Alpha Dog (13 page)

I squinted at him. He was . . . okay. Long bangs, Elvis sideburns. And he obviously thought painting a checkerboard design on a pair of boots was some sort of anti-fashion fashion statement. I tried to picture myself with him. Going to clubs, sharing eyeliner, sucking on the same Thai noodle à la
Lady and the Tramp.
Of course, we could only go out after dark due to the whole sun-aversion issue. And I’d probably end up chucking him on his butt when he painted bull’s-eyes on my favorite wedges.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled back. “He’s not really my type.”

Christine flashed me number seven of her perturbed expression collection: eyes hooded, mouth open with a slightly curled upper lip. “Then what is your type?”

I stared over her head at the darkness beyond, trying to assemble my thoughts. My type? Chuck’s face loomed in my mind. I always thought he was cute, but was he my archetypical dreamboat? I didn’t think so. Or rather, it was impossible to tell, since any mental image of him made me feel punctured and shriveled inside.

I then thought of Seamus—the original Seamus. Seamus the hunky Irish guy. His face still made me swoon. And I never felt gutted thinking about him. But there was no one at the party even remotely Seamus-like.

“I don’t know,” I confessed.

“I was just trying to help,” she said rather irritably. “But if you think my friends aren’t good enough for you, then fine.”

I stared at her blankly for a moment, too stunned to speak. “No,” I said finally. “That’s not what I think at all. I just . . . need more time.”

“Whatever,” she said, turning back toward the assembled crowd as if dismissing me. “Just don’t expect me to hang with you all night.”

Two hours later I was in the exact same spot. Christine had blown me off in the first thirty minutes, and I was too terrified to actually wander up to anyone I didn’t know. So I interjected myself into a conversation with Lyle, Kinky and a Kelly Osbourne look-alike named Genesee.

“No, man, the acoustics at the Hidey-Hole are much better,” Lyle was saying.

I nodded like I knew what he was talking about.

“No way, dude,” Kinky said. “The Danger Zone totally kicks its butt. Besides, they have cheese fries.”

“I think both clubs have an excellent vibe, but”— Genesee paused to take a dramatic puff on her cigarette— “the Hidey-Hole does have better feng shui. The energy flow is much stronger there.”

“Hah! Told you,” Lyle whooped.

Kinky shook his bushy head. “You guys are high. What do you think, Katie?” he said, turning to me. “Which club is better?”

They had obviously mistaken me for one of them, and I realized I was about to be revealed as a trendie in clubber’s clothing. “Actually I like anyplace that has a clean rest room,” I quipped.

The guys cracked up, but Genesee gave me a penetrating stare—looking very much like Mrs. B. I supposed in her mind, two-ply toilet paper had nothing to do with good energy flow.

“So, how about that new place on Red River?” she said, angling her body ever so slightly away from me. “I hear they do yoga workshops there during the day.”

I leaned against the wall and blinked several times to keep my eyes from glazing over. This was easily the least fun I’d ever had at a party. For one thing, the creepy Euro-disco tunes and everyone’s black clothing and listless expressions made it feel more like a wake. And as the night wore on, the consumption of alcohol only made the scene more surreal.

Some partygoers got louder the more they drank. Others got quieter and quieter until they were reduced to head-bobbing mutely along to the music with their eyes closed. Then there was the Romeo Christine had wanted to set me up with. After positioning himself at the keg and drinking an unfathomable amount of beer, the guy suddenly took off his T-shirt and started dancing spasmodically to the techno song on the stereo. At one point he even climbed onto the bar and tried to dance up there—the low ceiling requiring him to squat like a chicken. When Christine marched over and started yelling at him to get down, he hollered, “Stage dive!” and fell backward into the crowd. It was amazing to see everyone simultaneously step aside, protecting their beers. The guy hit the carpet and lay there looking a little cross-eyed until someone dragged him onto the balcony.

“. . . because music is like water,” Genesee was saying. “It’s like, if you don’t have it, you die inside . . .”

My ears shut down. I just couldn’t fake it anymore. I scanned the crowd for another spot to retreat to, but couldn’t find anything. By this time the small huddles of people had begun splitting into pairs. It was past midnight and couples were everywhere, talking in low tones with their heads bent together or fading into dark corners to make out. No matter how hard I tried not to think about him, my masochistic mind kept dredging up memories of me and Chuck. Me sitting on Chuck’s lap at Debby Ellis’s party. The two of us cuddling under a blanket at the lake. Chuck pulling me onto the school dance floor during a slow song . . .

“Katie? You all right?” Lyle asked. He peered at me worriedly, his eyes as round as his eyeglass frames.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I replied. My tongue felt thick and my face got all twitchy. I knew I was close to crying. “Excuse me for a sec.”

I weaved around several couples until I reached the bathroom. Luckily it was empty, save for the cigarette smoke. I locked the door and braced myself against the sink basin, filling my lungs with the noxious air and trying to get a grip. Eventually my breathing steadied and the glob in my throat dwindled. I lifted my head and glanced at my reflection in the square chrome-rimmed mirror. My hair was all frizzy and staticky-looking, and my eye makeup was starting to smear, making me look like a feral raccoon.

