Текст книги "A Midsummer's Nightmare"

Автор книги: Kody Keplinger

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

14

Sometime between Wesley’s party and the Father’s Day cookout Sylvia planned, Harrison Carlyle and I became friends. At least, that’s what he claimed we were. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

Don’t get me wrong. Harrison was fun to be around. He’d come over almost every day during the week I was grounded (just as I’d predicted, Dad hadn’t altered Sylvia’s punishment). We watched movies and swam and talked about college plans. I had to give him credit; he kept me entertained, and Sylvia never said a word about me having guests over. If it weren’t for Harrison, I might have gone crazy.

Still, once my sentence was over and Harrison and I began venturing out of the house, I wasn’t totally comfortable with the way he introduced me as “my friend Whitley” or the way he’d laugh when we were talking and say things like, “I’ve never had a friend quite like you.” I wasn’t really sure how to contradict him, though, since I did like having him around—which is more than I can say about most people.

We spent time together almost every day, and when I told him about Sylvia’s big cookout plans, he offered to crash the party to keep me from stabbing myself in the eye with a shish kebab rod. A party devoted to celebrating a father I’d barely spoken to in weeks, thrown by the people who’d taken him away? Since getting hammered wasn’t an option, I knew I’d need Harrison’s support.

We sat at the dining room table playing Crazy Eights—possibly the lamest card game in the world—while everyone else milled around the backyard with their hot dogs and red cups full of lemonade. Sylvia had invited all of her coworkers and their families, plus the other anchors from Channel 34. The turnout was pretty decent, I guess, but I couldn’t help thinking that I should be spending Father’s Day with my father, not with everyone he and his fiancée knew, and not with Harrison.

“You guys should come outside,” Sylvia said, poking her head into the dining room. “It’s a beautiful day, and everyone would love to meet you.”

“We’re fine,” I said, slapping the eight of spades down on the pile and watching Harrison groan. “It’s too hot out there, anyway.”

“All right.” She sighed. “But I hope you change your mind.”

A minute later I heard her slip through the screen door in the kitchen, back to where her guests waited.

“I don’t know why she won’t leave me alone,” I mumbled. “She’s always breathing down my neck. Checking on me, asking if I need anything, wanting to know if I’m okay. I feel like I barely get a second to breathe.”

“She’s being nice.” Harrison laughed, drawing from the deck of cards. “It’s cute.”

“It’s annoying.”

“At least she cares.”

I remembered what Sylvia had said to Sherri at the bridal shop about being a better stepmom than the one she’d had growing up. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess.”

“Oh, you know what I just thought of?” he said. “You should stay over at my house soon. We could totally have a slumber party.”

“Don’t you think your mother would have a problem with a girl spending the night?” I asked.

“My mom knows I’m gay,” he said. “She’s fine with girls. Especially when I make new friends. She tries to fit in and be cool. It’s kind of sad. So, will you stay over? We could watch movies and talk about boys and do all that fun stuff.”

Was that stuff still fun? I didn’t remember. I hadn’t been to a slumber party since seventh grade.

“I don’t know, Harrison.”

“Please.”

I frowned and tossed an ace of diamonds onto the pile. “Fine,” I said. “Let’s make a deal: You throw a party, let me get wasted, and I’ll stay at your house that night.”

“God, Whitley. You’re practically auditioning for a starring role on Intervention.”

“What?” I grinned at him. “I’m more fun when I’m drunk, anyway. Give me enough to drink, and I might even let you give me a makeover.”

He laughed. “Okay. It’s a deal,” he said. “I’ll just have to trick my mother into leaving the house for the night.”

“Will she freak about the party?”

“Hell no.” He snorted. “She’ll want to hang out with us. And I wouldn’t be able to survive that kind of social humiliation.”

So it was settled. Harrison decided he would hold the party/sleepover on the Fourth of July, just over two weeks away. He could get his older sister to buy the alcohol, and his mother would be on a holiday retreat with some girlfriends. Perfect.

