Текст книги "If I Have a Wicked Stepmother, Where's My Prince? "

Автор книги: Melissa Kantor

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Chapter Fifteen

When my cab pulled up in front of the Margaret Tanner gallery just after five, the sun was

hanging low over the Hudson River, and the entire block exploded with light. The gallery sat on

a lawn of white gravel, slightly apart from the neighboring buildings, and there was a small

reflecting pool out front. A rough-hewn stone wall ran around the property.

The front of the gallery was all glass, and through it I could see the crowd and some of the

paintings: enormous, photo-realistic portraits. As I stood at the gate, looking across the gravel

lawn, a taxi pulled up and a couple emerged, chatting in Italian. The woman had short, spiky hair

and the man wore tiny, geometric glasses; they were both thin and chic, and as they walked past

the reflecting pool, they looked like something out of a Vogue photo spread.

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Clearly it was a very good thing I was wearing black pants.

Inside, the crowd was equally fabulous. The women, even the older ones, were tanned and toned,

and a lot of them were wearing microminis. The men wore linen suits or expensive-looking shirt-

pant combinations that even someone as fashion impaired as the Princesses insist I am could tell

were extremely hip. The well-lit room buzzed, and the occasional pop of a flash camera only

added to the feeling that this was an important celebrity gathering.

The artist, whom I recognized from the postcard (apparently a self-portrait), was standing over in

one corner, surrounded by a mob of people. I headed for two of the paintings I hadn't seen from

the street. These were enormous landscapes, so rich and varied my eyes felt overwhelmed, and I

realized who Newman's work reminded me of–Chuck Close. I circled in front of one of the

paintings slowly, watching the swirls and lines seem to change color as I looked at them from

different angels. Painting was just so cool. How did people know how to do that, to put colors

and shapes next to each other in just the right pattern? I wondered if my mother could have

explained it to me, or if it was all intuitive, impossible to articulate.

I stepped back from the painting, looking around the room for Ms. Daniels. The truth was I

couldn't quite picture her in this crowd. Perhaps she transformed into super-hip, Manhattan-art-

scene woman as soon as

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school was out. I scrutinized a few of the microminied women more closely, ultimately

determining that the only way Ms. Daniels was in the room with me was if she'd chopped off her

long hair and dyed it platinum blond, cherry-red, or blue.

I figured I'd find her before I left; maybe she was one of those people who believed in arriving

fashionably late. Plus, I was starting to feel self-conscious standing in the corner looking around

the room for a familiar face. I turned back to look at a painting I'd been studying, but

unfortunately right then I did see a familiar face. Only it wasn't the familiar face I wanted to see.

It was someone else from my class whom Ms. Daniels must have invited.

Sam Wolff.

Ugh.

Sam was half turned away from me. He was wearing a sports jacket and a pair of charcoal

flannel pants, and he was talking to the artist, who said something that made Sam throw his head

back and laugh. I couldn't believe it. Why did my first New York opening have to include Sam

Wolff? And why did Sam have to be standing there, casually chatting with the artist like they

were best buddies? I could already see how he'd act when he saw I was at the opening, too. He'd

either A) totally ignore me or B) seek me out in order to say something condescending. God,

why was he such a jerk? It was enough to make me want to leave without even bothering to see

the rest of the paintings.

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I was about to zip up my jacket and head out, when I realized how stupid I was being. I mean, I

had just as much right to be here as he did. It wasn't like he owned the place. Who cared if he

was sucking up to the artist while I was standing alone in the corner? Ms. Daniels had invited

both of us. I'd look at the paintings, thank her for inviting me, and leave. There was no reason I even had to say hello to him.

Just as I was turning my back to where he was standing, Sam looked over in my direction. Great.

I saw him excuse himself, and he came toward me.

"So, you decided to brave the streets of Gotham." His cheeks were flushed, and he held a half-

empty wineglass in one hand. He touched the sleeve of my jacket. "Did you, in fact, bring the

football team with you?"

"Basketball," I corrected him, pulling my arm away from his hand. "I hate football."

"Oh, sorry," he said. "I didn't realize there was a difference."

This was too much. "You didn't realize there was a difference?" Crossing my arms, I gave a sarcastic laugh. "Oh, please. You think it makes you seem all 'intellectual' and 'artistic' to say,

'My goodness, there's a difference between football and basketball? How quaint.' But it doesn't

make you sound smart, it makes you sound like an idiot. Like a person who doesn't know there's

a difference between Picasso and Monet."