But that didn’t bother me as much as the glint of fear in my face. Christine had been right. A deep furrow had been cleaved down the middle of my forehead, and my gaze constantly darted from one eye to the other, as if too freaked to stay in one place for long. What was wrong with me? I used to have a cool boyfriend and popular friends. I used to welcome the chance to hang out with people. Now I was hiding in a bathroom during my own party.

“Hey! Check out that dog!” someone yelled.

“What’s he got?” shouted someone else.

Dog? Oh no!
I charged out of the bathroom and ran into my room. “Seamus?” I called, flicking on the light. The room looked as if it had been ransacked. Stuff had been knocked off my dresser and desk, much of it soggy and chewed. But Seamus wasn’t there. Instead a guy and girl were lying on my bed in the middle an extremely steamy make-out session.

“Hey!” the guy said, squinting at me as if the light hurt him. “Do you mind?”

“Do
I
mind? This is my room!” I shrieked. “That’s
my
bed!”

“Sorry,” the girl said in a snooty voice. They got to their feet and began straightening their clothes.

“There was a dog in here,” I said. “Where did he go?”

“I don’t know.” The guy answered impatiently. “Out there somewhere.”

“Katie!”
Christine’s voice cut through all other noise like a pneumatic drill.

I followed it into the living room, knowing full well what she was screaming about.

“Your dog is going bonkers again!” she shouted as soon as she saw me.

“But where is he?”

Right when I said that, I saw a dark shape streak through the living room. “Seamus!” I called, lunging after his blur. It was hard to follow him in the dim light and dense crowd. But even when I lost sight of him I could tell where he was by how the partygoers bobbed upward as if they were doing the wave.

Eventually I cornered him beside one of the big black amps set up for the band. “Come on,” I muttered. “We’re going for a walk.” I carried him, babylike, back through the throng of onlookers.

“What’s that in his mouth?” someone asked.

I glanced down. Sure enough, some frilly piece of clothing was between Seamus’s jaws. Without thinking, I pulled it out and held it up. Immediately, the people around us started laughing.

It was one of the panties I’d thrown in the bottom of my closet. The big ruffly ones Grandma Hattie had sent.

“Come on, boy! Hold still!”

I was in the corridor outside our condo trying to wrestle the leash onto Seamus. Ten minutes had already passed and I still hadn’t managed to get it on him. Each time I tried, he would hunker way down and lower his head.

Wang! Wang! Waaaanggg! K’boom! Bow! Bow! Bow!

The sounds of New Bile’s instrument tuning penetrated the walls, making Seamus go even stiffer.
Why do
they have to be so damn loud?
I grumbled inwardly. Someone was going to call the cops. That or our ear-drums would shrivel up like rotting vegetables.

Suddenly the door to unit 303 opened and Hunky Elevator Guy stepped out onto the landing.

“Hi,” he said without smiling. “You guys having a party?”

“Actually my roommate—” I paused, sighing wearily. “Yeah. I guess we are.”

“Do you have to have a live band?” he went on. “I can’t hear myself think!” He was obviously mad as hell. His voice had a growling quality to it that amazed Seamus. For the first time since we stepped out there, he relaxed and lifted his head. I quickly snapped the leash on his collar.

“Please.” The guy clapped his hands together in a prayer gesture and pressed them against his chest. “Could you please just make them stop? I’ve got to work tomorrow. I’ve got to get some sleep.”

I tried to picture myself going back in there and hollering for the band to quit playing. I pictured them laughing at me or simply ignoring me altogether. On the slim chance they actually obeyed, Christine would still be majorly pissed. I then pictured her gabbing with my mom on the phone, sneering smugly as she listed various true and untrue crimes.

“No,” I replied. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

He glared at me. “You can’t? Or you just won’t?”

I heaved a weary sigh. “I’d like to help, but it’s just not possible.”

“Why? What’s the big deal?”

“It’s just . . . complicated.”

“Complicated
how
?”

Something inside me, some loose cog of machinery, seemed to snap into place. Before I realized it, I was on my feet, yelling. “I just can’t do it, okay? Believe me, I don’t like it any more than you! People are making out in my room, throwing trash off the balcony, smoking everywhere, asking me about my vibes! Meanwhile my mom’s trying to set me up with a gay guy, my roommate is miffed because I won’t date the drunk stage diver,
and my dog is eating my underwear
!”

For a second, no one spoke or moved. Both the guy and Seamus wore matching looks of shock.

Oh God. Delete! Delete!
If this were at all a kind and just universe, it would smite me down with a freak lightning bolt and turn my red-faced, flashlight-waving body into a steaming lump of jelly.

Eventually the guy’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Are you drunk?” he asked. “Or are you always like this?”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, backing up a step, not wanting to look at him. Now that my pent-up rage had spewed out like the contents of a punctured aerosol can, I felt completely drained—and petrified with humiliation.
Dear Lord, did I actually scream about my underwear in
front of him? What is wrong with me?

“You okay?” he asked. All the anger had left his voice. Now he just sounded concerned. After all, loud rock bands pale in comparison to living next to a raging psycho.

“I’m just sorry,” I repeated morosely as I fumbled with Seamus’s leash. “Maybe you should just call the cops or something. We’ll probably get kicked out, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing. It’s not like things are working out here anyway.” I turned and trudged toward the stairwell.

“Whoa. Wait a minute. . . . Wait!”

I spun around, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Let me see your flashlight,” he said, holding out his hand. “I have an idea.”