The Well's End (3 page)

“All right, all right,” Rob says from the floor, where he's been watching the whole thing. “I'll make out with you, Jo—get over here.”

He smiles big and wide and raises his flask. We take a few shots, which I hate but readily admit get the job done more efficiently than beer in a plastic cup. There's a moment, as we all sit together, where Rob slows his sarcasm and Jo actually snorts when she giggles, and I
feel
myself start to enjoy myself and look forward to the night. It happens out of nowhere, magic. Most of the time, I'm trying to find my way out of a situation, but tonight I'm going in, arms open. I wish I could figure out how to harness that magic and use it whenever. But I'll take it for tonight if the universe is offering.

• • •

I consider it a good sign for Jo when Todd Silver opens the door; he's clearly pleased to see her. His eyes catch ahold of me, and his brows go up, but he's not going to complain. I'm an enigma, made fun of, but not a pariah. Baby Mia jokes aside, there's only so much flak you can give the hot girl's friend before the hot girl stops liking you. Jo buffers me with her sheer looks.

Todd's wearing plaid shorts and a sports coat. He's got an abnormally deep voice, which goes beyond sexy to just odd. But he is, undeniably, a hottie. Jo's always had more friends than Rob and me, and at things like this, I often find myself hovering on the edge of a conversation. Do parties work for Jo just because she's so ridiculously perfect? I always joke that I don't know how she gets such amazing diving scores with those breasts. Sometimes I feel like I'm holding her back from some other side of herself. Another life she could be leading. But she never seems to mind or care. I think that's what makes her such a good friend. I wonder what makes me one for her.

Todd ushers us in, keeping a keen eye on Jo. “I wasn't expecting to see you tonight, before the meet and all,” he says, but she's being uncharacteristically awkward around him and is smiling too much. She must be pretty drunk already. I've never felt the need to try to save Jo from a boy situation, but there's a first time for everything.

“Todd,” I say, and he looks at me with reluctance. The music thrums across the room, and with one glance, I take in much of the crew team. “I hear Odessa's trying to do body shots with every boy at Westbrook. True?”

He laughs and winks. “Just had one myself. You're next,” he says to Jo, pinching her arm. She giggles like an idiot.

“I'll try a shot,” Rob offers helpfully. Todd's a tall one, six foot four, and he peers down from his chiseled face at little Rob, wondering who interrupted him. Rob just takes it, radiating indifference, his lips turned the barest centimeter upward. I grab Rob's arm and pull him away.

“Impressive,” Rob says when we get past a few floating groups of our classmates into a spot where we can actually stand and talk. “We made it through the door before she abandoned us.”

“She's not abandoning us, Rob. She
likes
him.”

“Jo likes everyone,” Rob replies. He's not so wrong; taking in the large living room, I can already find three former boyfriends. To think of the things I know about them just from the noises that came from the other side of our room as I went to sleep. There's Vance, with three balls. Trevor, who screams like a girl. Phillip, who gets kinky in Spanish.

“My
fellow
townies!” The line is filled with such self-effacing irony that I can only imagine it coming from Odessa. Rob doesn't even bother sticking around. He mutters something about getting us beers, and I'm left to face the scourge of our hallway. She's sitting on a couch with Rory—smarmy punk Brit—smoking a cigarette. She takes our arrival in quick stride.

Odessa grew up down the street from me. We used to be friends, maybe even best friends. When we found out that we both got into Westbrook, we snuck out after curfew to Baskin-Robbins to celebrate. When we found out our class schedules, we called each other immediately. A couple years ago, during the first days of school, we sat together at lunch. And then, in a shifting slide, her veneer began to change. She's not an awful person. She doesn't put me down or forswear our old friendship. But she plays it a bit like a joke. Like a relic from another age. The thing is, at Westbrook, status really
does
matter. When you're dealing with families who go back generations, whose surnames sit on university gates and products in the supermarket and presidential campaigns, families that send their kids to Westbrook from their own kingdoms of politics . . . let's just say that Westbrook is a petri dish of the national social scene. I can't believe how seriously some of them take it all; I know a few who literally won't speak to me because I'm a townie. Odessa has spent the past two years climbing her way slowly into the richie social stratum. It helps that she's legitimately rich on her own, if newly minted. From the looks of his hand placement, Rory certainly doesn't seem to mind.

