Pucked Off (Pucked #6)(37)

I held a red cup of purple Kool-Aid that burned my throat every time I took a sip. I walked into a low-lit room where a group of teenagers were playing a game. The lights were off; there was just the glow of the TV in the corner. Music videos flickered on the screen. Women with hardly any clothes on were dancing to a song I didn’t like all that much. My mom never allowed me to watch that, but sometimes my older sister, Cinny, would let me when she had to babysit me.

No one was paying attention to the TV, though. The teenagers sat in a circle, an empty beer bottle in the middle. I scanned their faces, most of them unrecognizable, although the blue glow didn’t help.

I knew one girl. She had been talking to my sister earlier, so I moved into the empty space beside her, just as a boy with strawberry blond hair leaned forward and gave the bottle a spin. He was beautiful. I thought I knew him. I looked back at the bottle when he caught me staring. I watched it twirl—quickly at first, then slower until it stopped. It was pointed at me.

“Oh my God,” the girl beside me said. “You lucky bitch.”

The boy across the circle lifted an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face as screams and hollers of excitement followed. He downed whatever he was drinking and passed the cup to the boy beside him as he stood.

The girl beside me took my cup. “Get up! Go!”

I obeyed, because I didn’t know what was going on. I’d na?vely thought this was a game of Truth or Dare—that someone would ask me a question, and I would get to choose—but apparently I was wrong.

A chant began, and a flush crept up my neck as I realized I was very, very wrong about what was going to happen.

The girl I’d sat beside sniffed my drink. “Your sister’s going to kill you.” She was laughing, though.

I was ushered across the room, and the screaming got louder. Seven Minutes in Heaven. That’s the game we were playing, not Truth or Dare. I’d never kissed anyone.

People patted the boy on the back and made lewd, suggestive comments. I suddenly felt panicked as he stepped into a closet and someone shoved me in there with him.

There was no way to avoid touching him as the door slammed closed and darkness swallowed us. I felt around, trying to make space among the winter coats. My hand connected with soft cotton and hard muscle. I was exhilarated and terrified at the same time.

“Hey, hey, relax.” He covered my hand with his. It was warm. Clammy. “Are you afraid of the dark?” he whispered. He smelled like the same drink I’d had, but sharper, and I could taste cologne on my tongue. It was familiar.

The small space was suddenly illuminated by the glow of his phone as he flipped it open.

“No,” I croaked.

“Me neither. But I don’t like small spaces.” He rested his shoulder against the door.

I reached for the knob, but he stopped me. “Don’t bother. They locked it from the outside. We’re trapped in here together.”

The word trapped sent a shiver down my spine. His gaze was lazy and a little unfocused as it traveled over my face.

He pressed a bunch of buttons on his phone. I did know him, I realized. Last year he’d gone to my school for a little more than a month at the end of the school year. He used to flick my ponytail when he passed me in the hall. Not in a mean way, more in a gingers-stick-together kind of way. He’d winked at me once. I didn’t know if he remembered. Even though he’d showed up late in the year, he’d been popular—with the teachers and all the students. Maybe because of his thick Scottish accent.

He’d gone on to high school this year, like Cinny, and I was still in seventh grade.

“What are you doing,” I whispered.

“Setting an alarm for six minutes from now.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I don’t think you really want to make out with me for the next seven, based on how freaked out you look, and I can’t lose face.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry. When my alarm goes off, all I’m gonna do is make it look like we’ve been making out the entire time, ’kay?” He shoved his phone in his pocket, blanketing us in darkness once again.

I felt the warmth of his fingertips down my arm, and goose bumps broke out across my skin. He spoke in a whisper I could barely hear because of the noise beyond the door. “I feel like I know you. What’s your name?”

“I’m Poppy.”

“Like the flower?”

“Yeah. Like the flower.”

“You think I’ll get high if I sniff you?”

“What? I don’t—”

He huffed a little laugh. “Never mind. That was dumb. I’m Lance, like what you’d do to a wound.”

I giggled and clapped a hand over my mouth.

“You think I’m funny?” His accent was heavy, thick. So were his words. He’d probably been drinking. I think most of the people at the party had been. I think maybe my drink had alcohol in it too, and that’s why my whole body felt suddenly fuzzy and hyper-alert at the same time.

I nodded, but realized he couldn’t see me so I responded with a quiet yes.

“How old are you, Poppy like the flower?”

“Fourteen,” I lied. “How old are you?”

“I turn fifteen tomorrow.”

“Happy almost birthday.”