I scanned the red brick building of the school, the stucco walls and the ugly puke green doors, the ones I passed through every day. I wondered what it would be like to get lost in that sea of faces, really lost, like as a new kid without a past and without an identity…without any friends or baggage of any kind.
“Hey man.”
I turned and saw Max, smiling sheepishly at me. “Toby said to come see what you were doing. You okay?”
I shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m fine.”
“I don’t know. You just seem…kind of distant lately. Like something’s bothering you.”
I laughed dryly. “Thanks, but I really don’t need a therapist. I’m just chilling. Alright? I’ll meet you guys later.”
“Yeah, about that,” Max said, turning once to look over at Toby. “You really should come to Skye Russo’s crib tonight. It’s gonna be sick, like mad chicks and drugs. We just talked about it and we’ve decided we’re meeting…here.”
He pulled out a pen from his pocket and took my hand in his, turning my palm upwards. For a moment, I felt a cold dread go through my stomach, but it fell away as soon as he started writing down a time and an address.
“In case your phone goes dead or something,” he grinned. “Or in case you forget.”
There was Max’s sweet, unassuming smile. I opened my mouth to say something. There was something I wanted, needed to say to him, though what I couldn’t quite figure out.
20.
Toby and Asha Yardley were grinding to some shitty rap song.
The beat dropped, and his arms were around her waist, her ass pressing into his crotch, my head dizzy from the wine coolers.
The place reeked of bad weed, ash, and tar, but the energy was electric, the air on fire with the pulse of noise and sweat and bodies. It was manic in here, in Skye Russo’s basement, the lights dimmed to a cool blue.
Toby and Asha were grinding, and there was me on the sidelines, sitting on a leather couch, smoking the complimentary weed that was probably laced with something bad. Whatever it was, I was already starting to feel it. Whether it was the weed or the wine coolers, the room was fuzzy around the edges, everything moving fluidly before slowing down and then starting right up again to the sound of the bass, like we were trapped inside some trippy music video.
Asha was all skin in short-shorts and a barely there top. Good girl Asha, student government Asha, her breasts—breasts usually hidden beneath crisp polos and denim blouses—heaving over her low-cut shirt.
Max was right next to them as Toby’s hands gripped her neck, her eyes closed, pressing her body against his. The weed was making my mouth taste funny and sour. Max, with his own girl for the night—or the last few minutes of this song—was in heaven, wearing his sunglasses like a douche. Some guy sat down next to me and spilled beer on my shoes. Toby was beckoning me with his head, his hands preoccupied with the edges of Asha’s shorts.
I turned away and tried to pretend I hadn’t seen, but I had. His hands had lingered there for a moment before climbing up inside.
I stood and pushed past the mass of bodies, sticky and warm and shouting, until I found the door and climbed upstairs into a lighter form of madness. Kids were tipsy and stumbling around the kitchen, playing poker and beer pong on tables that were covered in plastic just for the occasion. They were making out in every corner, spilling drinks all over each other in this gorgeous mansion.
It was seriously a beautiful house, at least for Burro Hills. It reminded me of those Spanish colonials I’d seen in Mom’s magazines, with high-beamed ceilings, stone floors, and spacious living and dining rooms with ornate rugs and drapes that probably cost more than most people’s rent in this town. It was the biggest piece of property in Burro Hills, save for the old abandoned movie theater on the Strip that used to show spaghetti Westerns. Skye’s parents spent most of their time away on business, leaving Skye blissfully unattended. She was the richest kid we all knew, and naturally, her home was host to many parties. Rich, and she always got her way. Her parents had wanted to send her to some prep school in the Bay Area or out east, but she’d refused. For some reason, she loved it here. Probably loved being the richest kid in town, loved how good her grades looked compared to ours. And rumor had it she had an army of private tutors at her disposal. We usually didn’t go here, the guys and I. It was the kind of place football assholes would flock to, but it was a nice night for a trek up to Skye’s tiny, gated community right on the cusp of our school district. Plus, we were out of weed, and Toby’s cousins were using his basement.
I was surprised to hear Jess would be there that night. Skye Russo had made her life hell freshman year, slowly and carefully eradicating her from their clique. Now dozens of drunk high school idiots—and probably some local community college kids too—were turning her house into one whacked-out frat party. I spilled some of my beer on one of Skye’s expensive Persian rugs, watching the dark ale stain the fancy fabric. Karma is a bitch, you know?
Then I saw him. The music seemed to evaporate from the room, and everything inside me went still and quiet. Connor and Skye were pressed up against one another, grinding against the wall. Her eyes were closed and her head was tilted back. She leaned against his chest, and he kept his hands on her waist.
I turned and pushed through a throng of people, suddenly needing fresh air. Guys cursed at me as I knocked into them