We’d finished our game of Crazy Eights and had moved on to Go Fish when Bailey walked into the dining room.

“Hey, Whitley,” she said, hanging in the archway that connected the dining room to the kitchen. “Mom wants to know if you and Harrison want cheeseburgers. Greg is firing up the grill again.”

“No thanks,” I said.

“I’ll take one.” Harrison smiled at her. “You ungrounded yet, sweetie?”

She nodded. It had been two weeks since Wesley’s party, which meant her punishment was finally over. Not that she seemed particularly excited about it the way I’d expected her to be. She’d taken the grounding without complaint, and not once had I heard her express a desire to go anywhere once it was over.

Actually, since that party, Bailey hadn’t been as chatty, at least not with me. It was really starting to freak me out.

I watched her disappear into the kitchen and out the back door. “Harrison, who were the boys you introduced Bailey to at the party?”

He shrugged. “Just some sophomore kids. I don’t know them that well, but one of the boys was my friend Kelsey’s younger brother. You met Kelsey at the party. She’s skinny, blond.”

“Oh, one of the Blond Mafia?”

“Is that what you call them?”

“Yeah.”

Harrison laughed. “I like it…. Got any twos?”

I shook my head. “Go fish.”

That night, I decided to give Trace a call. We hadn’t spoken in weeks, and texting wasn’t enough. I’d been ignoring Mom’s calls for a while, unable to listen to her bitching, and I needed to talk to someone on the outside of this little bubble I’d been living in.

“I miss you, too,” Trace said, sounding agitated. “Whitley, can I call you back later?”

“Um, sure, I just thought—”

“Emily’s expecting a phone call about a job and our call waiting isn’t working and if I tie up the line she might have an aneurysm. I’ll give you a call later tonight if you want.”

“No. It’s fine,” I told him. “Really. I’ll call another time.”

“Great. Love you. Bye.”

The next day, Bailey asked me to help her practice for cheerleading tryouts. I wasn’t sure how I, the anti-cheerleader, could help, but whatever. I sat on the front steps and watched as she did cartwheels across the grass and belted out goofy little rhymes.

“How am I doing?” she asked after about an hour of this.

“Good, I guess.”

“Good isn’t good enough.” She sighed.

“It’s just cheerleading.”

“But it’s important. If I want to be noticed in high school, I need to get this right.”

“Christ, Bailey, you watch too much TV,” I said. “That is so not how it works. You can be noticed for a lot of different things in high school. You don’t have to wave a pom-pom for people to know your name.”

“Did people know your name in high school?” she asked.

“Some of them. But I went to a big high school.”

“How did you get noticed?”

I bit my lip. That wasn’t a question I particularly wanted to answer. Not in detail, at least. “I partied a lot,” I said. “So people started recognizing me.”

“That won’t work for me,” she said. “I don’t think I like parties.”

“There are other ways, too. And being noticed isn’t all that important. Trust me, sometimes it’s better if no one knows your name.”

She shook her head, as if I had no idea what the hell I was talking about.

“Fine,” I said. “Keep doing your backflips or whatever. But for the record, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble getting noticed. People noticed you at that party, didn’t they?”

She stared down at her feet. “I guess.”

“See? Your life won’t end if you don’t make the cheerleading squad.”

“I know.” She tugged on the hem of her T-shirt and cleared her throat. “But will you help me work on this more tomorrow?”

“We’ll see.” I got to my feet. “You coming to the Nest tonight? To celebrate being ungrounded?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t feel like it.” Bailey opened the front door, and I slipped inside after her. “There’s a movie coming on the Disney Channel tonight I want to see. But you and Harrison have fun without me.”

“You sure?”

She nodded.

“Suit yourself, then,” I said, though I was a little worried about her as I watched her walk into the kitchen. I knew the last party hadn’t ended on the best note, but after being cooped up for so long, I thought she’d at least jump at the opportunity to listen to bad music and drink soda with Harrison and me. I guess I’d be mad at me, too, after the hangover she had, topped by two weeks of grounding. Was it weird that I was missing the old Bailey?

