Meant to Be (6 page)

“Let’s get some drinks,” he says.

Oh yes! Let’s! Because sneaking out isn’t bad enough, so let’s get drunk, too!
Jason’s already moving through the crowd, about to disappear behind a girl who looks like a praying mantis in leather pants. I hurry after him, because my desire not to be alone is overshadowing my desire to be on good behavior. I guess I’ve already screwed up the “good behavior” thing, anyway.

We make our way across the front room and into the kitchen. From a cabinet Jason procures two glasses, each of which looks like it cost more than my plane ticket. The marble-topped island in the kitchen is covered with various bottles and mixers. Jason splashes liquid from a few different bottles into the glasses, then hands one to me. As soon as the glass is in my hand, I tip it back and take a big gulp. I don’t even ever
drink
alcohol, but it’s as though my hand works automatically, bringing the glass to my mouth before my mind has time to be like,
What are you
doing
?
Coach Haas would kill me if he knew I was drinking during swim season.

Instantly, I feel like someone threw a match down my throat. As much as I want to be cool right now, my body takes over.

“Ugh,” I grunt, my face contorting into a tight pinch from the shock.

“Uh, cheers,” he says, laughing. “Too strong?”

“No, it’s fine,” I say, taking another (more careful) sip, wondering if the expression “when in Rome” applies to London, too. This sip burns less, but it still tastes like lighter fluid, despite Jason’s having mixed in a good amount of lemonade. I’m sure he can tell from all the wincing that I’m in virgin territory here. What can I say? My mom is of the classic suburban-protective variety, and as I’ve made abundantly clear, I’m not much for rule breaking. But now that I’m at a party
—
a
London
party
—
full of strangers, it’s like there’s a whole new handbook of rules. I wonder if I can get a copy.

“First drink, Book Licker?”

“It’s Julia,” I reply, “and no.” It’s not a
total
lie. Gramma Lichtenstein
always gives me a sip of her syrupy-sweet port at Christmas. That counts, right?

“Whatever you say,” he says, shaking his head and taking a sip from his own glass. “Listen, I mixed that drink light, but you still need to go easy.” I’d like to pretend he’s genuinely trying to protect me from alcoholic embarrassment and/or danger, but I suspect he’s making fun of me.

“Yeah, thanks,” I say, but Jason’s already walking away. I guess those were his parting words of wisdom, because five seconds later I spot him in the corner of the kitchen, already chatting up a gorgeous Brit girl who manages to make her punky neon-pink highlights look glamorous. Great. Now I’m at a party, surrounded by strangers, in a skirt that’s too short, and I’m all by myself. I’m like a walking after-school special. I pull my glass closer to my chest to shield it from wandering roofies and date rapists.

“Well, hello there,” says a high-pitched, distinctly American voice, and as I turn toward the figure that has sidled up next to me, I come face to chest with a very tall guy. A quick look up reveals perhaps the gawkiest of gawky boys, hair gelled within an inch of its life, wire-rimmed glasses perched atop an acne-covered nose. (I’m not mean! I’m descriptive!)

“Um, hi,” I reply, already scanning the room to plot an escape.

“Lame party, huh?” he asks, resting an elbow on the counter and leaning into my personal space. “I’ve been to way better at the embassy.”

“The embassy?” I ask, instantly regretting my curiosity, as I have now entered this conversation as a willing participant.

“A fellow American!” he says when he hears my accent. “Yeah, my dad’s a diplomat. I’ve met basically everyone
—
everyone who matters, I mean. And I’ve lived all over the place.”

Oh God, unattractive
and
pompous. A winning combination. My inner control panel is screaming
ABORT! ABORT!

“That’s really great,” I say, continuing to formulate my escape route.

“It totally is,” he says, oblivious to my desperation. He actually thinks I’m charmed by his ridiculous boasting. “I mean, I’m only sixteen and I’ve got three senators willing to write me recommendations to Harvard. Or Yale—I’m not sure which I’m going to choose yet. We’ll see who offers me the sweetest package.”

“Wow. That’s … wow,” I reply, choking back what I’m really thinking, which includes the phrases “shove it” and “butt munch.” I toss back my glass and manage to mask my disgust for the drink and the company in one fell swoop.

“Can I get you another drink?” he asks.

