Burn Before Reading(35)

"Alright, thanks. That makes my job a little easier."

Kristin smiled. "Anything I can do, I'm here for you. Just come find me - or you can text me."

"Will you be, er - drunk?"

"Oh, I don't like drinking. I'm just here to dance. And maybe make out with a few people." She winked, and I felt my face flush.

"Right. I forgot that happens at parties."

We made it to the front porch, and Kristin rang the doorbell. The thumping music came in crystal clear as soon as the door opened, a senior I'd seen around flashing a smile at Kristin. They hugged, and she led me inside. The house was a hundred times hotter than outside, the decor all tasteful tapestries and family photos that were slightly askew thanks to the fact people were jammed in here wall-to-wall. 'Smaller than you think' my ass, Kristin. I followed her like a sheep follows a shepherd - my eyes darting everywhere as I struggled to take in what was going on all at once; the living room was crowded with dancing people, the kitchen was a little quieter, half-empty liters of soda and vodka bottles lining the counter like weary soldiers. The hall wound around the house, and most of the guest rooms were – you guessed it - occupied by people furiously making out. Kristin pointed to the kitchen.

"I saw Fitz in there just now. Go say hi! I'll be dancing!"

And just like that, she disappeared into the crowd, and my lifeline was gone. My palms started sweating as I struggled through waves of people to get to the kitchen. I recognized only half of these people - the other half didn't go to our school. Everyone was dressed to impress - with metallic eyeshadow and black leather jeans and curled hair. I could hear the mutters that followed me, just barely audible below the thumping music; ‘Isn’t that her?’. ‘She tried to make-out with Wolf, right?’

Great. That awful rumor was spreading even more. I wanted to snap the truth at them, but something stopped me – would they even believe me if I did? Probably not. People just believe what they want to – and what they want to believe is always that one lie that’s more interesting than the truth.

God, this was such a bad idea. My first party, and I was already adrift in the sea of faces.

But then I spotted one I knew. Fitz was at the stove, a frying pan in one hand and his arm slung around a giggling girl's shoulders. He wore a brightly-colored, open-collared shirt that would've looked stupid on anyone else, but went perfectly with his curly blond hair and scarecrow physique. He flipped the pan, a pancake doing a perfect arc, and the girl clapped excitedly. His eyes found mine, and he smiled.

"Bee! About time you showed up. You want a pancake? They're chocolate chip."

"N-No, I'm good," I said.

"You look awful," He looked me up and down. "Are you gonna be sick? Did you drink too much already?"

"I'm fine!" I snapped. "Thanks for the concern."

"You should eat something!" The girl next to him chimed. "It helps with the booze."

Fitz plated the pancake on a huge stack of them, and picked the plate up, jerking his head to me. "Come on back - we've got a secret hideaway."

The girl laughed and trotted after him, and I didn't know what else to do, so I followed. They led me to a game room of some sort, with a pool table. Five or six people played, a few others sprawled on beanbag chairs and the sofa. It was a little quieter in here, the walls sheltering us from the music. Fitz hefted himself onto the pool table and plopped the plate of pancakes in the smack-dab middle of the pool game. People complained.

"Aw, shut the hell up!" Fitz shouted. "I made you food and this is how you repay me? Ungrateful children!"

He waggled his finger at them as people laughed and lined up. Some used forks the girl had brought, others just straight grabbed them with their hands and chowed down like they were tacos. Fitz downed a half-glass of some amber liquid and rubbed his hands together.

"So, Bee. Shirt and jeans, huh? Can't say I'm not surprised."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I put on my best sardonic voice. "Was I supposed to wear something else, your highness?"

"At least a skirt," He groaned. "Liven my life up, a little."

"You're a pervert." I accused.

"Unfortunately," He agreed, stuffing a piece of pancake in his face.

"Also unfortunately," I pointed at his bright shirt. "You have no taste."

He laughed. "Oh, you definitely grew up poor, didn't you? The tastelessness is exactly what makes it haute couture."

"Oh, I get it now. Make it as ugly as possible, and people will buy it thinking it's subversive and edgy."

He pointed at me. "Bingo was his name-o. You sure you don't want a pancake?"

"Did you put something in it?" I narrowed my eyes at the plate. He gasped.

"I'm offended! What kind of sicko would put weed butter in innocent baby pancakes?"

“I never said weed butter.”

“Oh, you didn’t?” He waved me off. “Then forget I ever said anything.”

A chuckle went around the room again. Mr. Blackthorn was right - one of his sons likes drugs.

"But why am I even speaking with you right now?" Fitz lamented dramatically. "You're here for Wolf."

The sound of his name set my lungs on fire. "I am not!"