The Unnoticeables by Robert Brockway

would he want with a girl like you anyway, Kaitlyn? He probably power-screws a bus full of supermodels between takes.
    â€œSo listen,” I said, mowing through the last of my bacon-wrapped somethings, “I’ve gotta talk to my friend real quick, but I’ll see you later, okay?”
    â€œAdios!” he said, just like Sable did in the show. Weird.
    I made my way over to Jackie, who was deep into an anecdote that necessitated her pantomiming ramming her fist into some kind of hole over and over again. The paunchy soul-patch guy was turning purple, he was laughing so hard. The lean, plastic-faced blonde next to him was covering her mouth with one hand, equal parts amused and terrified. I stood just to one side until Jackie finished her story—something about a mayonnaise jar, I gathered—and then swooped in when everybody paused to breathe.
    â€œI’m gonna head out,” I said, and she gave me a disappointed look. “I know you need to stay. You’re killing here, but I have work in the morning. Again.”
    â€œYou called a cab yet?” Jackie asked me, annoyed but understanding—or at least accepting that arguing was pointless.
    â€œNo, I figured I’d call and wait out front.”
    â€œF that noise,” Jackie said, waving Marco over.
    â€œJackie, no!” I whispered harshly. “He practically died of boredom just talking to me.”
    Marco was standing exactly where I’d left him, strangely blank, like somebody had just switched him off. When he saw Jackie wave, he immediately broke into that trademark expectant half smile and began strolling over.
    â€œI am not hooking up with Marco,” I informed her evenly. “You’re just going to embarrass me. Stop. Please, seriously, stop.”
    â€œHow could you possibly not?” she whispered back. “I mean, sure, no way he’s any good in bed, looking like that. But if you don’t at least try to stick it to J. C. Motherfucking Sable, what would fourteen-year-old you think?”
    â€œI…” I started to protest, but she was right, of course. Some things you just have to do because you never should have gotten the opportunity to do them, like eat caviar or slobber on former Tiger Beat hunks.
    â€œMarco!” Jackie exclaimed, and hugged him like a long-lost brother. “You were saying you had to head out soon. My friend here needs a ride home. Do you think you could do her a solid?”
    â€œSure thing!” Marco threw on his eager smirk. “Anything for my number-one fan!”
    My whole body flushed. I felt like somebody had thrown me into a microwave on defrost: Warm tingling spread outward in waves, pulsing from my core to my skin.
    Oh, God. Was this really…? No way. No fucking way.
    Flashbacks to cutting his picture out of magazines. Jackie and I making jokes about what we’d do to Sable and Mack if we were students at Lakeview High. Touching myself beneath the covers, looking up at that poster where he sat frozen, immobile, guarding over my bed at night …
    Marco looped his arm through mine, which was totally hokey but also kind of adorable, and I decided right then that whatever else happened, no matter how much of an ass I would surely make of myself, I had to go for it. Arm in arm, we moved toward the brightly lit cubes of the generic party mansion. I turned to wave to Jackie, but she was already back to entertaining.
    â€œAdios!” Marco expelled suddenly and loudly, just like on the show.

 
    SIX
    1977. New York City, New York. Carey.
    Randall held up a single finger. I spotted it out of the corner of my eye, swung around, and punched him in the chest.
    This was a game we played called Reaction, where one player starts counting with his fingers. If he gets to three before you notice, he punches you in the chest. If you can punch him in the chest before he gets to three, you … don’t get punched in the chest.
    Look,