my mother asked, coming into the kitchen just as I’d put the phone down.

“Why would I be calling him?” I said irritably.

She just smiled coyly at me. And rather than embark on a useless attempt to introduce reality to my mother, I rolled my eyes and stormed up to my room—which was so much easier.