“Oh absolutely,” I reply, thrusting my glass into his hand. As he turns to fill it with who knows what, I dash through the nearest exit and down the hall. I duck into an open door, hoping it’s a bathroom, but instead find myself in what appears to be a study. The walls are lined with leather-bound books and partygoers. A giant mahogany desk dominates the center of the room. If it weren’t for the thudding bass and all the raging hormones in the air, I’d feel right at home. I plop down on an overstuffed, shiny leather couch and find myself sitting next to another male partygoer. He’s wearing a rumpled oxford shirt and an even more wrinkled blazer. A gold crest on the lapel gives him away as a prep school boy. He’s nursing a cut glass tumbler of some kind of brown liquor, which gives him away as a
drunken
prep school boy. His drink smells so strong I fear it will singe my nose hairs, and the smell gets stronger as he drapes his heavy, drunken arm over my shoulder and turns his face to mine.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” he slurs.

What I am thinking about is the weight of the tiny book in my purse, and how I should be immersed in a hot bath right now, thumbing through its well-worn, highlighted pages. Not even one day as Jason’s buddy, and already my worst fears have come true. Instead of a bath, I find myself in some kind of live-action video game nightmare, where the
object is to shoot down as many drunk, irritating teen boys as possible. Is this what all parties are like? Because if so, I obviously haven’t been missing out on much. The book is just pulsing there in my bag, taunting me for my stupid decision to come here.

“As You Like It,”
I blurt out, instantly regretting the words.

“What?”

I can feel the splotches of anxiety creeping onto my face. “Um, yeah, it’s a play. And there’s this girl, Rosalind,” I start, going with it, as if this guy is in any mood for a literature lecture.

And clearly he’s not, because he pulls me closer and says, “Listen, Rosalind, wanna go upstairs?”

“Um, no.
I’m
not Rosalind,” I say, wrenching away from his embrace. “Rosalind is from
As You Like It
.”

“I
do
like it,” he replies, shooting me a lecherous smile. “Let’s go.” He grabs my hand and starts to pull me from the couch, but my nerves have made my hands clammy with sweat. As he leans his body backward to haul me off the couch, his hand slips right out of mine. He stumbles back a few steps, pauses, wobbles, and then stumbles back a few more. One more step, and the back of his knee makes contact with the wide glass coffee table behind him. He is entirely too drunk to catch himself, or even protest. In fact, he seems only awake enough to enjoy the fall. That is, until his butt makes contact with the sheet of glass beneath him.

The crash is deafening. It can be heard well over DJ Rock the Mic and the din of fifty-plus chatting, laughing partiers. The entire party goes silent as every eye whips toward the pile of glass and the drunken boy in the middle of the room.

I’m the first to get my wits about me (probably because I’m the soberest one in the crowd), and I quickly jump up to help get him off the ground. He looks miraculously unscathed but is unlikely to stay that way if he starts stumbling around in a pile of glass shards.

“What in the bloody hell?” screeches a tall blonde, teetering into
the study on giant stilettos that make my strappy sandals look like baby booties. From the look of horror on her face, I gather she must be the hostess of this fiesta.

Shockingly, the first person to speak is Drunky McDrunk, who mumbles from the floor something about Rosalind coming upstairs with him. He points a droopy finger my way.

“My name’s not
—
” I say, but I’m quickly cut off.

“Ugh, whatever,” she says, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him straight up. I’m surprised by her strength in heels, but maybe the adrenaline from an actual party crash is fueling her. Unfortunately, she turns that superhuman strength toward me. “Listen, Rosalind, Gabe’s an arse and I don’t blame you for launching him into inanimate objects. Just remember that there’s a lot of priceless crap around here, so watch where you chuck him, right?”

She then turns on her heel, her blond hair whipping with such force I nearly duck, and drags Gabe toward the door. I’m left standing amid the glass shards while the party continues around me. Apparently, the show is over, and no one much cares that there’s a shattered table left behind.

A tall, dark figure who looks like he stepped out of an Armani ad breezes past me. “Hot name,” he says, leaving a trail of some strong-smelling cologne in his wake.

“I’m not …,” I start again, quieter this time, but there’s no point. Armani is gone.

That’s when it hits me: I
could
be Rosalind. I could be
anyone
. Nobody seems to know the difference between Julia the rule-following, Shakespeare-reading, freestyle record—holding übernerd from Newton, Massachusetts, and Julia the girl who attracts all males of the species, who coolly disposes of boys by shoving them into glass-topped tables. I could be someone cooler, more confident, just for tonight, just for this party. I can be the über-Julia. The Julia who says witty things and drinks and has boys, sober or otherwise, hanging on her every word.

I’m imagining myself in a circle of guys, a veritable buffet table of sexy hair and accents, when someone stumbles into me.

