Pointe (21 page)

Besides, I'm just the right amount of stoned to get through this thing. Bryn Davenport accosts me at the entrance to the cafeteria—and so it begins.

“Theo, your dress is
amazing,
” she says, reaching out to touch the strap.

Her shining eyes match the smile on her mouth and she looks nice, too. She's in a simple black dress that only looks simple because of how expensive it is, and a tasteful white rose corsage decorates her left wrist.

“Yours is really nice, too, Bryn.” I return her smile, then gesture toward the corsage, ask about her date.

“Oh.” Her face flushes but she composes herself just as quickly as the blush rose to her cheeks. “David Tulip. I mean, it's not like a
date
date. I'm pretty sure he's taking shots with Joey in the bathroom right now. But he asked and no one else had, so . . .”

She shrugs as if to say,
What's a girl to do?
Then her eyes sweep over my bare wrist and she looks behind me, says, “You're here with Sara-Kate and Phil?”

“Also not a
date
date,” I respond with a wry smile.

“Yeah, but what's
their
deal? Are they together now or what?”

I look over my shoulder to find Sara-Kate pinning something to Phil's suit jacket. “After tonight? The answer will probably be yes.”

“Good,” Bryn says with a quick nod that sends her shiny black hair swaying by her chin. “They belong together, don't you think?”

I look back at them again. Sara-Kate gave him a boutonniere—a plastic one in the likeness of a mounted deer head. It's so miniature and even from here, I can tell it's incredibly detailed. Phil is beaming and can't stop looking down at his lapel to admire it.

“Yeah,” I say, turning back to her. “They do.”

I don't have much time to figure out the feeling that flared up in that moment—jealousy that they can be together without any complications? Worry that they'll forget about me once they become an official couple?—because David and Joey walk up to us then. Stinking of tequila. I can't believe they didn't bother with chasers or breath mints, but as Joey's shoulder slams into the wall I think maybe the smell won't be what gives them away after all.

David comes up behind Bryn, slides an arm around her waist. He nods at me, then moves his head close to hers. “What do you say we go out there and tear up that dance floor?”

She moves her nose out of the line of his tequila breath, but she smiles. “Only if you promise to hold off on the rest of that until we get to Klein's?”

“Of course,” David says, already leading her toward the dance floor. “I was saving it for you.”

“Hey, Joey.” I tug on his elbow to stop him before he follows. “Do you have any more?”

“The te-kill-ya? Oh, yeah.” He pats the inside of his suit jacket.

“Let me borrow it?” I say, batting my eyes as I look up at him. Joey is a total pushover for a damsel in distress, even if the “distress” is needing to get as fucked up as possible.

He lumbers over me, swaying like a drunken giant, and I think maybe
I'm
doing
him
a favor. Taking it off his hands and all, because one more shot and he'd be facedown on the linoleum.

“Sure thing, Theo.” He turns his back to the cafeteria entrance, blocking us from everyone's view as he deposits a silver flask into my beaded, black clutch. It fits perfectly, settled into the satin lining between my phone and a tube of lip gloss. “Finish it. Man, I am
blitzed.
”

He totters off to the cafeteria, and I walk over to Sara-Kate and Phil, who are being so cute, it makes me self-conscious about being here with them. If it weren't for my plan to see Hosea later, I would wish I hadn't come at all.

“Bathroom,” I say, then pantomime taking a drink.

“Seriously?” Phil's fingers run over the edges of his boutonniere. “I'm pretty baked right now.”

“I think I'll pass, too,” Sara-Kate says, her eyes apologetic.

But I don't think she's all that stoned. She only took a couple of hits; she just wants to stay close to Phil. Suddenly, it's like I'm not here with them at all.

“Okay, well.” I shrug. “I promised Joey I'd take good care of the tequila, so I can't let him down. I'll be back soon.”

The bathroom at the end of the hall isn't empty, but I walk past the girls retouching makeup at the sinks and sneaking cigarettes by the window and lock myself into the handicapped stall. I lean against the stall divider with my clutch in one hand, Joey's flask in the other. The pale blue walls were repainted at the start of the school year and they're already covered in graffiti. Declarations of love (
LB
JW
4EVER
) and random phone numbers and a couple of unattributed quotes from the poets among us.

But the accusations. There are so many. Scrawled onto the wall with permanent black marker and layers of black and blue ink. Who's a whore and who slept with him or her and whose number you should call for a real good time. I recognize some of the initials. Some names are crossed out and replaced with new ones—a slut-shaming war taking place on the wall.

God. If people found out I dated Chris, they'd
never
run out of things to say, no matter how many times the custodian painted over them.

If I had a marker in my clutch, I'd scratch over all of this. Cover it up until no one could see how hateful people are. The very people who walk through these halls every day. But I don't have anything besides a tube of lip gloss and my keys, so I'll have to drink.

The tequila burns my throat like hot fire, but I tip my head back and take a drink for every girl who was called a name on that wall. Then I double up for good measure.

• • •

I float back to the cafeteria. Silver and lace and chiffon and flowers. Shiny pop music and cologne-infused sweat. And the unmistakable smell of liquor. A whole smorgasbord on the breath of my classmates, so I'll blend in if nothing else.

Mr. Jacobsen is one of the chaperones. He wears a tan sweater over a collared shirt and tie. His hair is slicked back with some kind of gel or water and he keeps patting at it as he talks to Mrs. McCarty.

I move along the perimeter of the cafeteria, avoiding them. I'd get tangled up if I tried to cut through the dance floor. Too many people.

I'm glad Sara-Kate and Phil are nowhere to be found when Hosea enters the room, because I'm pretty sure the look on my face is completely readable. But it's not my fault. He's wearing a dress shirt and nice pants and a tie. And his hair is down and he looks gorgeous.