I walked upstairs and made my way down the hall toward the bathroom. I needed to get a shower before Harrison showed up. What would I wear? Hanging out with Mr. Fashion had me worried about my clothes all the time now. Maybe a pair of denim shorts with heels? I decided to confer with Harrison when he arrived.

I was so wrapped up in thoughts of my wardrobe that I didn’t even think twice about pushing open the bathroom door.

Of course, as my luck would have it, the room wasn’t empty.

“Hey!”

I was staring at a very wet, very naked Nathan, fresh from the shower and without a scrap of clothing covering him. Water dripped from his hair and gleamed on his shoulders… his broad, muscular shoulders. Those gym visits were definitely working.

“Oh, Christ,” I gasped. I pulled myself out of the bathroom as fast as I could, but it didn’t keep me from seeing everything. The door slammed behind me, and I hurried to the guest room, trying to shake off the weird daze.

Technically, I’d seen Nathan naked before.

I’d just forgotten how hot he was.

I ran my hands through my hair as I paced—pointlessly, I might add—around the guest room. Nathan and I had barely spoken since the morning after Wesley’s party. Dinners were civil but stiff. I was sure he was still mad at me about Bailey and the drinking, and I was busy seething about what he said that night and the fact that we’d be going to school together in the fall, not to mention trying to forget I’d slept with him.

There was no way I could forget now.

Graduation night, which had come back to me in bits and pieces, flashed through my mind again, as it had more and more over the last few weeks. His breath mingling with mine, his lips by my ear, his hands on my skin. Dear God, his hands made me go crazy. They had that night, and they had when he’d helped me put on the aloe vera a few weeks ago.

I shook my head. I had to stop thinking about this. I tried to think of something else, something disgusting. Anything that would be a major turnoff.

Like dead kittens.

Or spinach.

Yeah. None of that worked.

And it only got worse a few seconds later when the door swung open and Nathan—still wet, but with a pair of blue jeans covering his lower half, at least—walked into the guest room. The door clicked shut behind him. I could only assume he didn’t want anyone overhearing whatever he was about to say.

“You know,” he said, “you could knock.”

Well, that was kind of anticlimactic.

“Well, you could lock the door.”

God, I wished he’d thought to put on a shirt.

He rolled his eyes. “Look, there are three of us sharing a bathroom now. I know it’s probably hard to get used to, but it’ll make both our lives infinitely less awkward if you would just be the slightest bit consider—”

“Whatever,” I interrupted. “Are you done in there? I need a shower.”

He sighed. “Yes. I’m done in the bathroom.”

“Good.”

I walked past him as he turned around. We both reached for the doorknob at the same time, his hand landing right on top of mine as I moved to twist it. I looked up at him to say something mean, to insult him, to express my annoyance in some way—the things I did best.

He was looking down at me, his hair still soaking wet, his shoulders still glossy.

Hormones.

They’re real troublemakers.

Before I even knew what I was doing, I had Nathan pinned to the wall, both our hands letting go of the doorknob at once. I didn’t even realize I was kissing him until I felt his tongue slide between my lips. Well, at least this wasn’t one-sided.

His hands were all over me. I pressed myself against him, my fingers twisting in his drenched hair. He was a better kisser than I remembered. Graduation night had been great, but I quickly figured out that sobriety improved Nathan’s performance.

He was fiercer this time, too. Before, he’d been slow and hesitant, but this time Nathan took control. It wasn’t long before he started urging me backward, toward the bed. He pushed me onto the blankets, moving on top of me an instant later. It was very aggressive—insanely hot, but not what I’d expected from Nathan.

He kissed me hungrily, his lips occasionally moving to my neck to give me a chance to breathe. Cool water dripped from his hair and skin, soaking into my T-shirt. It was the most excitement I’d had all summer.

And then, just like that, it was over.

He was off me. Off the bed. Before I could even sit up, Nathan was all the way across the room.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, breathless.

“Whitley, we can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

Yeah, I did, but I didn’t want to think about that.