“Oh jeez. So sorry. I swear, I’m quite the klutz, falling into lovely girls in the hallway,” says a very handsome sandy-haired Brit. “Though not as klutzy as poor Gabe, apparently. I saw what happened in there. Nice deflection. I’m Avery. Rosalind, was it?”

“Actually, it’s Julia,” I say. Between Jason, always calling me Book Licker, and Gabe the town drunk, I’ve had enough of people mistaking my name, thankyouverymuch.

“Ah, Julia, then,” he says, taking a sip of beer. His blond hair is starting to fall over his eyes. He reminds me a little bit of Mark, which sets my mind drifting to Phoebe’s text message, wondering what the “Mark news” could be.

Avery does one of those casual hair flips that boys do, saying, “That was a pretty crazy scene in there. You didn’t cut yourself, did you?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” I reply. “No big deal. He just came on a bit too strong is all.”

“Gabe’s an arse,” he says. “But at least you can defend yourself.”

“Oh, I’m ready for battle at a moment’s notice.” I flex my bicep, which I realize is shockingly defined from my regimen of laps and push-ups. I let my arm drop awkwardly before he mistakes me for some kind of she-hulk and runs away.

“So you’re single, then?” he asks, his dark brown eyes looking at me expectantly.

“What?” I shift in my heels, trying to dislodge one of the leather straps from my pinkie toe while I attempt to untangle the rather abrupt change of conversational direction.

“I mean, if you don’t need defending,” he says, a little bit of red creeping into his cheeks, but on him it only gives that ruddy, athletic look of a rugby player. “I mean, er, well, I meant you don’t have someone to defend you. I guess. Well, that made very little sense. I was trying
to be sly and find out if you had a boyfriend, but that was the opposite of sly, eh?”

My mind is experiencing a thousand mini explosions. I have an Abercrombie ad standing in front of me, and he’s nervous.
Talking to me
. I try to be calm, but my hands flutter from my hair to my skirt to my purse. I take a deep breath, rest my hand on my hip, and get control of myself.

“No worries,” I reply coolly.
(Coolly?)
“I do have a boyfriend, actually, but he’s back in the States. Hence the self-defense.” The lie comes effortlessly. I’ll have to thank Phoebe for dragging me to that week of drama camp at the community rec center.

Shockingly, he looks
disappointed
. But he continues with questions. “So you’re from America, then?”

“You couldn’t tell from the accent?”

“First impressions often lie,” he says. (Oh, if only he knew …) “Where in the States?”

“Boston,” I reply, which sounds much more cosmopolitan than Newton, a suburb of Boston that is basically the most boring place you can live and still see the skyline. But somehow even Boston doesn’t seem to fit, so I go on. “But I’m living in Manhattan right now.”

“Wow,” he says, taking another sip of his beer. “I’ve always wanted to go to New York. What do you do there?”

For a second my mind goes blank; I’m not sure which is more distracting: his gorgeous accent or his chiseled jawline. Then I remember the giraffe-like girls at the baggage claim, their coffee and their rolling bags and their shiny sedans. I remember the beauty Jason was chatting up at the curb. “Modeling,” I blurt out, rising up on my four-inch heels in hopes that he won’t notice that I’m more suited to join the Lollipop Guild than the cast of
America’s Next Top Model
. He appears to be buzzed enough to buy it, so I go on. “I’ve got a place downtown. I live with some of the other girls.”

“That’s awesome,” he says, his eyes growing wide. I see him clutch his glass tighter. “Is that why you’re in London?”

“Oh yeah,” I say, studying my nails. “I’m here for fashion week and doing a little print work.” Print work? Where the hell did I come up with that one? The lies have rolled off my tongue effortlessly, and I can already picture Mark in the role of my handsome American boyfriend who is oh so supportive of my modeling career but still misses me desperately when I travel. Avery hands me a heavy beer bottle, which makes my storytelling even more vivid. I’m talking about a
Vogue
spread when he pulls out his phone and asks me for my number. Old Julia screams in my head,
This isn’t an emergency!
But über-Julia knows better. What could it hurt, really? He hardly seems like a sex offender, what with the stumbling and mumbling. Plus he’s deliciously cute, and I’m not actually planning to
answer
his calls—if he calls at all. So I tell dorky Book Licker to shut it while über-Julia takes his iPhone out of his hand and taps my school-issued cell number into the shiny screen. Dad’s jersey number. Shakespeare’s birthday. My GPA. Done and done. I hand the phone back to him, letting my fingers linger on his palm for just a second.