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I wondered how he’d feel if I told him I wanted engine grease on my hands instead of Super Bowl rings. Or that I was still thinking about that “weird rich fucker” who might show up to his party.
“Gotta go,” I said and turned away.
“See you at practice?” Chance called after.
I sighed. “I’ll be there.”
After practice on Saturday, I spent the afternoon helping Chance set up for the party. Mr. and Mrs. Blaylock were out of town, visiting Chance’s older brother at Auburn.
“I don’t know why they don’t lock you in a cage every time they leave the house,” I said as Chance raided his dad’s liquor cabinet, on top of the keg we’d bought with his older cousin’s help. “You’d think they’d have learned their lesson after the last rager.”
Chance grinned and carried three bottles of liquor from the living room to the spacious kitchen. “Because they know that kings of the school—especially seniors—are going to live it up. So long as I don’t do major damage to the house or furniture, they’re cool.”
He emptied a bottle of vodka into his mother’s Waterford crystal punch bowl.
“My dad would have a shit,” I said, unwrapping a stack of red Solo cups from the plastic.
Not that I could have a party at my place now, even if I wanted to. I didn’t want to be at this party. It all seemed so pointless. Get wasted to terrible music and talk about unimportant crap as if it were life and death. Real life and death shit was happening in my own home.
I dipped a Solo cup into the bowl of Chance’s infamous party punch: one-part cherry Kool-Aid, one-part Mt. Dew, one can of Red Bull, and a zillion parts cheap-ass vodka.
“Jesus Christ…” I croaked as the sip burned a path down my throat.
“Red Bull is the secret ingredient,” Chance said, grinning proudly. “Gives it that extra kick.”
“It tastes like carbonated ass.”
“Sixty percent of the time, it works every time.”
We laughed at the quote from Anchorman, Chance’s all-time favorite movie, and I felt a little lighter. Or maybe that was the booze. I switched to beer as we finished the set-up and students began trickling in.
But as with all parties, I blinked and suddenly the huge house was packed with bodies that shout-talked, laughed, or danced to the thrumming, base-pounding music from Mr. Blaylock’s state-of- the-art sound system.
Donte, Isaiah, and the rest of the team arrived, and I stood in the center of my group as conversations were s
houted at me from all directions. I added a comment here and there but found my eyes scanning the faces of people who flowed in and out of the kitchen to fill up their cups from the keg or the punchbowl.
Donte nudged my arm. “You looking for someone special?”
I blinked. “What?”
“You look like you’re on a date and afraid of being stood up.”
“Oh, nah,” I said quickly. “Violet, I guess. She’s supposed to be here with Evelyn.”
“Oh yeah? You going to ask her to Homecoming? Make it official?”
I shrugged, took a sip of beer. “We’ll see.”
Donte laughed. “Always Mr. Cool. Well, look no further ‘cause here’s your girl now.”
My girl, I thought. It sounded strange even in my head. Like a foreign language.
Violet came in with Evelyn, wearing a skin-tight dress that highlighted her every curve. Her hair fell around her shoulders in silky black waves, and her deep blue eyes scanned the crowded kitchen nervously.
She was beautiful. Stunning, even. And was going to make a great Patient Care Volunteer; Mom said her first visit with Violet the day before went well and that she was a smart, sweet girl with a heart of gold. Only a fool wouldn’t try to earn Violet’s love and respect. And yet, my gaze kept wandering. Searching…
“Hey, boys,” Evelyn announced to my group in the kitchen. “This is Violet’s first house party.” She looked to me pointedly. “Be gentle.”
