White Rabbit(72)
“A really long story, I know,” she finishes wryly. “Just tell me if this ‘really long story’ involves a ‘really long’ ride on Bash Williams’s ‘really long’ d—”
“Lucy!”
“Your face is turning pink!” she declares triumphantly. “Your face is totally pink, Rufus, which means I’m right, and you just gave yourself away. You dirty little slut!”
“Lucy, seriously,” I begin, but I can feel my face escalating well beyond pink and deep into Miami sunset territory.
“And when did we take up lacrosse, hmm?” she purrs, fingering the jersey I’m wearing. “I have to say, Rufus, I really like this look on you—it’s so masc 4 masc.”
“I’m ready to die now, Jebus,” I declare to the ceiling, certain my face can be detected by infrared satellite. Sebastian, who overheard this entire exchange, has an expression on his face that’s a mix of one half amusement and one half sheer, paralyzed terror, and I swallow a rush of nerves. “The thing is, um … maybe you’re not, like … totally wrong?”
“I knew it!” She punches me again, in the other arm this time, and so hard she’s probably bruised my bone marrow. “You are going to tell me everything, mister, and I want all the hot, juicy, throbbing details.”
“You are such a gross pervert.”
“That’s why you love me.” She boops my nose with tipsy affection, and then turns back to Sebastian. The hostess stands there, having reached us just in time to catch most of the humiliating things that were said, but the look on her face suggests only jaded disinterest as Lucy declares, “They’re going to sit with us.”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, suddenly thinking it might be better for Sebastian to get to know Sober Lucy before he gets to know Drunk Lucy. Both versions of my best friend are hyperactive and inappropriate, but at least the former is two percent less likely to intentionally embarrass me. “You and Brent were already doing your thing and hanging out. We weren’t even planning to st—”
“There is not a chance in H-E-double-penetration that you’re wriggling out of this one,” she assures me pleasantly, “so just suck it up and park your skinny butt at our table.”
She marches me across the restaurant, Sebastian following behind and staring in wide-eyed fascination as Lucy manhandles me into a chrome-frame chair at a four-top, where Brent Bosworth is already seated. Lanky and pale, Brent is too uncoordinated to be much of an athlete but too cute to be a total outcast; lucky for him, girls tend to think his perpetual, clumsy-footed bumbling is adorable. A giant platter before him shows the remnants of their potato skins, and two chocolate shakes as thick as Play-Doh are packed into tall metal cups that anchor the table. My best friend plunks herself down across from me and gestures graciously for Sebastian to sit by my side.
“We’ve finished eating,” she says, her voice musical and exaggeratedly polite, “but we would love to keep you boys company whilst you dine.”
“Hey, bruh,” Brent says to me, shooting a paranoid look across the table at Sebastian, his experience with Ethan Allen’s ruling class about as awesome as my own. Calling me “bruh” was an ironic joke that he started up freshman year, and which very soon got completely out of hand; now it seems as if he’s totally lost the ability to refer to me as anything else. “Where’ve you been all night?”
“Brentford James Bosworth!” Lucy exclaims in mock horror. “That is an extremely personal question! Are they not entitled to their privacy?”
“My middle name is Ezra,” he returns. “And my first name is not Brentford.”
“I know that, but Brent Ezra Bosworth sounds like a leprechaun’s curse,” she complains back. “I fixed it for you. You’re welcome.”
“Where have you been all night?” Brent asks me with desperation, like he’s barely holding on to his sanity after a night alone with Lucy. It’s all bullshit; Brent has been madly in love with my best friend ever since she kissed him on New Year’s Eve, but he’s so certain she’ll reject him that he’s refused to make any kind of a move in the months since. He’s a neurotic mess, and in some ways perfect for her; but Lucy likes an intellectual joust, and Brent’s obvious—almost obsequious—devotion frustrates her. There are times I suspect the current status quo is really the best for everyone.
“Rufus was just getting ready to tell us about his evening, actually,” Lucy says pointedly, resting her chin in her hand.
“Um.” I scratch the back of my head again, the lacrosse jersey suddenly like a wool blanket as my body temperature climbs. I’m nervous about outing Sebastian, even with his permission—but still more nervous about how Lucy will react when she finds out what I’ve been keeping from her. There’s far more at stake here than the simple question presumes. Under the table, I feel Sebastian’s hand sneak into mine and squeeze, and I swallow a gulp of air. “So … uh, yeah. Bash and I are … kind of … together. Like, as in boyfriends.”
“Gasp!” Lucy exclaims out loud, gaping at me in a way that’s simultaneously teasing, happy, and interrogative; it’s all vicarious excitement edged with the faintest glimmer of hurt. Just like that, I can tell she’s wondering how long I’ve been holding important details back from her. She banishes the look quickly, though, and scoops up her chocolate shake. With a signature lack of tact, she asks Sebastian, “Do any of your sportsball friends know yet? Are they shitting themselves over all the assholey things they’ve said about gay people for the past, you know, ever?”