Playlist for the Dead(24)

“Just go, both of you,” Ryan said. “You don’t belong here.”

With that, Trevor tightened his grip on Hayden’s shirt and lifted him into the air by his collar, which was already frayed. I could see it starting to rip. Ryan just stood there.

And then Trevor dropped him.

Which wouldn’t have been such a big deal, except that a) they hadn’t quite made it all the way down the staircase, and b) I was standing at the bottom. Hayden couldn’t get his balance when he landed in between two steps, and he tumbled down the rest of them, his elbow hitting the side of my knee, which took me down with him. We both ended up in a tangle on the floor; I’d heard the crack of Hayden hitting his head on the wood and worried for a minute that he might be seriously hurt.

The room got really quiet; someone had turned off the music, and when I looked up I could see that everyone was watching us. At first people seemed shocked, though no one was exactly rushing to help. But by the time I’d stood up and figured out Hayden wasn’t unconscious, the giggling had started. Just a few girls, initially; then some guys, and then it wasn’t giggles anymore but full-on laughter.


I stopped. I wasn’t ready to talk about the rest.

Astrid waited a moment after I’d finished talking before she reached across the couch and put her hand on mine. I was so drained from talking about the party that I felt relieved—if she was touching my hand, if she was still here listening to me, then it meant she didn’t think I was the worst person in the world. Even if I still thought so.

“What happened sucks, but it’s not your fault,” she said.

“Easy for you to say.” What did she know, anyway? Nice of her to say it, but we both knew it wasn’t true.

“You don’t understand. I’m not just saying it, I know it.” She was frowning, though it didn’t seem like she was frowning at me.

“Oh, great, now you’re going to be all cryptic, just like Hayden. You think you’re going to make my guilt just magically go away?” I pulled away from her and stood up. I shouldn’t have tried to explain it to her. What made me think she’d understand, anyway?

Just then I saw Eric, walking toward us. When did he even get here? “It’s almost midnight,” he said to Astrid. “We should get out of here.” He looked over at me, all good-looking in his stupid skinny pants and perfectly arranged hair. “Hey, Sam, nice to see you again. Need a ride home? I’m driving.” And he was nice, too. I hated that I could totally get what she saw in him.

“Come with us, Sam,” Astrid said. “It’s been a long night.”

“Thanks, but I’ll walk,” I said. “I could use some fresh air.” I got up without saying anything else, as gracefully as I could manage from that stupid overstuffed couch. Tomorrow I’d want to know what she meant when she said she was sure it wasn’t my fault, but tonight I just needed to deal with the fact that I’d talked about the party, something I thought I’d never do, something I’d refused to think about all week. And now I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and I hadn’t even told her the worst part. I needed to be alone. I waited for Astrid and Eric to leave, then headed for the door.

Damian caught me on the way out. “You hitting the road?” he asked.

I nodded.

“A little something for the ride?” He handed me a flask.

Sure, what the hell. Whatever was in it smelled wonderful, like rich caramel, and tasted like ass. My throat burned as it hit, and I could almost feel the booze reactivating the beer I’d drunk, making my head spin a little.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Doing great,” I said. Guess I was a liar after all.

“See you around,” he said.

The cold air hit me as I opened the front door; the temperature had dropped. It felt wonderful, though the shot had made me dizzy. How ironic, I thought, as I started walking, that after confirming just last week that I’d never be able to make friends at parties, I’d gone to a party and possibly made a friend. I’d been right all along, and I’d never be able to tell Hayden. It was almost funny. Actually, it was funny. I started laughing, then realized I was freezing. I looked down at my arms, covered with goose bumps. Which meant I could see my arms. Which meant I wasn’t wearing my sweatshirt. Crap—I’d left it at the party, along with my wallet and cell phone. I had no idea what time it was, and I was getting dizzier and dizzier. I knew I should go back to the party, but I didn’t think I’d make it. I was so, so tired. And I’d just reached the 7-Eleven, which had a bench right in front. I would only sit for a minute. Then I’d go back.



THE HAND ON MY SHOULDER was gentle, but the voice was rough. “Get up, you stupid punk. This isn’t your fucking bedroom.” I opened my eyes. Standing right over me was a very angry man with a mustache and a 7-Eleven button-down shirt. His face was framed by the glowing pinks and oranges of a really amazing sunrise.

Sunrise?

Shit.

I stood up quickly and brushed the guy’s arm off me. He must have been the morning-shift dude; that plus the sunrise meant it was probably around six a.m. Mom would be home at seven. I had to go. “Leave me alone,” I said to the guy, and stood up. My whole body ached and I could hear my back crack as I straightened. As soon as I was fully awake I realized that a) I probably had a huge black eye from Trevor punching me, b) my head was killing me, and c) there was a better than fifty-fifty chance I was going to have to puke. Apparently I was having my first hangover.