The Fragile Ordinary(19)

This time I blushed for a whole other reason. “Funny. Steph bolted from me as soon as we got here.” She didn’t have to tell me she was embarrassed by how I was dressed.

“Steph wouldn’t know individuality if it bit her on the backside.” Vicki threaded her arm through mine. “These aren’t high school students, Com. They appreciate someone that knows who they are and isn’t afraid of it. Talk to one of them.”

The thought of talking to one of these strangers made me want to run in the opposite direction. What if I said something stupid? Or couldn’t speak at all and just stood there gaping at them like a guppy? I suddenly found myself irrationally angry with Vicki for trying to push me. It may have been residual irritation from Mr. Stone’s surprise appearance at Pan this week and his unwanted but sensible words of advice. He hadn’t meant to be pushy and neither had Vicki, but I felt pushed all the same.

“Jordan’s friend Ethan told us he thinks you’re gorgeous.” She subtly nodded her head to the opposite side of the living room. “He’s the one in the black Biffy Clyro shirt, standing near the television with the redhead.”

My gaze flew in that direction, curious despite myself about a guy who would call me gorgeous. No one, as far as I was aware, beyond Vicki, had called me gorgeous before. To my surprise the guy in the Biffy Clyro shirt was cute. Really cute. In that disheveled “lead singer of a rock band” kind of way.

Our eyes met and he smiled at me.

Stunned, I looked back at Vicki and she laughed. “Told you.”

I wanted to run. Run right out of the party, down the beach and lock myself inside my empty house. I didn’t know how to speak to boys my age; how the hell was I supposed to speak to an older, more experienced boy? And I didn’t want to speak to him. I didn’t know him. He was just a random at a party, and speaking to him meant a racing heart, sweaty palms and most assuredly boring him until I was mortified by his discomfort.

I wanted to kill my friend.

“He’s coming over. See you later.” And just like that Vicki was gone.

Yes.

Definitely going to kill her.

“Hi, how’s it goin’?”

My gaze flew to the guy who was now standing in front of me. Ethan, wasn’t it?

Our eyes were on level with one another, and I realized Ethan was the same height as me. He had a rangy, sinewy physique, however, that gave the illusion of greater height. The dimple that popped in his cheek with his lopsided grin was all kinds of charming.

He brushed his dark hair off his forehead. “I’m Ethan.”

“Comet,” I said quietly. And I’d like to leave now.

“That is such a cool name.” Ethan grinned harder. “Really suits you.”

It really didn’t. “Thanks.”

We stared at each other and I blushed. Again.

Ethan’s eyes brightened. “So...you go to Blair Lochrie with Vicki?”

I nodded. Words! My head was filled with bloody words, and yet I was taking so long to come up with ones that sounded okay that the silence just stretched between us.

A gaping, yawning chasm of silence.

Mortified, I looked anywhere but at the boy in front of me.

“So, uh, is that a cartoon character on your shoe?”

Stunned he was still standing there, I shrugged. “Kind of. It’s Alice from Alice in Wonderland. She’s really a book character more than a cartoon, because Lewis Carroll published the novel in 1865 and the Disney version came out eighty-six years later, although technically my heels are the Disney version of her...” Shut up! Someone shut me up!

To my wary surprise, Ethan nodded like I’d said the most fascinating thing ever. “Cool.”

Sensing it was my turn to ask a question I blurted out, “Are you an art student?”

He shoved his hair out of his face again, and I had to curb the urge to advise him he should just cut it if it was annoying him. “Aye. Photography. But I’m more focused on my band, right now. We’re called Lonely Boy, inspired by the song from the Black Keys. We’re kind of The Black Keys meets the Arctic Monkeys meets Babyshambles. Our musical aesthetic is alternative punk-dance-rock wrapped up in a social conscience. We’ve been playing a lot of gigs in...”

As it turned out, there were some boys you didn’t have to say anything to. You just had to pretend to be interested in what they were saying.

*

After an hour of listening to Ethan, lead singer of Lonely Boy, wax poetical about his life in the band, I excused myself to use the bathroom. I had a headache and needed the reprieve. On my way out, Steph cornered me.

“What does biomorphic mean?” Her pupils were large, her skin was flushed, and she was swaying a little.

“How much have you had to drink?” I nodded to her beer.

“Just a few.” She waved me off. “Comet, hurry, what does it mean?”

“Biomorphic? Why?”

She stamped her foot like a petulant child. “Because the cute art guy I’m talking to keeps calling his work biomorphic, and I’m just smiling at him like an idiot because I don’t know what it means.”

I took her beer. “You’ve had enough. And it means taking living things, like plants, the human body, and making abstract images from them.”

“You are so smart!” She kissed my cheek and hurried toward the kitchen at the end of the hallway, not even aware I’d taken her beer. I ducked back into the bathroom and poured the rest of the bottle down the sink.