Even as the words were coming out of my mouth, I

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couldn't believe how obnoxious I was being. I never talked this way to anyone. Not even my

stepmother.

"Wow, that's an impressive analogy," he said. "Football is to basketball as Picasso is to Monet."

A waiter passed by with a tray of wineglasses, and Sam took one and handed it to me.

I took it, but I didn't thank him. Just because Ms. Daniels happened to have invited the two of us

to the same opening didn't mean I had to be polite to him. I wished I could find her, though. It

was getting increasingly weird to be at a party without the person who invited me.

Sam poked my shoulder with his index finger. "So, what, if I don't care about the finer points of

basketball, you're not going to talk to me?"

I wanted to tell him not to poke me. I also wanted to tell him I wasn't going to talk to him even if

he did care about the finer points of basketball, but just as I opened my mouth to say those

things, Sam looked across the room at a man and a woman who were making a beeline in our

direction. "Oh, Jesus," he muttered. He took a swallow of wine and centered himself over his feet as if bracing for some sort of attack. For a second I thought I saw something in his face I'd never

seen before–something a little sad or maybe confused. And then, just as quickly as it had

appeared, it was gone.

"Darling," said the woman, swooping down on us. "I want you to meet Diego Martinez. Diego,

this is my

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son, Sam. He's an artist as well." She put her arm around Sam and air kissed his cheek.

This night was getting weirder and weirder. What was Sam's mom doing here?

"Nice to meet you," said Sam, holding out his hand for Diego to shake.

Diego was wearing a perfectly wrinkled black suit. "Charmed," he said. I didn't recognize his

name, but Diego Martinez's suit, along with his five-o'clock shadow, made him look exactly how

an artist should look.

"And this is?" Sam's mother was looking at me inquiringly. She had on a pale green silk tank top and black silk palazzo pants, and her chin-length dyed hair was way redder than mine.

"Lucy Norton, Maggie Tanner," said Sam. "Mom, Lucy."

Tanner. Her name was very familiar. Where had I heard it before?

"Of course. Lucy." She waved her arm around the room. "So, how do you like my little show?"

she asked.

Oh my god. Oh my god. OHMYGOD.

Suddenly I remembered where I'd seen the name Margaret Tanner.

"Oh, ah, it's great," I said. "It's really a great show."

This was her gallery. Which meant–

"Yes, Sam thought you'd enjoy it," she said. She took Diego by the arm. "And just wait until you see what this genius can do."

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Sam had invited me? Sam?!

"Of course," I said. "I, um, look forward to it."

Diego smiled, took Sam's mom's hand, and kissed each of the fingers, one at a time. The process

seemed to take forever. "With Maggie at my side, I am unstoppable," he said finally. "Have you ever seen a more beautiful gallery owner in your life?"

Apparently this was a rhetorical question because Sam's mom just said, "Darling," and beamed at

us before giving a little wave. "Well, we're off. Enjoy."

"Thanks," I said. I watched them walk a few steps before Sam's mom was embraced by a tall

man with a goatee. I heard her say, "Darling!"

"You know what?" Sam asked, looking not at me but at a spot just over my shoulder.

I shook my head. "What?"

"I need to get some air."

I wasn't sure if he meant for me to follow, but I did.

"Thanks for inviting me," I said, wincing inwardly at the memory of how rude I'd been to him

earlier. We were sitting outside on a bench a few feet from the reflecting pool. Sam hadn't said

anything since we'd gotten outside, and my sentence came out awkward and rehearsed, which

made sense, considering I'd experimented with several variations of it in my head before uttering

it.

"Yeah, sure," he said, but he sounded distracted, like he hadn't really heard what I'd said.

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I figured I might as well get the whole thing over with all at once. "I, um, didn't realize you'd put the card on my locker," I said. "I thought Ms. Daniels invited me."

Sam stood up and walked over to the reflecting pool. "Oh." He said. He leaped up onto the stone

wall that ran around the pool and started walking along it. "Disappointed?"

"What?"

"I said, are you disappointed?"

Now I was confused. "About what?"

"That I'm the one who invited you?"

"No. Why would I be disappointed?"

He was walking totally naturally, even though the stone lip he was balanced on was only a

couple of inches wide. "I don't know. Why would you assume Ms. Daniels was the one who had

invited you? Why wouldn't you think it could be me?"

"Ah, maybe because every time I try to talk to you, you look at me like you wish I'd get hit by a

car," I answered.

