stormed off and then when I told Justine about it, she muttered something about me being a prude.
Nice.
I ended up sitting by the bonfire, holding a beer I wasn’t even drinking, and no one even seemed to notice or care that I was all alone. They just kept drinking and talking and shouting and the whole thing made me wonder what the point of parties was anyway. I started thinking about stuff my mom and I used to do before I was old enough to even go to parties on my own and I suddenly missed those nights when we’d do each other’s nails and hair, and watch dumb movies, and the nights when we’d pitch a tent in our pathetic little yard and look at stars and eat nothing but cookies for dinner.
We did used to do that. Didn’t we?
And then I realized the beer I was holding was warm, so I put it down, twisting it into the sand, and got up and walked home.
I’m opening a bag of mulch on one side of the yard while Tim works on the other when Mark comes over. He waves a hand in front of his nose and says, “Excu-use you.”
It takes me a minute to realize he’s talking about the mulch, whichcomes out of the bag moist and ripe and stinky. “What are you, five years old?” I ask.
He smiles and says, “So you’re done here, huh?”
The mulch is warm in my hands and it feels almost alive. “Pretty much.”
Today’s our last day—and I’m sort of sad about it though I don’t want to admit why. Even if Alex and I are broken up—and I’m not sure we are—I wouldn’t want to move right on to some other guy.
Not like my mom.
“It looks good.” Mark stands back and nods. “I think Froggy will be very happy here.”
I crinkle my nose. “Froggy?”
“You got a problem with that?” He crosses his arms at his chest defiantly.
“Just not especially creative is all.”
He shrugs and says, “Hey, so listen. These buddies of mine, they have this house on the bay in Toms River and their parents are out of town and I know it sounds really B-movie or something but they’re having a party.”
I stiffen, then force myself to relax, and I dump out more mulch without looking up at him.
“The house is actually awesome and they do all the requisite party things—you know, Jell-O shots, skinny-dipping—so that makes for some pretty spectacular people-watching.”
The mulch really does smell bad.
“I was wondering if you’d want to, I don’t know, come along?”
I look up at him, totally prepared to say something like “I have a boyfriend” or “I don’t think that’s a good idea” or “I have to work”—which makes no sense since I don’t even know when the party is yet.But he’s taken off his sunglasses and he has this look in his eyes that’s electric and sweet. So I don’t say any of those things.
“When is it?” I ask, and he says, “Tonight.”
“A Thursday night?”
He shrugs. “That’s how they roll.”
Now I get the chance to say “I have to work,” because it’s true. I’m babysitting until nine because the Schroeders are going out on some happy hour boat ride with friends.
Mark looks more puzzled than disappointed. “You do landscaping at night ?”
“No,” I say. “Babysitting. Until nine or so.”
“Well, this doesn’t start until like nine, anyway. So I can pick you up and head over then.”
“Okay,” I say. “If you’re sure.”
Because I am not.
“I’m sure,” he says. “Tell me where to get you and I’ll be there.”
“I’ll text you,” I say, and he says, “Excellent.”
And then he drifts off and we finish his garden and there’s no point denying that this invitation takes the edge off the sadness.
I almost e-mail Lauren a million times that day— This cute new guy asked me to a party! I said yes! Even though I totally shouldn’t have! —but for some reason I don’t. Which I know probably doesn’t bode well for our friendship—or roommateship—if I’m already playing games by making her wait, but there you have
Nice.
I ended up sitting by the bonfire, holding a beer I wasn’t even drinking, and no one even seemed to notice or care that I was all alone. They just kept drinking and talking and shouting and the whole thing made me wonder what the point of parties was anyway. I started thinking about stuff my mom and I used to do before I was old enough to even go to parties on my own and I suddenly missed those nights when we’d do each other’s nails and hair, and watch dumb movies, and the nights when we’d pitch a tent in our pathetic little yard and look at stars and eat nothing but cookies for dinner.
We did used to do that. Didn’t we?
And then I realized the beer I was holding was warm, so I put it down, twisting it into the sand, and got up and walked home.
I’m opening a bag of mulch on one side of the yard while Tim works on the other when Mark comes over. He waves a hand in front of his nose and says, “Excu-use you.”
It takes me a minute to realize he’s talking about the mulch, whichcomes out of the bag moist and ripe and stinky. “What are you, five years old?” I ask.
He smiles and says, “So you’re done here, huh?”
The mulch is warm in my hands and it feels almost alive. “Pretty much.”
Today’s our last day—and I’m sort of sad about it though I don’t want to admit why. Even if Alex and I are broken up—and I’m not sure we are—I wouldn’t want to move right on to some other guy.
Not like my mom.
“It looks good.” Mark stands back and nods. “I think Froggy will be very happy here.”
I crinkle my nose. “Froggy?”
“You got a problem with that?” He crosses his arms at his chest defiantly.
“Just not especially creative is all.”
He shrugs and says, “Hey, so listen. These buddies of mine, they have this house on the bay in Toms River and their parents are out of town and I know it sounds really B-movie or something but they’re having a party.”
I stiffen, then force myself to relax, and I dump out more mulch without looking up at him.
“The house is actually awesome and they do all the requisite party things—you know, Jell-O shots, skinny-dipping—so that makes for some pretty spectacular people-watching.”
The mulch really does smell bad.
“I was wondering if you’d want to, I don’t know, come along?”
I look up at him, totally prepared to say something like “I have a boyfriend” or “I don’t think that’s a good idea” or “I have to work”—which makes no sense since I don’t even know when the party is yet.But he’s taken off his sunglasses and he has this look in his eyes that’s electric and sweet. So I don’t say any of those things.
“When is it?” I ask, and he says, “Tonight.”
“A Thursday night?”
He shrugs. “That’s how they roll.”
Now I get the chance to say “I have to work,” because it’s true. I’m babysitting until nine because the Schroeders are going out on some happy hour boat ride with friends.
Mark looks more puzzled than disappointed. “You do landscaping at night ?”
“No,” I say. “Babysitting. Until nine or so.”
“Well, this doesn’t start until like nine, anyway. So I can pick you up and head over then.”
“Okay,” I say. “If you’re sure.”
Because I am not.
“I’m sure,” he says. “Tell me where to get you and I’ll be there.”
“I’ll text you,” I say, and he says, “Excellent.”
And then he drifts off and we finish his garden and there’s no point denying that this invitation takes the edge off the sadness.
I almost e-mail Lauren a million times that day— This cute new guy asked me to a party! I said yes! Even though I totally shouldn’t have! —but for some reason I don’t. Which I know probably doesn’t bode well for our friendship—or roommateship—if I’m already playing games by making her wait, but there you have