not dance to Madonna? At one point we’re all voguing away and I spot a clump of varsity jackets across the room. It’s like they called one another beforehand: “OK, guys, we’re wearing our letterman jackets, right? With jeans? And—”
Oh, God.
Matt Rigby is looking at me.
I see that he’s indulged in the hair products tonight. Sweet.
His eyes are locked on mine, and I am still voguing. I know I must look like a moron, since my hands are busy forming geometric shapes in the air around my head, but I would look even more moronic if I stopped. So I keep right on going. On principle.
I can see a little smile tugging at the corner of Matt Rigby’s mouth, and I can feel myself start to smile back, and this time I don’t even try to stop it from happening. Because maybe Liv is right. Maybe what I need to do is loosen up and let fate take its course. Maybe this seven-month “thing” between us really is meant to—
Well. Just shoot me now.
There she is: the redheaded cheerleader. Hanging on to Matt’s arm like she owns him, whispering in his ear.
I feel sick. I haven’t had a single drink, and already I want to throw up.
I turn around to grab Liv, but she’s not on the dance floor. She’s not even in the room.
How does a person just disappear at a party? That’s my question. I’ve searched everywhere, even the bedrooms, which of course are full of random, punch-infused hookups, and, which, come to think of it, I don’t know why I bothered checking. A) Liv never has more than one drink, and B) not in a million years would she deign to hook up with a high-school guy.
But I need to find her, and that means looking everywhere.
I head outside. On the back lawn a bunch of guys are playing soccer in the dark, and they’re killing themselves laughing because they keep falling down.
“Hey,” I call out. “Have you guys seen Liv?”
“Who?” someone calls back.
“Olivia! Weiss-Longo!”
“She’s hot!” another guy yells.
Someone wolf whistles, and I’m about to yell something else, but a hand has just grabbed mine.
I know, even before I turn around. Matt Rigby has the warmest hands.
“Hey,” he says low.
Every hair on my neck stands at attention.
“Did you check your cell?” he asks.
“What?”
“Check your cell. Maybe she texted you.”
“Why would she? . . . Fine.” I try to yank my hand back, but he just holds on tighter. I have to reach into my pocket from the opposite side, which is annoying, but then I flip open my phone and there it is:
J, wnt 4 ride. Wll xplain L8r. B bck 11:29. Hv fn 2nite!!! xo, L
I stand there, staring at the message.
“Everything OK?”
I don’t know if it is, but I nod and slip the phone back in my pocket.
“Hey.” Matt Rigby steers my elbow to turn me around, and I let him.
“Hey what?” I say.
We’re facing each other now, and he’s holding both my hands in his, and they are so warm. Then there’s the smell of him—part beer, part deodorant, part I don’t know what . . . leaves? For a moment, all I want to do is breathe.
“Why are you avoiding me?” he asks.
“I’m not avoiding you.”
“Every time I see you, you run the other way.”
“No I don’t.”
My eyes have adjusted to the dark now, and I can see him smile. “Come on. Admit it.”
“Every time I see you , you’ve got your own personal cheering section.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Wait—Tessa?”
“I don’t know, Matt. Is that her name? I can’t seem to keep track of your girlfriends.”
He laughs, as though I’ve just told the cleverest of jokes.
“I’m glad you think this is funny,” I say.
“Tessa’s not my girlfriend,” he says. “She’s just a friend. For the record.”
“Ah,” I say, nodding. “You guys must have one of those ‘agreements’ you’re so fond of.” I can hear the snottiness of my tone, and I hate it, but I can’t help myself.
Riggs is silent for a moment. Then he says, “I knew it.”
“What?”
He
Oh, God.
Matt Rigby is looking at me.
I see that he’s indulged in the hair products tonight. Sweet.
His eyes are locked on mine, and I am still voguing. I know I must look like a moron, since my hands are busy forming geometric shapes in the air around my head, but I would look even more moronic if I stopped. So I keep right on going. On principle.
I can see a little smile tugging at the corner of Matt Rigby’s mouth, and I can feel myself start to smile back, and this time I don’t even try to stop it from happening. Because maybe Liv is right. Maybe what I need to do is loosen up and let fate take its course. Maybe this seven-month “thing” between us really is meant to—
Well. Just shoot me now.
There she is: the redheaded cheerleader. Hanging on to Matt’s arm like she owns him, whispering in his ear.
I feel sick. I haven’t had a single drink, and already I want to throw up.
I turn around to grab Liv, but she’s not on the dance floor. She’s not even in the room.
How does a person just disappear at a party? That’s my question. I’ve searched everywhere, even the bedrooms, which of course are full of random, punch-infused hookups, and, which, come to think of it, I don’t know why I bothered checking. A) Liv never has more than one drink, and B) not in a million years would she deign to hook up with a high-school guy.
But I need to find her, and that means looking everywhere.
I head outside. On the back lawn a bunch of guys are playing soccer in the dark, and they’re killing themselves laughing because they keep falling down.
“Hey,” I call out. “Have you guys seen Liv?”
“Who?” someone calls back.
“Olivia! Weiss-Longo!”
“She’s hot!” another guy yells.
Someone wolf whistles, and I’m about to yell something else, but a hand has just grabbed mine.
I know, even before I turn around. Matt Rigby has the warmest hands.
“Hey,” he says low.
Every hair on my neck stands at attention.
“Did you check your cell?” he asks.
“What?”
“Check your cell. Maybe she texted you.”
“Why would she? . . . Fine.” I try to yank my hand back, but he just holds on tighter. I have to reach into my pocket from the opposite side, which is annoying, but then I flip open my phone and there it is:
J, wnt 4 ride. Wll xplain L8r. B bck 11:29. Hv fn 2nite!!! xo, L
I stand there, staring at the message.
“Everything OK?”
I don’t know if it is, but I nod and slip the phone back in my pocket.
“Hey.” Matt Rigby steers my elbow to turn me around, and I let him.
“Hey what?” I say.
We’re facing each other now, and he’s holding both my hands in his, and they are so warm. Then there’s the smell of him—part beer, part deodorant, part I don’t know what . . . leaves? For a moment, all I want to do is breathe.
“Why are you avoiding me?” he asks.
“I’m not avoiding you.”
“Every time I see you, you run the other way.”
“No I don’t.”
My eyes have adjusted to the dark now, and I can see him smile. “Come on. Admit it.”
“Every time I see you , you’ve got your own personal cheering section.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Wait—Tessa?”
“I don’t know, Matt. Is that her name? I can’t seem to keep track of your girlfriends.”
He laughs, as though I’ve just told the cleverest of jokes.
“I’m glad you think this is funny,” I say.
“Tessa’s not my girlfriend,” he says. “She’s just a friend. For the record.”
“Ah,” I say, nodding. “You guys must have one of those ‘agreements’ you’re so fond of.” I can hear the snottiness of my tone, and I hate it, but I can’t help myself.
Riggs is silent for a moment. Then he says, “I knew it.”
“What?”
He
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