“I heard you had another newspaper interview,” he tosses in, his accent making this sound more serious and, therefore, more jackassy. “Another go at extending your fifteen minutes of fame?”

I feel my stomach sink. “You know I don't like to be interviewed, right?” I think back to the reporter and what he said about Dad. He was creepy, sure, but my dad didn't really earn any stars on behavior either. I wonder what Dad's doing right now at the Cave and just how classified whatever he's doing is.

“Oh, come off it,” Odessa drawls, knocking Rory's hand away from her pasty thigh. She's eternally cute and childlike, and no matter how much makeup she applies or tweezing of her red eyebrows she does, her face will only ever remind people of Pippi Longstocking. “Ever since you and I were kids, you were always so smug about those interviews.” Suddenly her face lights up and she jumps from the couch and gives me a hug, her arms not going entirely around my body because of the cigarette. Typical move by her, the insult and hug. Brilliant, actually. I'm forced to awkwardly pat her back. She smells like men's Armani cologne—a new trend for the girls on campus—and nicotine. “Oh, it's been so long. I've missed you, Baby.”

“You too, Odessa—”

“Can I get you a beer, Des?” This from Jimmy, near the fridge, Odessa's on-again, off-again boyfriend. I have no idea what their current status is, but I do know that it's never Jimmy who ends the relationship. Jimmy's the final townie at Westbrook, the lone Latino here too, which should be a double whammy against him from the richies and their sheltered ways. But Jimmy is just too big an alpha male (and comes from too much real estate) to be ignored by the gaggle of wealth at the school, despite his race and Fenton upbringing. Jimmy plays every sport and plays well, but he has this look about him that has people underestimating him left and right. Innocently dumb with short, buzzed hair and a wispy mustache, like a surfer bum in the wrong state.

“Definitely need a beer,” Odessa replies, not really looking at him, which leads me to think they are in off mode. Poor Jimmy. He glances my way, offering me a beer too.

“Um, sure. I love PBR.” I shrug my shoulders and grimace for the barest of instants.
Did I just say I love PBR?

Jimmy pulls a blue-and-red can out of the fridge and tosses it to Odessa, but she totally misses it; the can slaps to the floor and makes an ominous fizzing noise. She inspects it for a moment before handing it off to me, a ticking time bomb. Jimmy laughs and pulls another, opening it himself and delivering it to her. Odessa takes a chug and surveys her party, leaning her weight backward onto Jimmy's chest while she begins a nice little rant to Rory about Mr. McPherson, an English teacher I like. I see Jimmy rest his chin on her head, and I think, not for the first time, that that boy has it bad.

I go into the kitchen and pop the can slowly over the sink, but right when I think I'm in the clear, it spits a mist on my face. Awesome. At least no one saw that. I cut my losses and leave the can in the sink.

“Here.” A boy I have never seen before holds out a paper towel to me. He looks vaguely northeastern. I've seen the style plenty around campus: pale skin and dark hair, lips that fade into the skin and eyebrows that flare out at a point. This one has a small birthmark under his left eye. I take the towel and lean against the counter next to him, wiping my face. He must be someone's older brother come visiting.

“Thanks,” I say, and then we stand there, side by side, taking in the scene. I curse myself for not having anything to say, but all I can think of is that I have nothing to say. He's not really paying any attention to me anyway. I could narrate for him, tell him that over there's my best friend, Jo, and the guy who is nibbling at her neck is Todd, whom I'm going to have to see a lot more of soon, if not tonight. There's Rob, who's watching Rory fiddle with the music and put on Vampire Weekend, a band Rob absolutely hates but I secretly like and feel bad about admitting, so I don't. He makes eye contact with me, finishes off a beer and raises his hands in the air, mouthing
DONE!
And sure enough, he makes his way to the door and out into the hallway. Probably back to his room and his gaming. I wish he spent more time in the real world. I think I said that to him once and pissed him off.

I glance over at the stranger but can only see his profile. His palms are behind him on the counter, as if at any moment he's going to pull himself up and sit, and I can see the veins stand in his forearm and disappear up beyond his black polo. He's wearing a Livestrong bracelet; he must've got it before Lance Armstrong copped to doping. Weird he still has it on, though. Everyone I know threw theirs away.

