Empty by K. M. Walton

I’m kind of tipsy. I rock back and grunt. No go. I repeat the rocking motion and finally pull my ass out of the sofa-hole. Perched on the edge of the couch, I’m out of breath.
    Brandon’s waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, and I want to hide. He had to have seen my pathetic attempt at getting up. I still need a beer. I take a deep breath and push up hard to get myself to standing. An involuntary groan escapes, and I squeeze my hands into fists. I know he’s watching me.
    We make eye contact, and Brandon smiles, so I guess that’s good. I point to my beer, he nods, and I head into the kitchen to grab a fresh can from the fridge.
    Four girls from softball are playing flip cup with four guys from the baseball team. They’ve pulled the kitchen table into the center of the room. The table and floor are soaked in beer. I grab a new beer from the fridge, unnoticed. I crack it open and take a long drink.
    This kitchen is huge and shiny. Everything looks new. The white tile floor, the marble countertops, the stainless steel appliances—all glisten and sparkle, reminding me that my kitchen is depressing.
    One of the girls squeals so loudly that I startle in midsip, and beer dribbles down my chin and onto my chest. “Great,”I mumble to myself. I cringe on my way out, because the eight of them around that table couldn’t possibly be any louder.
    “Hey, we need a judge!” one of the guys shouts. I turn around and stare at them. The boys all have the same buzz haircut. How cute. Two other dudes have come into the kitchen and are making their way to the fridge. I assume he’s talking to one of them.
    “Yo, we’re talking to you!” the same guy barks, and he points at me this time. I think his name is Jacob.
    Oh.
    “Come on, Dell, judge for us!” Amy, my former softball teammate, pleads.
    I peek into the living room. Brandon is gone. I wouldn’t have waited for me either. I walk toward the table. “Okay.”
    Apparently the guys think the girls are cheating somehow, so they feel they need a referee. I get the rules from Amy, and presto, I am the official judge of this flip-cup game. The girl side of the table crushes the boys with four straight wins. I celebrate each win with a long chug of beer. After the fifth fair-and-square manhandling by the girls, the guys are getting agitated. Jacob drunkenly argues every call I make, punches the table, and shoves the guy next to him. Now I know why he wanted a judge—he couldn’t believe the girls were legitimatelykilling it. Truthfully, I don’t know how anyone is winning. We’re all drunk.
    Jacob squints at me and runs his hand over the brown fuzz on his head. “Why are you making that face?” he shouts. “What’s your problem?”
    I’m making a face? Wow, someone took their aggressive pills. Before I can answer him, Amy slurs, “Leave her alone, Jacob. She got cut from softball ’cause she’s toofattoplay.” All four girls’ eyes bulge. They crumble into laughter, grasping the sides of the table, and then slump into piles on the wet floor. It is quite the moment of hilarity.
    Normally I’d laugh right along with them to let them know that they didn’t hurt me with their words. But what I’d like to do is grab them by the backs of their necks and smash their faces into the table. One by one.
    Tonight, right now, I give them zero reaction. I don’t even blink.
    “Ooooh, scary death stare,” Jacob taunts.
    I’m working hard to muster my most maniacal serial-killer look, and it’s giving me an inner adrenaline surge. Each pump of my heart pulses liquid power through my veins. If I closed my eyes and concentrated, I bet I could fly right now. Instead, I focus on staying stone-faced and staring.
    Jacob puffs out his cheeks in a “fat person” imitation. Sooriginal. I roll my eyes. In a flash he reaches underneath the table and lifts his side up in the air. The red plastic cups slide off and bounce around the kitchen. “Hold on, everyone, she’s