"Come on," he said, from the other side of the pool. "Or a bus."

"Please. I'm not that bad. It's just... embarrassing when someone comments on your painting."

I thought about explaining the difference between a comment and a compliment, but from the

way he was suddenly looking down, I could tell just talking about

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my talking about his artwork was making him uncomfortable.

"How did you know which one was my locker?" I asked.

"Your notebook."

"What?"

"It's on your notebook."

"Oh," It was true. The first day of school I'd written my locker number on my notebook so I

wouldn't forget it.

Sam was two thirds of the way around the pool now, and he looked over at me. Then he jumped

off without even spilling a drop of his wine and came back to the bench. He stood in front of

where I was sitting and ran his hand through his hair, making it stand up straight. Then he shook

his head like he was trying to clear it of something unpleasant. "Sorry about my mother back

there," he said.

"Don't worry about it," I said. "You should meet my stepmother."

"Yeah?" he asked.

"God yes, she's ten million times worse than your mom." I thought for a second. "Like, she

collects really expensive glass figurines," I said.

"No way!" Sam said, and for the first time since his mom had come over to us, he smiled.

"Really," I said. "And once one of a pair of matching unicorns broke, and she started to cry."

Sam

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was still smiling. "At least your mom collects art," I said.

"And artists," he said. He stopped smiling and looked back at the gallery. "What about your mother?" he asked. "What does she do?"

"Actually, she doesn't do anything anymore," I said. "She's dead."

"Oh, wow," he said, turning back to face me. "That sucks."

"Yeah, I guess," I said. I never know how to tell people my mother's dead, since it's pretty much guaranteed to bring even the most scintillating conversation to a complete halt. It was a huge

relief that Sam hadn't made the Poor little Lucy frown most people made.

"Is that why you moved to New York?" he asked. "Did she die recently?"

"Oh, no, she died a long time ago," I said. "We moved because my dad remarried, and my

revolting stepsisters can't function outside a ten-mile radius of the Miracle Mile."

Sam squinted and looked up at the sky, like he was trying to figure something out. "Soooo,

you've got a stepmother who's a bitch and some evil stepsisters," he said finally.

"I know," I said. "It's so Brothers Grimm."

"Seriously."

As I looked at Sam, who was standing right in front of me and still looking up at the sky, I could

kind of see why someone like Jane, someone who could go out with

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any guy she wanted to, might go out with him. In his sports jacket, holding a glass of wine, he

looked good. Not good like Connor looked good. Not in the pure gorgeous way. This was

different. I considered how Sam had laughed when he was talking to Milton Newman. Even

though there must have been at least a dozen adults around him, even though he was talking to a

guy who was clearly a successful, well-known artist, he'd seemed totally relaxed.

That was it–Sam was cool.

He sat down on the bench next to me. "So," he said. "You're uprooted from San Francisco and dragged across the country to Long Island. You're a sophomore. You know no one. Yet in just a

few short months you manage to snag the captain of the football–sorry, the basketball team. Not

too shabby."

I took a sip of my wine, then turned to face him. "I really don't think the guy who went out with

last year's prom queen ought to be quite so condescending, do you?"

Sam laughed. "Touché," he said. After a minute he added, "She wasn't actually the prom queen."

"Still," I said, patting him lightly on the knee. "I feel the point is justified."

"Yeah," he acknowledged. "I suppose it is." He stretched his arms up, then dropped his hands onto his head and ran his fingers through his hair. "Hey, maybe you'll get to be prom queen this year," he said. Then he pointed at me. "Dreams come true, right?"

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I put my glass down on the pebbled ground. "Okay, can I just say that I didn't like you before,

and then for a few minutes I liked you, and now I'm not liking you again?"

"Sorry," he said. When I didn't say anything, he said it again. "Really, I'm sorry." He shook his head and chuckled. "I just cannot understand how someone who seems to care about art as much as you do cares about basketball."

I crossed my arms. "Why not? Why can't you accept that a person could like sports and art?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "Failure of imagination, I guess."

"Failure of something," I said. "You should care about basketball. You should open your mind to the beauty of the game."

Sam shook his head from side to side, smiling. "Well, maybe I'll do that," he said.

"Speaking of the beauty of the game, what time is it?" I asked. I was pretty sure it was getting close to seven, which meant I needed to think about leaving. There was a seven-twenty train I

planned to be on, and Penn Station was about ten minutes from the gallery by cab.

Sam reached over and lazily pushed up the sleeve of his jacket. "It's seven-ten," he said.

