Meant to Be (7 page)

“I look forward to hearing from you,” I say before flashing him a smile, turning on my heel, and heading out of the room. I’m not quite sure where I’m going, but leaving seems like the cool thing to do. And I don’t even teeter on my borrowed heels as I go.

Wait, wa? Mark has publiclyyy. // announced his luv 4 me??
Haaaa a girl cn dreem. Too trd will skype toMorrr. —J

I
’m definitely teetering on my heels a couple of hours later, when Jason finally appears at my side in the living room. I was chatting with a handsome bloke wearing Bob Marley’s face on his ratty T-shirt, but he left to get me another drink. I was standing near the fireplace, using the mantel to support my weight. It seemed as good a time as any to respond to Phoebe’s text.

As I lean away from the mantel to drop my phone back into my bag, I realize I’m wobbling. I’m not sure what all went from the various glasses and bottles into my body, but it seems to have done a number on my equilibrium. That’s a good word. Equilibrium. Equillllibriummmm …

“What are you mumbling about?”

“What?” I snap toward Jason’s voice.

His freckled face and bemused grin sway into focus. “You keep saying ‘equilibrium.’ ”

Oops, was that out loud? “Nothing, never mind.”

“Having fun?” he asks, raising his reddish-brown eyebrows at me.
I notice they look like little sunburned caterpillars, which causes me to break into a fit of giggles and hiccups so epic all I can do is nod in response. Jason pretends not to notice that I’ve come completely undone.

“Great, let’s get out of here then, shall we?” He puts his hand on my lower back to steer me.

“What’s the rush?” I ask, though it sounds more like “watsha russssssss.” I’m following him toward the door, using his shoulder to steady me and desperately trying to resist the urge to pet his soft cashmere sweater.

“What do you mean?” Jason says, not even stopping in his pursuit of the exit. “I practically had to drag you kicking and screaming to this party, and now you want to stay?”

“No, I’m fine to go,” I say—er, maybe slur. “But I do not need to be dragged around by you. Wait, that was bad shentensh shtructure.”

“Great, a grammar lesson from a drunken Book Licker,” he mumbles, nudging someone out of his way as we barrel toward the door.

“I’m not a Book Licker! I’m not a prude! I’m a PARTY GIRL!” I shout, and then let out one of those party girl “Woooooo!”s that I find so annoying when I’m sober. But they’re really fun to do. Really fun. I totally get what’s going on with the woo. Fun! “Wooooooo!”

“All right, party girl,” he says, grasping me firmly by the hand. “But it’s time for the party to end.”

“Why are your pantsh suddenly so on
fire
to get out of here?”

“No reason,” he replies as we burst out onto the stoop, but not before a deep voice booms from within the house.

“Hey, you little American shit. You assaulted my girlfriend.”

Jason and I wheel around and come face to face with a very large, very drunk, and very mean-looking Brit with skunk-like neon streaks in his spiky bleached-blond hair. Even in my own drunken state I know immediately who his girlfriend must be: the girl Jason was talking to in the kitchen, the one with the emo-streak hair.

“I absolutely did not,” Jason replies with way more courage than he should have when talking to this human mountain.

“Jason, this is not the time to stand up for your”
—
hiccup
—
“character,” I whisper, finding a little clarity in my intoxication.

“My mate said you were talking to her,” the guy says, challenging him. His eyes are angry and shot with red.

“Well, sure, we had a chat,” Jason says with a shrug. “Mostly we talked about her wretchedly possessive and terribly unattractive boyfriend, which I take it is you.” I grab Jason’s arm, hoping to get him to stop talking. He rolls his eyes. “But I never touched her.”

“Like hell you didn’t,” the human wall growls. “I’ll make you sorry.”

“You don’t want to do that, friend,” Jason says, snarkily placing a hand on his shoulder.

“And just why is that?”

“Because my dad is a lawyer, and he’ll ruin your life if you lay a single fat finger on me.” It occurs to me right then that Jason is a little drunk, too, which can be the only reason he’s baiting this giant hunk of man.

“Piss off,” the guy says, clenching his fists.

“You know, I’m not particularly familiar with that British expression. Does that mean ‘Have a lovely night’?”

“Jason!” I hiss, willing him to cool it so we can leave. I’m becoming more and more aware of my own intoxication, and the realization that I snuck out to go to a party on a class trip to get this way is really starting to freak me out. The thought
I don’t want to be drunk anymore, I don’t want to be drunk anymore
runs on a continuous loop through my head as I grasp on to the railing on the stoop, trying to stay upright.

The British guy sneers at Jason. “It means I’m going to beat you into a bloody pulp and they’ll have to mail you back to your mum in a lunch box,” he says, rearing back a meaty fist. This makes me giggle a little, because it’s funny to hear a British meathead use the phrase “lunch box.”

Luckily, Jason ducks in time for drunken prep school Gabe to walk
by and receive the full force of the punch. Poor kid can’t catch a break, but I suspect he’s so drunk he’s not feeling much of anything at this point. Blazer and tie flapping out like wings, his body goes flying down the stoop and into the street, where a group of Arsenal fans are heading en masse to the closest tube station from a pub. They’ve clearly had a few postgame drinks themselves and are none too happy to be taken off their feet by a couple of teenagers.

“Bloody hell! What do you think you’re doing?” shouts one of the men, grabbing drunken Gabe by the collar and shoving him back up the stoop and into the angry boyfriend, no easy feat. I’ve been completely rooted to the ground in shock, but as Gabe sails past me, I step back to avoid being taken out. I nearly topple off the stoop and into an ornately pruned rosebush in the process.

