Vicious Deep by Zoraida Cordova

with Samantha. She saw I was miserable. I was trying to avoid Maddy the whole day after she told me she was madly in love with me and then started undoing my belt buckle. I could’ve stopped her, but I wasn’t exactly thinking with my brain.
    Either way. The screwed-up part is that I don’t even remember the girl I was kissing. I don’t remember what she tasted like. I don’t remember her eyes. Nothing. I just remember Maddy walking around the big boulder and gasping. Then crying. Then throwing her beer in my face and then the empty cup at the Hot Mess. She slapped me and I let her.
    Maddy was the girl I wanted to take a chance with because I was tired of dating girls who couldn’t put a whole sentence together but knew their father’s credit card number by heart. It’s just—she wasn’t the right girl.
    And now sitting here, with all my friends cheering me for being alive, for being their idol, I feel lower than low. Because Layla gets up, shaking her head at me. I try to grab her hand, but she pulls away, and I don’t know what I can say right here, right now to make her want to stay.

My head is pulsing. I tell Ryan that I’ll make it to the Wreck, but something doesn’t feel right. I know I’ll probably puke my guts out and go to bed. Layla and I take seats at the dining room table with our parents, who sip on red wine, and Coach Bellini, whose mustache is tipped in beer foam.
    I vaguely understand now how it feels to be a wounded puppy that wants to be left alone to lick his wounds. A very manly, strong puppy, that is.
    Mrs. Santos pops a cheddar cube into her mouth. Layla is a skinny version of her mother with her dad’s hazel eyes. Mr. Santos is a tall and broad Ecuadorian dude with a mustache who always smells like his cigars. He extends his arm and pats my shoulder. I tighten my body against the pain that spreads down my entire back.
    â€œListen here, boy,” says Coach, pointing a finger at me. Why do grown-ups seem to do that, like if they’re not pointing in your direction, you’re not going to know that they’re serious. “What the hell happened out there? Don’t you ever go doing anything so reckless again. Think of your momma right here. Your friends. Your team.”
    â€œHe was trying save someone,” Layla interrupts. She thinks Coach is right, but it’s her nature to take the opposite side. Ms. Contrary. “He was being heroic.”
    â€œFiremen are heroic. Marines are heroic. You’re just plain reckless.” I’ve never seen Coach turn so many different colors so quickly. I think even his mustache is twitching. Everyone laughs at his expression, and for this moment, it’s just a regular Saturday night with friends and family.
    â€œI think what Arthur wants to say is that he’s happy you’re well,” Mom chimes in, all smiles and bright eyes. She rubs my dad’s back, and everything is calm again.
    But then they all take a peek out the window, and we remember that something is changing and we don’t know what it is.
    I’ve started sweating. The rash at the side of my neck is getting worse. I want to crawl into my bed, but I know if I stand up I’ll fall right back down.
    My mom looks at me like she’s snapping out of a nightmare. “I think Tristan needs to get some sleep.”
    â€œDo you need help cleaning up?” Layla offers.
    â€œNo, Layla, honey.” Dad’s voice is tight, the voice he uses when he’s on the phone with his boss and trying to convince him he’s working on a project but really hasn’t started it.
    â€œI don’t feel so good,” I groan. It’s rude, but I wave at them and dash for the closest bathroom, which is my parents’. I shut the door and run cold water in the sink. I splash cold water on my face and all around my neck to calm the itching, which is spreading to my ribs. My mind flickers to a