I leaped up off the bench, my heart pounding. "Oh my god! How is that possible?"

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"Well, the big hand's on the–"

"No, no, I have to get out of here," I said. "I'm late."

He scrunched up his face in mock confusion. "Wait, let me guess ..." Suddenly he waved his

hand in the air. "I know, I know. It must be the night of the BIG GAME, right?"

I couldn't help smiling. "If I had the time, I'd punch you," I said.

"In that case, I'd better get you a cab,'* he said, and he turned and walked toward the gate. I

followed and waited on the sidewalk while he hailed a cab, trying not to tap my foot impatiently.

Luckily a cab pulled up right away; within a minute Sam was holding the door open for me.

As I slid into the backseat, it occurred to me how rude I was being. "Sorry to race off like this," I said, buckling my seat belt.

"No worries," he said. "I wouldn't want you to turn into a pumpkin right before my eyes." And then, smiling, he shut the door of the cab.

"Where to?" asked the driver.

"Penn Station, please." The cab sped off, and when we stopped at the corner for a light, I realized I hadn't even really said good-bye. I craned my neck around to see if Sam was still standing

outside the gallery, but he wasn't there. I leaned back against the seat.

"Do you know what time it is?" I asked the driver.

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"It's seven-fifteen," he said.

If I missed the seven-twenty train, the next one was the seven-forty, which meant there was no

way I'd get to the eight o'clock game before eight-thirty.

It was all Mara's fault. If she hadn't been such a witch, we wouldn't have gotten into a fight, and

if we hadn't gotten into a fight, I wouldn't have had to come to the city to avoid getting grounded,

and if I hadn't had to come to the city to avoid getting grounded, I wouldn't have stayed at the

gallery all that time talking to Sam, and if I hadn't stayed at the gallery talking to Sam, I wouldn't

have missed my train, and if I hadn't missed my train, I wouldn't be late to the game.

Tonight was a perfect illustration of why Cinderella and the Prince get married twenty-four hours

after they meet. Because when you're living with your stepmother, there is no happily ever after.

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Chapter Sixteen

I'd expected to arrive halfway through the first quarter if I was lucky, but when I yanked open the

door of the gym, the teams were still warming up. How was that possible? Looking up at the

clock just under the scoreboard, I saw that it said eight-thirty. So I was late. But so was the game.

I stood by the door watching as each player took a shot and then melted into the snaking line of

players forming and reforming below the basket. Fans cheered so wildly the gym literally shook.

Music blared out of the loudspeakers, and the room itself seemed to be sweating from all the

bodies crammed inside. I felt the heat and noise acting on me like an elixir. In less than a minute

I'd identified Connor–like magic, the second I saw him, he sank a perfect layup, and the crowd,

me included, went wild.

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It took forever to find Madison and Jessica, and then my chunky-heeled boots turned the climb

up to were they were sitting into an aerobics class. By the time I arrived at the sliver of space

they'd been able to save for me, I was panting as hard as the guys on the team. "Sorry I'm late," I said after I'd hugged them both hello. Then I looked down at the court just in time to see us lose

the tip.

Jessica waved away my apology. "Guess what?" she asked.

South Meadow was good. Really good. We'd barely managed to get the ball when they got it

back.

"Know what?" Jessica asked again.

I pointed at the clock. "Why'd the game start late?"

"I think their bus broke down or something," Madison said. I watched as the ref called Glen Lake for traveling.

"Aren't you going to ask what?" said Jessica.

"What what?" I asked. South Meadow made the foul shot, and I managed to take my eyes off the

court long enough to notice both Madison and Jessica were grinning from ear to ear. "What?" I

repeated.

"The prom committee's announcing the prom theme on Monday." Her smile broadened. "And

you know what else?"

"What?–The ref blew his whistle just as Jessica put her arm around my shoulder and leaned in to

whisper in my ear. Had he called another foul against Glen Lake? I

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couldn't see. "What three girls are the only sophomores who will be receiving invitations?"

Suddenly my mind was very much not on the game. "No!" I said, staring at her.

Jessica nodded. "Yes."

Now I started to smile, too. "Wait a sec," I said, rethinking what she'd said. "You don't know they're going to ask us."

Madison put her arm around my other shoulder and leaned into me, the three of us forming a

tight huddle. "Not only are they going to ask us," she said, "but I think they're going to ask us tonight."

"Tonight?" I repeated.

She and Jessica squeezed me, like they were making a Lucy sandwich. "Tonight," said Jessica.

