If I'm Being Honest(4)

I finally reach the door, and the bouncer waves me in. The club is typically twenty-one and up, but tonight Rebecca Dorsey’s dad rented the place out for her birthday. They won’t serve us drinks, obviously, but people find creative ways to raise their blood alcohol content.

Under the erratic lighting, I spot him immediately.

He’s leaning on the velvet couch near the edge of the dance floor, laughing with the rest of the soccer team. He’s the picture of perfect carelessness. The picture of perfect hotness, too. He’s tall, built like the varsity athlete he is, and his smile stands out in his corner of the club. I watch him reach up with one arm to rub the back of his neck, pulling up the hem of his Beaumont soccer polo, exposing the strip of dark skin above his belt. It’s a nice strip, a really inviting strip.

This is my moment. I just have to walk up to him, join the conversation, and then lead him to a place where it’s just the two of us.

But I can’t.

The music pounds uncomfortably in my ears. I can’t even walk past the kitschy sculpture by the door.

I’ve wanted this for a year. I’ve planned for it. Why can’t I do this? It’s possible I’ve forgotten how to flirt. I’ve been rejecting guys for two years while developing this crush in secret. What if I’ve forgotten how this particular game is played?

I watch him roll his eyes at whatever idiotic thing Patrick Todd’s saying, and I know what’s coming next. His eyebrows twitch the way they do every time he’s preparing one of his effortless comebacks. He’s wonderfully no-bullshit.

It’s the first thing I ever loved about Andrew Richmond. Even when he was new to Beaumont, I noticed his quick and imperturbable humor. Our friendship deepened because we both felt out of place among our wealthy, glamorous classmates. Andrew had the added difficulty of being black in our predominately white school. For one reason or other, we both entered Beaumont feeling like outsiders.

I’ve talked to him countless times, but never in this context. Not even crappy pickup lines are coming to mind. I need help.

Feeling my heart race with frustration, I sweep the dance floor for my friends. People I know and people I don’t fill the crowded, darkened room. Morgan, dressed like a hipster on a Beverly Hills budget in a strappy gold dress with a beaded headband, perches on one of the L-shaped white couches near the balcony. She’s eyeing Brad with that eagerness I’ve learned to recognize—and avoid. I know where their night’s headed, and I won’t be interrupting that.

But in front of the bar, Elle’s running a finger down the arm of Jason Reid. Ugh. I have no problem interrupting Elle’s completely indefensible hookup plans. Before she can pull Jason into a dark corner, I cross the room and grab her by the elbow.

“Cameron!” she protests.

I ignore her and usher us both into the ladies’ restroom. I close the door, and Elle walks past me. I give the restroom a once-over. It’s filthy, and the dimmed lights don’t hide the spilled drinks and littered tissues on the floor. In one stall a girl in a sequined dress holds her friend’s hair while she dry-heaves over the toilet.

“I hope there’s a very good reason you pulled me away from Jason,” Elle says, raising an expectant eyebrow.

“Other than the obvious?” I reply, my goal momentarily forgotten. I’ve explained to Elle a dozen times why I disapprove of Jason. He’s an annoying, airheaded actor who adores nothing more than his own reflection. He has a girlfriend, who I’m guessing isn’t here—and who I have to hang out with every day during cross-country after school. “You know I don’t condone this.”

“If I wanted your opinion I would have asked for it,” she replies. “Why’d you pull me in here?”

My nerves catch fire. Andrew’s out there only feet away. I pace the disgusting restroom floor, running a hand through my hair in frustration. “Do you have a shade of lipstick that’s, like, seductive?”

Understanding dawns in Elle’s eyes. “You are interested in one of the soccer players. Tell me who.”

“Andrew.”

“Andrew Richmond?” Elle starts to smile.

“Do you have any lipstick or not?” I ask loudly, crossing my arms.

Elle’s watching me with skepticism and a hint of humor. “For your information, I don’t just carry around a complete color palette wherever I go. If you’re going to borrow my makeup, you’re going to need to text me beforehand what you’re wearing and how much sun you’ve gotten that day. I don’t just have lipstick for you.”

“Fine.” I level my gaze with hers. “I’ll go borrow Morgan’s. I have plans for the night, and if you won’t—”

Elle sighs. “Come here,” she orders. “You’d look awful in what Morgan’s wearing.”

With a swell of satisfaction, I lean on the counter, facing away from the mirror, and watch Elle pull out no fewer than four shades of lipsticks from her purse. She proceeds to mix them on her hand and then dab the color on my lips with one finger. Elle’s a professional and a perfectionist. I knew she’d have something.

“For years you have me do the dirty work of discouraging every guy interested in you,” she says, holding my chin while she paints my lips. “Now you’re chasing Andrew Richmond. Would you care to explain?”