Cinderella Sidelined (2 page)

It's a nice thought, really, to know I don't even have to work that hard to keep my boyfriend.

Andrea hands him the cold can and he smiles and glances over at me before cracking the tab. "Ah," he says as the beer flows down his throat. "That's good."
 

"Emma Thompson!"
 

The shrill voice that fills my ears and crashes around in my brain can't belong to anyone other than Stella, and sure enough, she comes sprinting down the front staircase and tears through the front hall, spilling out into the courtyard. She grabs my arm and pulls me halfway down the driveway, practically into the desert that is the Harris' front yard, and away from the curious, bewildered stares of Blaine, Andrea, and everyone else within thirty miles of her screams.

"What the heck?" I hiss. "I was talking back there."
 

It barely registers with Stella. "Richie. Richie is here."
 

"I know. He texted me earlier that we should come. And then you called."
 

"We?" Her eyes sparkle. "You and me?"
 

"No. Blaine and me."
 

Her face falls as quickly as it lights up. "Great. What am I supposed to do? This has been the worst thirty minutes of my entire life."
 

"Stella, pull it together. He's not gonna go for it if you can't control the slobber."
 

She blinks twice, staring at me like I've slapped her across the face. "That was rude, Emma." She pauses. "What am I supposed to do, then?"

"You've gotta play the game. Make him think everything is his idea, not yours."
 

She curls her upper lip back. "Yeah, but you're good at that kinda thing. And I'm, well, I'm me."
 

"And that's why you have me around. Relax. I promise. Do it right and you'll have Richie eating out of the palm of your hand in a week."
 

"I don't know," she says after a long silence. "It seems like maybe it's more work than it's worth. Like, shouldn't he just want to be with me?"
 

I roll my eyes. "Guys are dumb, Stell. Sometimes you have to give them a shove."
 

"Did you have to do that with Blaine?"
 

I pause for a second, because I'd rather think that Blaine simply took one look at me and was overwhelmed by the realization that we were meant to be together forever, but I know that isn't true, and Stella's droopy face suggests she needs to know what really happened.

"What, you think he just magically fell in love with me? It took work, you know."
 

She moans. "He's just so freakin' hot, I really don't think I can wait anymore."
 

I grin wickedly. "Trust me. It's more than worth the work."
 

Stella blushes and a small smile forms on my super-easily embarrassed friend's face, but it disappears within the same second. "I can't do this. I should just forget about him." She shakes her head. "Why would Richie want me? He's a football player and I'm nobody."
 

It's all I can do not to roll my eyes again. "Pity party, your table for one is ready."
 

"I don't hear any ideas coming out of you," she snaps.

"I told you. You have to make him think it's what he wants, even if he doesn't know it yet. Let me ask you this. Whenever you see him, what happens?"
 

Stella mashes her lips together. "I run up to him and say hi."
 

"Right. You say hi. He doesn't."
 

"If I don't, we won't talk!"
 

"So you don't talk. You're too predictable. Trust me, next time you see him, ignore him. Don't look at him, don't say a word. Let him come to you."
 

"What if he doesn't?"
 

I shrug. "Then he doesn't. But you know what? Bet he will next time. You gotta get him thinking about you, Stell, without him knowing he's thinking about you."
 

She wrinkles her nose. "That doesn't even make sense."
 

"Hey." Blaine comes walking down and around the curve of the Harris' sloping driveway and looks at me. "You two ladies plannin' on joining the party?"

I smile up at him. "Be right there. Girl stuff."
 

He grunts and disappears.
 

"Okay, so Richie is here tonight. What should I do?" Stella whispers just in case Blaine isn't totally out of earshot.
 

"Ignore him," I reply confidently, and when she tilts her head and looks at me without saying anything, I just smile reassuringly. "Trust me."
 

"Okay." Stella takes a deep breath and picks up the red plastic cup she'd set down on the driveway. "I'm ready."

We walk back up the hill and I look around for Blaine, sure I'll find him with Richie, and doubly sure that now is the perfect time for Stella to put our new plan into motion. The party has moved from the courtyard into the house so we drift through the open front door and I still don't see him or Richie or Andrea or even anyone whose name I actually know.

Stella says hi to a few people as we move rhythmically through the living room, kitchen and fancy formal dining area. Some girl I don't recognize stops to talk to me, but I just smile and say hello and move on quickly.

I'm standing in the family room on one of the steps leading upstairs, trying to get a better view of the whole party, when the patio door opens and none other than Blaine walks in, his cheeks bright red and his blonde hair more disheveled than normal.
 

"What the heck happened to you?" I call out from my perch on the stairs. "It looks like you walked through a tornado."
 

He swings his head around until he sees me. The blush on his face deepens, something I haven't thought possible given how much he looks like a fire hydrant already. "It's windy," he says lamely. "And we're on top of a mountain. Plus, one of the planes from the airport flew by."
 

I wrinkle my nose. "We're not anywhere near Sky Harbor."
 

He shakes his head. "The small airport. It's not that far away and Andrea says sometimes they shift the flight plans and they get some jet noise."
 

I'm staring at my boyfriend, not really sure what to make of his explanation or his appearance, when we're interrupted by Stella, who's back at my side with two drinks in hand.
 

"Here." She passes a fresh red cup to me, oblivious to the fact that I'd like to keep questioning my boyfriend about why he looks so weird. She takes a sip and scans the room. The patio door opens again and I'm hoping we've finally found Richie, but some blonde girl I don't recognize wanders inside, adjusting the straps of her tank top. "This party is lame."

I shrug and finally take my eyes off Blaine. "It's Andrea Harris' place. What did you expect?"
 

"Maybe we should go home."
 

I'm about to ask why she doesn't want to practice my tricks on Richie when two girls walk up to us.