“Piss off!” the boyfriend shouts, clearly lacking a deep repertoire of comebacks. A crowd is starting to form as teenagers push their way out of the house to get a peek at the action. Angry Boyfriend grabs a beer bottle from one of the spectators and launches it at the middle-aged men now crowded on the sidewalk.

“You little pink-haired bastard!” shouts one as they rush up the steps to grab Angry Boyfriend.

“Get the little punk!”

“Piss off!”

“You’ll wish ya had!”

“Arsenal sucks!”

“You suck!”

“Kick his ass!”

Before I can even blink, a full-on street brawl erupts on the sidewalk, middle-aged football fans tangling with drunken teenagers. Fists fly, insults are shouted, and I feel a pain in my shoulder as someone grabs my faux-leather hobo and the handle snaps clean off. The contents of my bag scatter across the stoop and underfoot of the madness.

“Dammit!” I yell, dropping to my knees on the rough stone stoop in an attempt to gather what I can. I spot my phone perched on the edge of the top step, but as I reach out to grab it, I’m shoved violently from behind. I tumble down two steps and land in a pile of arms and legs at the bottom.

“Nice panties,” I hear, and look up to see Jason offering me his hand. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“My phone!” I shout, pulling myself to my feet. “It was right there.” I point to the top step, but the phone is gone.

“I’ve got it,” Jason replies, holding up a shiny silver cell phone. “Let’s go. Now.”

He grasps my hand, and we take off down the sidewalk at a full sprint. House after house whizzes by, and at the end of the block he hangs a sharp left. I have absolutely no idea where we are or where we’re going, and I have no idea if Jason does, either, but I manage to fall into a good stride, keeping pace right with him in four-inch heels. The shouts of the fight fade far into the distance as we run block after block away from the party. I try not to think of the many ways these shoes are ripping my feet to shreds right now or the rest of my belongings, scattered clear across a street that is now surely half a mile away. The purse is cheap, easily replaceable with twenty dollars and a trip to H&M, and I have plenty of extra pencils and tubes of lip gloss. I even have a spare calculator in my suitcase. But my heart sinks into my insensible shoes as I think of my dog-eared, note-filled pocket Shakespeare, probably resting in a puddle underneath that stupid rosebush.

U ok? No public pronouncements of love but Mark has def been acting weird. Talk soon! —P

B
EEP BEEP … BEEP BEEP … BEEP BEEP …

My eyes flutter open to the rhythm of a foreign sound emanating from somewhere in my room. It takes me a moment to remember that I’m not in my bedroom in Newton. I’m not even in the United States. I’m thousands of miles across the ocean in London. With my classmates. And the new fuzzy friend that seems to have grown on my tongue overnight.

“Ugh,” I groan, peeling my eyes open from the deep sleep that’s encrusting them. I don’t
feel
disgusting. I
am
disgusting. The pure embodiment of grossness.

BEEP BEEP … BEEP BEEP …

My head starts to thud in time with the beeping, and I fling my arm over the mahogany nightstand, giving my travel alarm clock a hard thwack. The sliver of light peeking out from the sliver of space where the roman shades don’t quite meet the floor is cutting straight into my eyeballs like a laser beam.

BEEP BEEP … BEEP BEEP …

Well, it’s not my travel alarm clock, since that’s now in a pile of plastic parts on the floor. What is happening to me? My head pounds even harder, bringing back the memory of the thudding bass from last night. My memories start flowing as if rapped by DJ Rock the Mic himself. The house party. The short skirt. Jason. The beer. The embassy geek. Gabe. Rosalind. The broken glass. The bass. Oh God, the bass. Avery.

BEEP BEEP … BEEP BEEP …

My night is flooding back to me, with that incessant beeping providing the beat. What in the hell
is
that?

BEEP BEEP … BEEP BEEP …

And then the last piece of the puzzle falls into place. My phone! I manage to extricate myself from the tangle of my sheets, and I realize I’m still wearing the rolled-short skirt from last night. It has migrated practically to my chin. The left strap of my tank top somehow found its way over my head, so both straps are hooked over my right shoulder. One glance in the mirror tells me I look like I tried to get dressed while riding a roller coaster.

Ugh. I am NEVER. DRINKING. AGAIN.

BEEP BEEP … BEEP BEEP …

I need to make the beeping stop, which will hopefully also stop the room from leaning sharply to the left. My bare foot, now covered in angry red blisters, lands on something small and cold. I lift it to find the shiny silver cell phone, still beeping and flashing a nasty red light at me. The old Julia must have remembered to set an alarm.

I flip it open and press every button I can find on the unfamiliar phone to silence the blasted thing. Thank God I manage to hit something right, because the beeping stops and a text message appears on the screen, glowing a warm blue.

It was amazing 2 meet u last night. I was dying
2 kiss u. U free to chat? —Chris

WHAT?

My brain goes into mini-meltdown mode. My phone bears a message from a guy who wants to—no, is
dying
to—kiss me.

WHO?

Chris? Which one was Chris? I concentrate, trying to remember the sequence of events that led to this text message. Everything is clear up until the broken table. Unfortunately, the rest of the night is mostly a blur. I know another beer was put into my hand, then another. I started talking more and more, getting bolder and bolder. The beer helped, but so did the idea of being the über-Julia, this whole new person who bears no resemblance to Book Licker. And it turned out that über-Julia was
quite
popular with the boys.

There was the Irish lad who sang “Danny Boy” (only slightly off-key). I gave him my number, mostly so he wouldn’t launch into his likely very deep repertoire of Flogging Molly covers. Then there was the prep school kid with the posh accent who kept talking about his family’s jet. He was another who’d received the number simply so I could get rid of him.