Rock Bottom Girl(102)

“Then I’ll just have to take you over into this dark corner and kiss you until they’re gone,” he said wickedly.

I put a hand on his chest when he started to move in like a shark. “Wait. You’re not just doing this to put on a show for Amie Jo, are you?”

Jake gave me a very slow, very thorough once-over. “Baby, I’m doing this because you look so good in that dress, I know I won’t be able to keep my hands to myself all night.”

“Good enough for me.” I grabbed him by the lapel and kissed him until I forgot all about Amie Jo and her gold-dipped house and dust bunny dog.





60





Marley





After kissing the hell out of Jake, I was separated from him by party-goers.

Vicky, in a dirt brown dress with huge bell sleeves, dragged me to the bar for Fireball shots with the language arts teachers and their spouses.

Jake was invited to an impromptu poker game in Travis’s man cave.

“It’s crazy, right?” Vicky screamed over the music. The DJ was playing this party like she was in a club in L.A. and it was 3 a.m. Only the tunes were more “we peaked in the nineties” than “we’re drunk and grinding to electronic dance music.” The audience reacted like underage starlets misled by bad friends and predatory management. Everyone under the age of forty-five in Culpepper was in this house, shedding inhibitions with Coors Light and Fireball.

“I can’t believe this kind of party exists in Culpepper,” I shouted back. I’d seen a couple who’d been married immediately after graduation making out up against the baby grand piano Pretty Woman-style.

“See what you’ve been missing?” Vicky hollered.

Someone bumped me hard, making me spill beer down my arm.

“Oops. Didn’t see you there,” a mean, drunk Coach Vince sneered at me. I’d forgotten how sweaty and hairy he was.

He burped right in my face, and the fumes of it singed my hair. I was going to need to do a deep conditioning treatment stat.

“Lovely as always to see your hulking, beastly frame,” I said sweetly.

He pointed a thick, fungal-nailed finger in my face. “You think you’re hot shit. Doncha?”

“Well, at least body temperature shit.”

Vicky snort laughed so hard she choked.

That grated cheese finger poked me in the shoulder. Hard. “You think because you win a few games that makes you a coach?”

“No, I’m pretty sure you can still be a coach and lose.”

“You’re a smartass,” he slurred, dipping his receding hairline into my personal space.

“Better than a dumbass.”

“Whatdu call me?”

Vicky sidled in closer. “A dumbass. SHE CALLED YOU A DUMBASS,” she yelled over the throbbing beat of R.E.M.

“Would a dumbass have the Homecoming game every year?” he scoffed.

“Do you always get the Homecoming game?” I asked him, already knowing the answer. Culpepper Homecoming always fell on a boys soccer game night. The Homecoming court parade took place in the afternoon with borrowed convertibles from Buchanan Ford & Tractors escorting the Homecoming princes and princesses. The always out-of-tune marching band followed, usually playing a Beach Boys song. Then there was the game and the crowning of the queen at half-time, followed by the dance.

“Hell yeah, I get the Homecoming game. Under the lights, the stands packed with feering chans. It’s the single biggest athletic event all year.”

If he kept poking me with that finger, I was going to have to break it off and feed it to him like the gourmet cocktail weenies in the music room.

“Then I guess it’s true,” I said.

“What’s true?”

Too much time had passed since the original dumbass insult. It wasn’t worth my effort trying for a callback.

“Never mind, Vince.”

Drunk Coach Vince sneered in my face. “You think you’re—”

“Hot shit,” I filled in. “Yeah. You already said that. Got anything new you’d like to add?”

“Pfft.” The smell of cheap beer and unbrushed teeth assailed my nostrils. “You’re a loser, Sickero. A looooooser.”

In the past, when someone other than myself identified my loser status, I’d felt shame. It was an open wound I dealt with secretly, never being good enough. However, hairy-backed Vince breathing gum disease in my face while calling me a loser was not upping my shame factor.

Huh. Weird.

“Well, Vince. It was great talking to you, as always. You should probably head back upstairs to that Boone’s Farm fountain,” I said, turning him around and giving him a gentle shove in the direction of the basement stairs.

Either I misjudged my own strength or his grip on sobriety. He tripped over a pink fur ottoman and landed chest-and face-first in the salsa and guacamole spread next to the bar.

“Uh, we should probably go upstairs immediately,” Vicky said, grabbing my hand and towing me toward the stairs.

“Sickero!” Vince roared. His face was a green mask of wounded rage. I choked down a laugh and ran for my life.

We escaped to the first floor of the house before we lost our shit.

“This definitely makes the Top Five Favorite Memories from Hostetter House Party.” Vicky gasped for breath.