Just then Connor got the ball, and the three of us leaped to our feet along with the rest of the

Glen Lake fans. I cheered until I was hoarse as Connor dribbled the ball toward the net, moving

so easily he didn't even need to fake out the people sent to guard him–his fluid body simply

swayed one way, then another, and suddenly there was only empty space where he'd been a

second before. Watching him sink the ball, I couldn't believe someone so confident and talented

had chosen me to be his girlfriend.

Still clapping, Jessica leaned into me. "There goes your prom date," she said.

"Stop," I said, hitting her on the shoulder. "Watch

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the game." But I couldn't help laughing and neither could she.

It was probably the only time anyone on our side of the gym laughed all night. By the third

quarter, the game, which everyone had predicted would be a close one, was proving to be

anything but. South Meadow–a team that seemed to have the ability to read one another's minds,

twelve giants who dwarfed even our tallest players–was unbeatable. No, not unbeatable–

untouchable. While they sank basket after basket, we barely scored, until eventually we were

behind by almost thirty points. Their coach started rotating in players who probably hadn't been

off the bench all season, letting the score get a little closer before sending back in a well-rested

starter or two. Our starters, meanwhile, were exhausted; they'd been running all night, but the

few times they were rotated out they couldn't sit still. I watched them pace back and forth along

the court, swigging water restlessly until they were sent back in. When the final buzzer rang and

South Meadow had won by fifteen, most of the guys on the Glen Lake bench were holding their

heads in their hands. A few were actually crying.

Even Madison and Jessica were crushed, though for a very different reason. "The guys are gonna

be so pissed," said Madison.

"Maybe we should go to the diner for a while," suggested Jessica. "You know, give them a

chance to wallow a little?"

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We decided that was a good idea, and while Madison called a cab to take us to Dan's Diner,

Jessica text-messaged Dave that we'd meet them at the party. When I took out my wallet to

check how much cash I had, I saw a corner of the postcard Sam had put on my locker. In the

midst of being so depressed, it was nice to remember the part of the evening that hadn't been a

complete disaster.

We didn't talk much at Dan's, and nobody uttered the word prom. We just sat over our fries and

Cokes, wondering how disappointed the guys were going to be, until finally Jessica decided we'd

waited long enough and she called a cab to take us to the no-victory party.

Even though I knew Connor was going to be totally bummed about losing, my heart couldn't stop

doing its little tap dance of excitement the whole ride. This was going to be my first official

high-school party. And it wasn't like I was going as some desperate, dorky freshman or even an

anonymous sophomore–I was going as Connor Pearson's girlfriend. Maybe the basketball team

was suffering the agony of defeat, but I couldn't help feeling the thrill of victory.

We turned off Cypress Avenue and started making our way through what was clearly a mega-

rich neighborhood, the kind where you can't even see the houses from the road. As we got closer

to Darren's, traffic suddenly became a problem–cars were parked on both sides of the street, and

our cab slowed to a crawl to make its way between the rows. We pulled up in front of a

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gigantic wrought-iron gate with an iron eagle perched on top of it, paid the driver, and joined the

river of people heading up the gravel driveway. Hovering on a rise above us was Darren's house,

the biggest home I'd ever seen outside of a movie set; it was as if a French Chateau had been

lifted off its foundation, flown across the Atlantic Ocean, and dropped, perfectly intact, onto the

North Shore of Long Island.

Inside the massive front door a group of guys was playing Nerf basketball; the foyer was so big

their game wasn't even disturbed by the crowds of people milling around. Madison, Jessica, and I

looked at each other. The entryway branched off in two directions, and Jessica held her hands out

like a pair of scales, standing like that until Madison tapped her right arm. We turned right,

passed a wide staircase, and headed down a long hallway packed with people. Everyone was

drinking something– beer, wine, tropical-looking drinks with frothy heads. We passed Kathryn

Ford, Jane Brown, and a bunch of other senior girls drinking champagne right out of the bottle.

The house reeked of alcohol and pot; my whole body tingled with excitement.

Okay, true, we'd lost the game. And the season was over. And the seniors, some of whom would

probably never play basketball again, had just suffered the worst defeat of their entire careers.

But this was the biggest party of the year. Practically the entire school was here. And for the first

time since we'd started dating, Connor

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didn't have a curfew. My head spun with the possibilities. Disobeying Mara's note was, without a

doubt, the smartest move I'd made in my entire life.

I couldn't wait to find Connor.

