Tell Me Three Things(39)

Me: Not an excuse. An explanation.

SN: I love how you’re always so precise with your words.

Me: I don’t get this. What’s the point?

SN: ?

Me: Of all this talking. Are you embarrassed to be seen with me? Are you worried I won’t like you? I don’t get it.

SN: none of the above. I just like this. a lot. this IM’ing thing works. I’m too drunk to explain now.

Me: The old “I was drunk” excuse.

SN: I promise we will meet. soon.

Me: You keep saying that.

SN: you know what I think about sometimes?

Me: What?

SN: you know that piece of hair that always falls into your eyes—the not-quite-a-bang piece? I want to be able to tuck it behind your ear. I want to be able to do that. I want to meet you when I feel comfortable enough with you to do that.

Me: You are so weird.

SN: you are not the first person to say that.

Me: Am I the first to say that I really like that about you?



I look over at Caleb again, try to imagine SN’s words coming out of that guy’s mouth, try to picture him making as romantic a gesture as tucking my hair behind my ears. Him understanding that touching my hair requires a certain amount of intimacy. No, the image doesn’t work. Instead, I picture Caleb as a future frat president, the type to yell at his pledge to chug a beer. SN’s probably not Kilimanjaro gray T-shirt boy then. But who the hell is he?

—

“I’m drunk,” I tell Dri and Agnes.

“You’ve already told us,” Dri says. “Like a million times.”

“Sorry. Apparently, I’m the type of drunk who likes to let other people know,” I say.

“It’s charming,” Agnes says, in her typical dry way. “I’m a little drunk too. Though not as sloppy as you.”

“I’m not sloppy,” I say. I look down. Am I sloppy? Everything seems to still be in place except my mind, which is rolling around in my head. I’ve gotten drunk before, though usually alone with Scarlett. I guess my tolerance is two Agnes Specials.

“You’re both sloppy,” Dri says. She throws her arms around our necks, which I’m grateful for because it helps me with my balance.

“Do you think it’s possible to have a crush on two people at once?” I ask, which is one of those embarrassing questions I would never ask sober. Maybe I should never drink again.

“Totally. I’m usually into, like, five guys at a time,” Agnes says. “I like to keep it varied. Optimize my chances.”

“So who do you like? SN, obvi, but who else? Please, please don’t say Liam.”

I’m about to say it out loud, tell her Ethan, and finally get the entire scoop since I know Dri is not the type to withhold details: she’ll tell me his life story, what he was like in sixth grade, whether he has a girlfriend, whether he’s a d-bag. Maybe she’ll even help angle us closer to him so I can say hello. So far, our only contact has been when he passed by me after the show—a “hey” that was neither rude nor friendly nor an invitation to talk more: the same closed-up can of nothing he seems to lob at everyone else. I thought we were getting past that. I guess I thought wrong.

Just as the word is about to come out of my mouth—“Ethan,” which is a pretty word, don’t you think?—Gem comes barreling toward me.

“You stay away from my boyfriend, you skank,” she says, and gets right up into my face, my grill, which is an expression I’ve never once had an occasion to use until right now.

“Umm…,” I say. I wish I could go back in time and not drink those two drinks, because I’m having trouble understanding what’s going on. Why is Gem yelling at me? I’ve grown accustomed to her passive-aggressive under-the-breath taunts, which I can usually pretend I don’t hear. I can’t do that with her yelling into my mouth. And skank? Really? “What?”

I want to wipe her breath off of my face, a slathering of onion and alcohol. I want be far away from here, maybe tucked in bed. California is exhausting.

“Stay. The. Hell. Away. From. Liam,” Gem says, and then flicks her hair, like she’s in some mean-girl movie, and struts away. I take it back. She’s not a great actress. She lays it on too thick.

I look around to see if anyone saw, but it’s just me, Dri, and Agnes in our own little circle in the vast backyard.

“Holy crap, did that just happen?” Agnes asks, and starts to giggle.

“It’s not funny,” I say, though I wish it were. “What the hell?”

“Gem’s been all messed up since her dad got arrested last year. It was, like, all over the tabloids,” Agnes says. “I mean, she wasn’t that nice before, but since then she’s gone full-on raging bitch. I hear he could go to jail.”

“What did he get arrested for?” I ask, though I don’t really care. I hate her. No Wood Valley sob story is going to get sympathy from me.

“Her dad solicited a prostitute,” Dri says. “And there’s some sort of tax fraud thing.”

“Seriously?” I ask.

“Whatever,” Agnes says.

“Just tell me one thing?” Dri asks, and I can hear the plea in her voice. “Before, were you just about to say you liked Liam?”