Seriously, though, something had to be wrong with him. He totally could have had me, again, and he was just going to walk away. What the hell? No normal eighteen-year-old boy would do that… right?

“Are you gay?” I asked.

He snorted. “No.”

“You sure?” I pressed. “Because if you are, Harrison would totally be willing to give you a shot.”

“I’m not gay, Whit.”

“Then what the hell is your problem?” I demanded, my voice cracking more than it should have. “Don’t you want to?”

“I want to,” he said, reaching for the doorknob. “But I’m not selfish enough or stupid enough to do that again.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Nathan just shook his head. Then he was gone, closing the door firmly behind him.

That night at the Nest, I made out with a guy who had dreadlocks.

I thought I would hook up with him. I planned to. But we’d barely made it to the backseat of his car when I pushed him off me and said I had to go. I’d forgotten something. I had to be somewhere. And I left him, shirtless and swearing, in the car.

The truth was, the whole time Dreadlocks was kissing me, I was thinking of Nathan. I couldn’t get his voice out of my head, or the taste of him off my lips.

But he wasn’t selfish enough or stupid enough to sleep with me again.

Whatever he’d meant by that, it had stung.

15

I woke up at ten o’clock the next morning to the sound of someone banging on the door of the guest room. “Come in,” I moaned sleepily.

“It’s locked.”

Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten about that.

For the past few weeks, Sylvia had been popping her head in every morning before she left for work. She never said anything, but the sound of the knob turning always brought me out of sleep. Harrison might say it was sweet of her to check on me, but I hated being woken up every morning at eight. So I’d started locking the door.

But now I didn’t want to get out of bed to unlock it.

“Who is it?”

“Nathan.”

“Go away.”

“Let me in, Whitley.”

I frowned into my pillow. He was calling me by my proper name, which meant it was something serious.

“Go away,” I tried again. He was the last person I wanted to see. “I’m sleeping.”

“Let me in!” Something hard slammed into the door, jolting me upright in surprise. Was he, like, punching it or something? “I’m not kidding, Whitley.”

What the hell?

“Fine!” I snapped, falling out of bed and stumbling to my feet. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” I walked across the room, flipped the lock, and opened the door, not even caring that my pajamas were skimpy and made of sheer material or that I hadn’t put on a bra yet. That was his problem.

Lucky for me, though, he was fully clothed.

“What?” I demanded.

His eyes moved down my body for a second, and I didn’t miss the way they lingered—for a fraction of an instant, really—on my chest. Christ, all boys were the same. It wasn’t even like boobs were interesting. That was one thing I would never understand.

Still, even if he had rejected me last night, it was nice to know he thought I was attractive.

Nathan cleared his throat and shook his head. “Have you seen Facebook?”

“Um, no,” I said. “I don’t use Facebook. There’s no point unless there are people you actually want to talk to.”

“Come on.” He grabbed my wrist and yanked me out of the guest room, practically dragging me across the hallway and into his room. Then he shoved me into his desk chair and gestured to his computer screen. “Look.”

Whitley Johnson: Hamilton’s New Free Ride

The headline at the top of the page was the first thing I saw. Directly beneath it, in smaller text, was a short paragraph.

In late May, Hamilton welcomed the daughter of hottie anchorman Greg Johnson to town, but Whitley Johnson doesn’t seem to be her daddy’s sweet little angel. Looks like we’ve got a bad girl on our hands. What dirty antics will she get into next? If you spot her out and about (and we’re sure you will), keep us posted!

“What the fuck is this?”

“A Facebook group,” Nathan said.

“Why would someone make a group about me?” I asked.

“It’s Facebook. You can make a group about the tree in your front yard if you want,” he said. “Did you see the picture?”

I scrolled down. On the left-hand side I saw the page’s main photo—a blurry shot of me, clearly drunk, stumbling around at Wesley’s party. In the center of the screen, a little farther down, I saw the most recent post. It was marked as a mobile upload, a shot of me and the dreadlocks guy from last night. We were making out in a booth at the Nest, his hand under my shirt.

“Oh my God,” I whispered.