A couple of people we passed said they'd last seen Connor, Matt, and Dave in the kitchen. We

kept going, following their instructions. There must have been a hundred rooms in the house.

Maybe a thousand. Every time we thought we'd made it to the kitchen, we found ourselves in

another library, sitting room, billiard room, conservatory. I was starting to get the feeling the

kitchen was like Brigadoon–we could look for it all we wanted, but we'd never find it.

Miles from the front door, we came to a small alcove with nothing in it but a love seat and,

spotlighted on the opposite wall, a tiny oil painting in an elaborate gilt frame. As we walked by, I

glanced at the painting.

"Oh my god," I said.

"What?" asked Jessica.

"Are you okay?" asked Madison.

I pointed at the young girl in a tutu at a ballet barre. "That's a Degas," I said.

"A what?" asked Madison.

"A Degas. He's this really famous French Impressionist. My dad loves him." I shook my head in amazement. "I can't believe they own a Degas."

Madison and Jessica stepped closer to the frame. "Is it, like, superexpensive?" asked Jessica.

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"Probably," I said.

Jessica shrugged. "Cool," she said, turning away. "Come on."

We knew we had to be getting close when we heard the chanting. "Go! Go! Go! Go!" Following

the noise finally got us to a huge, modern kitchen, bright as an operating room and filled with

stainless-steel appliances that reflected the scene back on itself, like mirrors in a fun house.

The chanting came from a group of people huddled around a keg in the middle of the room.

Dripping wet, with sweat or beer I couldn't tell, Dave was bent over backward at the waist,

sucking from a tap. His face was red and the veins on his neck stuck out. Someone was shouting

out numbers, and when the person got to thirty, Dave spit out the tap, spraying himself and the

people nearby with a mist of beer. Everyone cheered. I didn't see Connor anywhere.

Dave staggered away from the group and collapsed in a chair. The person whose turn it was next

grabbed the tap. "Go, Brewster," someone shouted. "Brewster the Brewmeister!" yelled someone else. I watched Jessica, who looked pissed, make her way over to Dave. Madison and I made eye

contact. She shrugged and followed Jessica, so I followed her.

Dave had stopped gasping for breath and was laughing at, as far as I could tell, nothing. Jessica,

her arms

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folded tightly across her chest, was shaking her head at him. He stopped laughing and started

swaying back and forth in the chair, eyes half closed. "You're wasted, you know that?" she

asked, kicking him in the foot.

"I'm notho wasted," he slurred, smiling up at her. "Comeere." He lifted his arms to embrace her and then dropped them, like they were too heavy to hold up. "Okay, maybe wasted."

"Yeah, maybe," she said.

As if to nod in agreement, Dave dropped his head. But it didn't come up again. Once more,

Jessica kicked him in the foot. This time all he did was shrug.

"Where's Connor?" I asked. Dave looked up at me, his head swaying. He said something that

sounded like, "Background."

"Background?" I repeated.

He took a deep breath and stared into my eyes, all his powers of concentration focused on this

elusive communication. "Back. Yard," he managed to say, articulating each syllable with

remarkable precision. Then he half pointed, half waved to a corridor that branched off the

kitchen and laughed.

"Where's Matt?" asked Madison.

Dave moved his glassy stare from me to Madison and then back again. "Strange," he said.

"What?" she asked.

You could see him gathering himself up for one last push. "Same," he said finally.

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She looked at me, confused. "I think he means they're in the same place," I translated.

I started off in the direction Dave had indicated, with Madison right behind me. Jessica gave

Dave one more kick in the foot before she followed.

I was starting to get the very bad feeling that my dream night wasn't going quite as I'd planned.

We made our way down a long hallway that ended in French doors, which opened onto a deck

overlooking the covered swimming pool.

On the deck, passed out under a large glass table, was Connor. A few feet away lay Matt.

Connor was on his stomach with his head resting on his forearm. For a second I wondered if he

was still breathing, but then Jessica walked over and kicked his ankle and he groaned.

I bent down. "Connor?" I asked.

"Hey, Red," he said. His words were slurred; I sensed more than heard what he was saying. Then

he lifted his head. "Wassup?"

"You okay, Connor?" I sat down on the cold wood and touched his hair. Next to his hip lay an

empty bottle of Wild Turkey.

"We lost, Red," said Connor.

"I know," I said. "I'm really sorry."

"I think I need to sleep for a little while," he said, dropping his head back down. "Thanks for stopping by."

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