My eyes follow him. He waits at the entrance for Ellie to catch up to him in her skintight dress, but she's digging through her clutch two feet away from him, too preoccupied to see that he's holding out his hand for her. Finally, she looks up and they trail slowly across the room to the opposite wall, with Klein and Trisha close behind.

Even though I know he cares about me, I wish it didn't hurt to see them together. But I get to be alone with him later, if only for a few minutes. And that's what gets me through the next hour as I wait for his text. That, and the tequila buzzing through my veins.

Sara-Kate and Phil come back from the dance floor. They look sweaty and happy. Phil goes off to get paper cups of punch while Sara-Kate pats at her face with the tips of her fingers.

“You should come dance with us,” she says. “I don't like you standing over here by yourself.”

“I'm fine,” I say. Then I sway and thankfully it's into Sara-Kate's shoulder and not the other direction.

But maybe not, because she looks at me too closely.
Peers
at me. Says, “Doll, are you wasted?”

“Tipsy,” I say with a shrug that's meant to be nonchalant but comes off as defensive. I think. I am so warm right now. So spacey and dizzy and loose.

“Theo—” she begins with this really worried look in her eyes, but I cut her off.

“I'm
fine.
I promise.” I run my right hand up and down my left arm. “Please don't—just have fun with Phil. I don't need you to babysit me while you're on your date.”

Then I walk away because I don't want to be a bitch to her, but the alcohol loosens my tongue and I don't know how to stop. I amble through the horde of students, familiar faces at every turn. Familiar faces that want to dance with me, so I let them. Leo, wearing shiny black cowboy boots under his suit pants, tries to line dance with me during a fast song. Then Joey and I meet up again, and I think he confuses me for his date, but I waltz around with him anyway until Erika Healy comes by to claim him, gives me an apologetic smile as she lugs him away.

I wonder if Hosea sees, if he's watching me like I've been watching him all night. Trying to keep track of his whereabouts and holding my breath anytime his hand so much as grazes his pocket.

He dances with Ellie a couple of times. Only slow songs and only because she pulls him onto the dance floor. I watch his hands, how they curve around her hips. I watch the way she looks behind him, scoping out the people around them instead of talking to him or resting her head on his shoulder. Klein and Trisha are out there, too, and they move toward Hosea and Ellie so they're dancing side by side. So Trisha and Ellie can talk while they sway along to the music with their boyfriends.

Four songs later, I finally move off the dance floor. Sara-Kate and Phil have disappeared again, so I'm zoning out a few feet away from the refreshment table, staunchly ignoring the new plate of cookies McCarty just set down, when Klein saunters up. Sans Trisha. His eyes are rimmed with red and he teeters from one side to the other as he walks, but he makes it over to me and sets his feet deliberately in place as he stops.

“Purple is definitely your color, Legs,” he slurs, digging his fingers into my shoulder like a vise grip. However much I had to drink, Klein has surely exceeded it. Not to mention whatever else he's on.

“Thanks,” I say as I shrug him off. And then, because I'm feeling good, I say, “You look nice.”

It's partially true. The suit is nice. Dark gray, cut well, and paired with a jewel-toned shirt that would bring out the green of his eyes if the whites weren't so red. His collar is streaked with dark marks and it takes a minute to realize it's Trisha's makeup.

“Hey.” He looks over his shoulder, about as stealth as a parade float parked in the middle of the cafeteria. Then he scream-whispers, “You wanna get out of here?”

“No,” I say firmly, crossing my arms.

“Come on, Legs. Got some new shit from Hosea,” he says, patting his pocket. “The
good
shit. Don't tell me you're not down.”

“I'm not,” I say. “Actually, I was just getting ready to—”

My phone vibrates in my clutch and I stop. I don't even try to send Klein away before I check my phone. It's Hosea. I know it. And when I look down, there it is:

Five minutes? You go now. I'll get rid of Klein.

So he has seen me, and he's watching me right now. I give the room a cursory glance, but it's dark and I've been looking away from him too long to see where he ended up. I make sure Klein can't read the screen as my unsteady fingers type back a simple
See you then,
and I drop my phone back into my purse.

“I have to go,” I say, already turning my back to him.

“Atta girl,” he says with a wicked grin so large he'd make the Joker proud.

“Not with
you.
I'm going to the bathroom.”

• • •

The hallways are ominous at nighttime. The window panels between the strips of lockers cast shadows across the floor and walls, angular and sort of eerie. I walk slowly, take my time as I travel down the corridor and when I get to the end, I turn around to see if anyone is watching. Nope. I slipped through the back door in the cafeteria, the one the cooks use to exit the kitchen.

I hang a left and move down the hall, sticking close to the lockers until I reach the door to the science lab. It pushes right open and I nearly fall into the dark room. I'm waiting for my eyes to adjust to the low light coming from the back when I see him. Standing by the light, a little lamp on a lab table in the back that's not visible from the hallway. The beam is so muted, the lamp so small that it's barely visible from the front of the room.

“You made it,” he says with a smile I can't see.

“I did.” I start edging my way around the tables, trying not to snag the delicate fabric of my dress on their sharp corners. It's harder than it looks when you've drunk half a flask of tequila.

Ever so faintly, I hear the chords of a slow song starting up in the cafeteria. I like that we can hear the music back here—in our place; that it's like we're at the dance together, if only for a little while. It feels magical.

Hosea is walking toward me. “You look . . . ,” he starts in a low voice, but he doesn't finish. He shakes his head as if he can't find the words and I give him a shy smile because he's looking at me.