"Emma, right?" the blonde from a few minutes earlier asks, and I nod, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, my God, I can't believe you're here!" Her voice shoots up several octaves with each word. "I mean, you're, like, the best volleyball player in the whole town!"
 

I smile. I can't help it. It never sucks to hear someone compliment you, even if you find them irritating. Praise doesn't lose its appeal, even when it comes from a place you don't like.
 

"Thanks," I say. "That's so sweet of you."
 

"I'm just a freshman," she babbles on like I haven't said anything. "And I really want to be as good as you so I can go to college for volleyball, too! How did you do it? Like, can you teach me? I'm free all the time!"
 

"Are you on the team?" I ask, and her face immediately falls.

"Yes," she says, her pale cheeks coloring. "We practice together everyday. But I'm JV."
 

I feel bad for a few seconds even though I know I've never seen this girl before in my life. "Oh, yeah, well, that's probably why," I reply diplomatically.

"Do you coach?" she blurts out. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a small smile start to form on Blaine's face, like he's really enjoying watching me squirm.
 

Not that I'm actually squirming over here. I don't lose my composure. Ever. But it's not like I'm particularly enjoying the direction this conversation has started to take, either.
 

"No," I say nicely but firmly. "I've never done that."
 

"Maybe you could try it with me," she nudges. "I'm Jasmine, by the way!"

"I don't think so." I walk down three steps until I'm on the floor. "It's so flattering that you want me to coach you, though. Good luck. I'll look for you at practice. Nice meeting you, Jasmine."

I turn and walk toward the kitchen before this girl and her friend have a chance to hound me about something else. Stella, I know, will follow me. Blaine appears a minute later with a bottle of Jose Cuervo in his hand.

"Found the Houston's liquor cabinet," he says triumphantly.
 

"It's Harris," I say, but he doesn't hear me.
 

He walks over to the fridge and opens it like he's standing in his own kitchen about to make himself a sandwich. I watch as he roots around in the vegetable drawer and pulls something out.

"What are you doing?"
 

"Limes," he says with a grin, holding up a bag of them. "Come on, Em, can't do tequila shots without a lime."
 

"They're not yours," I point out, but he waves me off with an eye roll.

"So? This is what happens when you have a party," he replies, and I can't really argue with that.
 

Richie walks into the kitchen alone, and I feel Stella stiffen -- and let out a small squeak -- at my side. I lightly step down on her toes, reminding her of what we've just discussed. She elbows me in the side.

"Yo, found the goods," Blaine says, unscrewing the top of the tequila bottle and pouring it into four shot glasses.
 

Richie yanks a knife from the wooden block resting on the countertop and slices up the lime.

"Got salt?" he asks.

Blaine shrugs and starts opening up cabinets and moving around cups and boxes of mashed potatoes and cereal until he finds the Harris' spice rack. Something about watching him root through this family's belongings like he has absolutely no respect for their space kinda bugs me, but I try to push it out of my head.

Besides, he's right. We're at a party. This is what happens when you open up your home to a bunch of people looking for a good time, isn't it?

We gather around the giant island and each pick up a shot and a wedge of lime.
 

The four of us clink our glasses, then down the smooth tequila. I quickly bite into my lime and suck on it; I'm happy if you pass me a margarita, but I've never been great with straight shooting alcohol.

"Ah," Blaine says, slamming his glass down on the counter and wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "One down, this bottle to go."
 

"You're not serious," I tell him.

He laughs. "Together all these years and you can't tell when I'm joking," he says, and I smile.

Blaine pours out four more shots, and even though I want to say no, Stella picks hers up and I know I'll hear about it for the next two weeks if I chicken out now.
 

So I do the only thing I think I can: I toss it back.

"Okay," Stella says, a giggle escaping her lips. "I'm good now. Y'all know me. Two drinks and I hit the floor. I think this -- " She lets out a hiccup in the middle of her sentence and slaps her hand over her mouth. " -- Oops! This is, like, six."
 

"You just need a good scare," Richie tells her, and I watch as the color rushes instantly to her cheeks.
 

She looks right at me and I raise an eyebrow as if to say I-told-you-so.

"Help me?" she asks him. Hiccup.
 

Richie's about to do whatever it is he thinks will scare Stella out of her hiccups when Blaine pushes another full shot glass toward him. He grins and picks it up, letting the alcohol flow down his throat, helping make Stella forgotten as the two guys work to polish off the entire bottle of tequila.

I glare at my boyfriend, wondering how he could be so stupid as to interrupt this potential moment between Stella and Richie, but he either ignores me or doesn't know why I'm looking at him like I want to strangle him.

I sigh as I catch sight of Stella's face; she looks like she could start crying at any second.

"Boom!" Blaine shouts as his glass makes contact with the counter. "Dude, that's awesome."
 

The empty bottle of tequila rests in between the shot glasses, and I shake my head. I've been to enough parties with my boyfriend to know the next few hours are going to be something else.
 

But this time, it doesn't take nearly that long.

The four of us wander back out into the living room to join the rest of the party. Andrea Harris is dancing on top of the coffee table while a crowd hangs out around her, cheering her on.

It's probably the most attention she's ever gotten in her entire life.

Her spotlight doesn't last long.

A giant crash fills the living room, loud enough to be heard over the pounding bass of the music. Whoever's closest to the iPod hits pause as every head in the room swings in our direction.

I look around, too.

That's when I see Blaine, flat on his back on top of a six-foot-tall fake palm tree.

"Dude!" he yells. "Where'd that tree come from?"

And then he dissolves into a fit of giggles as the rest of the party shrugs and returns to the music.

Except for Andrea Harris.

She comes running over, horror written all over her face.

"My mom's tree," she moans. "Oh, God, please let it be okay! That thing is, like, hundreds of dollars. Get off it!"