“Keep scrolling.”

I did.

There were more photos, taken with people’s cell phones. Most of them were of me dancing with boys at the Nest, but a few were from Wesley’s party—including an image of me taking a shot in the kitchen, Harrison at my side.

But the comments were the worst part.

What a skank. Could her skirt be any shorter in that pic?

Her dad seems so wholesome and sweet on TV. I bet he is soooo ashamed of her. Poor guy.

Man, I hope she’s at the next party I go to. I’d tap that.

“Why would people do this?” I asked. I’d been called a skank and a slut and a whore and every other thing you could imagine before, but it had never been on the Internet. No one had cared enough to build a freaking web page.

“Your dad is a celebrity to these people,” Nathan said. “Which means you are, too.”

I clicked on one of the photos. Below the image was a list of people tagged. Greg Johnson was at the top of the list. My dad would see this picture of a boy with his hand up my shirt. Maybe he could see all of these photos.

“I can’t believe this.”

“Small towns are known for their big rumors,” he said. “And you’re starting quite a few. Can you blame them for talking? Look at how you…”

“How I what?”

I was on my feet, my fists clenched. I felt like someone had read my diary—you know, if I kept a stupid diary—or like I’d just discovered a Peeping Tom. It was disgusting and embarrassing. I felt hurt, violated. And I just couldn’t take Nathan acting like a prick on top of everything else.

“How I what?” I demanded again.

“How you live!”

“How I live?”

“You’re wasted every chance you get—I saw the bottle of tequila in your room! You’re selfish and careless. I mean, seriously? Screwing that guy right after we—”

“I didn’t screw him,” I interrupted. “We just kissed. And by the way, you’re the one who put a stop to things yesterday, not me. So don’t even act like that’s an issue here.”

“No,” Nathan growled. “The issue is that you’re acting like a whore and a drunk, and you need to cut it out.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d almost called me a whore once before, after Wesley’s party, and like I said, it wasn’t as if I’d never been called those names before. Still, hearing Nathan, someone I’d let touch me, someone I’d enjoyed touching me, put me down that way—it stung. More than I thought it would.

“It’s none of your business what I do,” I informed him.

“Actually, Whitley, it is. Because you’re part of my family now, whether you like it or not. We’ve been through enough shit. I don’t need you screwing things up even more. And this?” He pointed at the monitor, like I should look at the pictures again, like the images weren’t already imprinted on my brain. “This is the example you’re setting for my sister. She looks up to you, for some unknown reason, and this is what you show her. I don’t want her turning out like you. You’re the reason she drank that night. And you weren’t watching her, so…”

There was a long pause.

He cleared his throat again, shaking his head.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I moved forward. “Nathan,” I whispered. “What happened at that party? She’s been acting weird ever since then. Please tell me.”

He looked away, pressing his lips together and taking a breath before he answered. “When I found her, she was passed out in a chair. Two boys were with her, and one was… He was trying to feel her up while they laughed and egged each other on, like it was some joke.” He shook his head again. “I stopped them, and nothing else happened. But something could have. Can you imagine what that would have done to her?”

Yes, I could. I could imagine it all too well.

I could remember it all too well.

“Does she know?” I asked.

“Not about how I found her. She remembers one of them kissing her…. She told me…” I saw his fists clench. “Her first kiss was with some horny, half-drunk moron. Great memory for her. Something to tell her grandkids.”

“Oh, God, poor Bailey,” I murmured, guilt twisting my insides. I was supposed to have kept an eye on her.

“And it’s because of you,” he spat. “What else would she do when you throw yourself at every guy you see? And now with this fucking Facebook page!”

I took one breath, two, three…

“Get out of my way.”

“What?”

“Let me out of here.” I shoved him aside, needing to escape. My heart was racing, my head spinning. I just kept thinking of Bailey, of those boys….

“Don’t you have anything to say?” he asked when I reached the door.

“Not to you.”

I ran to the guest room, slamming the door behind me. I didn’t let myself cry until I knew he wasn’t coming after me.