I wish I had another beer, so that I could at least have something to do.

He glances over at me, then at the beer in the sink behind me and grins. “You okay?”

I nod and magically find something worthy of saying. “Are you visiting?”

He looks around the room, then shakes his head. “Nope. New student. Transferred in this morning.”

Midsemester transfer? His parents must be able to pull some pretty weighty strings. “Yeah? You liking it?”

He makes a face. “I don't know,” he says seriously. “It's weird—I have the exact same friends back home. Like, I know what to expect here, you know?”

“Totally,” I find myself agreeing, without really understanding what I'm agreeing to.

“But I
should
be worried. If I were the new kid back home, I'd be treated horribly. No one would give two shits about me.
I
certainly wouldn't.” He takes a sip of his beer. “I'm waiting for that to start here.”

He's got Westbrook figured out, that's for sure. “I guess day one is a free pass,” I say, trying to be playful.

His eyes catch mine, really taking me in for the first time. He has to flick his thick hair back off his forehead to do so. A small scar whitens along his jaw. “Yeah,” he says, “could be worse.”

I can't tell if I'm flattered or not, but I'll admit the attention is pleasant.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, straightening up, “you're that Baby Mia girl, aren't you?”

I shrug, all pleasantness fading straight away. “I guess so.”

He sees my reaction and winces apologetically. “Ugh, I bet you hear that a lot. Sorry. It's just one of the few things that came up when I Googled Fenton before I came here. There are tons of pictures of you online. Must be annoying.”

It
is
annoying. What teenager likes her yearbook photos splashed on the internet? Why did I wear a bow freshman year?

“If it makes you feel any better,” he goes on, eyeing me, “I think the story is legitimately impressive.” I open my mouth to respond, but then he spots Tiffany Van Stavern across the room and tosses a
one sec
her way. She's wearing a short green tube dress. When she leans forward, I swear I can see her underwear. At least he seems embarrassed when he says, “She invited me. I'll see you around?”

I look down at our feet—he's in Sambas—and he doesn't wait for me to reply. Of course Tiffany had already spotted and managed to get the new kid to the party; her nose job must have given her special powers. I wish I could go interrupt Jo, but she's too far gone, smiling shyly downward and playing with a beaded necklace I made for her last year. Her favorite flirt game with Todd is to punch him in the gut. But the hand she has on his stomach now is playfully rubbing up and down, and I'm almost embarrassed to witness the scene, like I'm a Peeping Tom because I can't find someone else to talk to. I'm stuck by the sink, watching the party go by.

The fridge opens next to me, and there's Rory, pulling out a couple beers and leading me back to the couch he's been perched on. There are others here, people I know, and they're playing quarters or dancing lazily or shouting out the window. There's the new kid, leaning in to speak with Tiffany. Rory's pretty close, his gaze on my cleavage. Disgust rises to my lips. He pokes a hole in the can's side with a key and hands me the beer.

“Chug it,” he commands.

I'm tired of all this and make to leave, but he tips the can and spills beer on me. I'm so annoyed, so angry at this spiky-haired douche that I actually give him what he wants. I know he's just goading me. That he wants to get the boring townie to do something “crazy,” but I can't stand the sneer on his face and the plaque between his teeth. I pull the beer from his hand, pop the top and shotgun it down. Because, fuck you, Rory—I can be just like anyone else when I want to.

The beer tastes like burnt ginger ale and smells worse. Rory watches with openmouthed fascination, which only infuriates me more. I finish the first beer and pull his can to my mouth too. Odessa sees me chugging and literally runs across the room chanting “Ba-by, Ba-by,” which everyone quickly takes up, and I can't help but feel a rush of adrenaline as I finish the beer and throw the can onto the floor. The crowd cheers, and Rory tries to kiss me on my cheek, his breath hot and rancid, and I have to press hard to push him away. He tosses his shoulders and smirks like,
whatever—you missed your chance.
For one disturbing second, I imagine my life as Rory's girlfriend, cheering him on at rowing competitions and wearing his button-down shirts. Todd could stay at Jo's and I at Rory's, and we'd double-date everywhere, and that wouldn't be so bad.