Pete stood me up and yanked my jeans down. He turned me around, bent me over the counter and plunged into me. I gasped. Our tryst was mirrored back at us: Pete’s closed eyes, his mouth set in concentration, our breath ragged yet in unison. The sex heightened the mood from the blow, creating a potent combination. His movements came fast and hard, forcing my own eyes shut from the intensity, until I felt his release. He slumped over me, spent and breathless.
“You are fantastic,” he murmured.
I nodded, unable to speak.
“Maybe you should dance for me more often.”
I smiled, and our eyes met in the mirror.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
We straightened ourselves up and left the bathroom. A glance at the hall clock reminded me I had fifty minutes until my impending curfew of midnight, bringing me back to reality. Still mega amped, I didn’t want to leave or go home. I dreaded sitting in my room, spinning my wheels like a caged rat. Especially while all my friends continued the party without me while I missed all the fun. Why couldn’t I have cooler parents who let me run around all hours of the night? Cursing aloud, I went in search of another margarita.
26
Teen Drama
A clatter jarred me awake. I glanced at my digital clock and groaned. It was only eight, and the din of my parent’s voices was overshadowed by one of them unloading the dishwasher in the noisiest way possible. Didn’t they comprehend it was Sunday and teenagers like myself needed their shut-eye?
My head pounded and my eyes ached, pleading for mercy. I may have crawled home on time the night before, but I didn’t find sleep for hours. The effects of the cocaine kept me totally wired, despite chugging three margaritas prior to leaving the party to help bring me down. Although my current reality sucked, last night had been a blast.
Someone knocked on my door. “Anna? You up?”
“I’d have to be dead not to hear that racket in the kitchen, Mom.”
She opened my door a crack and peered in. “I woke you? I’m sorry. I tried to be quiet.”
You failed. “Can I go back to sleep?”
“I thought you’d like breakfast before we go to church. I made bacon, eggs and English muffins,” she said in a too-chipper voice.
The thought of food made me gag, but since she’d gone to the trouble, I’d suck it up. “Sure. Give me a minute.”
I hauled myself out of bed, thanking God my mother didn’t make me go to church anymore. What did He think of me snorting cocaine last night or that out-of-wedlock interlude with Pete in the bathroom? Better not to wonder.
My parents were dressed in their Sunday best. Next to them, I channeled a homeless person in my wrinkled oversized T-shirt and faded flannel bottoms. My head still throbbed, but I plastered a smile on my face as I sat down at the table.
“Have fun last night?” my mother asked.
“Great time.” I forced a bite of scrambled eggs.
My father scrutinized me. “You look tired.”
That’s because I got about three hours of sleep. “I am. I didn’t get enough Zs last night.”
“Don’t forget your list of chores today, young lady. And probably homework.”
I nodded. I had forgotten about schoolwork. Damn. A long, awful day awaited.
I crawled back into bed after my parents left, laying as still as possible and willing the ache in my head to go away. Pete called. Even talking on the phone pained me.
“Why don’t you sound like death warmed over?” I said.
He chuckled. “Experience.”
“You’re a veteran of hangovers?”
“Something like that. But I’m feeling it, too, believe me.”
“I want to die. And I have chores and homework to do.”
“Better get with the program, Trapani.”
“I don’t wanna,” I whined, shifting to turn on my side carefully. In moments like these, a waterbed made seasickness a real possibility.
“Are you coming to our game this week?”
“When is it?”
“Wednesday.”
It hurt to think, but I remembered a commitment. “I can’t, babe. We have a cheerleader meeting. We’re creating decorations for the football players for this thing called Night Raiders.”
“Isn’t it bad enough you already cheer for them at every game? Now you’re making them a bunch of crap, too?”
Here comes a fight. “I hear you. It was news to me, but we’re supposed to make signs encouraging them to fight, fight, fight and win, win, win, and give them little bags of candy and decorate their rooms with strea—”
“You’re decorating their goddamn bedrooms?”
I was not in any shape for this conversation or an argument. “Um, yeah. I know it sounds lame, but apparently, this is something they do every year, something we have to do. Mac said we’ll pair up in teams, split up the houses, and all in one night, decorate the players’ rooms while they’re away at a team meeting.”
Pete was silent for a moment. “That’s bullshit! What if I don’t want you to?”
“I don’t have a choice. It comes with the cheerleader gig.”
“So while I’m working my ass off to win our game—cheerleader-less I might add—you’re going to be baking cookies and writing little love notes for those idiot football players?”
He could be so exasperating, not that he didn’t have a valid point. “I will not be writing any love notes!”
“I gotta go.”
“Pete.”
“What?”
“C’mon. It’s not as if I like any of those guys. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Whatever. Later.”
“Okay,” I said, disappointment seeping in.
The finality of the dial tone buzzed in my ear. I brought my knees to my chest and a few tears sprang from my eyes. Pete’s mad again over something out of my control, I’m horribly hungover, and I have mounds of work to do. Kill me
