What Happens Next (3 page)

Around five, it starts getting darker, and I can no longer avoid the fact that I am, indeed, not on a dream vacation with Dax Windsor, Sexiest Man Alive, but on a ski trip with my stupid high school. I need to check in or they’ll send the fun-sucking PTA mom-patrol out hunting for me.

Dax makes me promise again to come to his party the next night. He gives me a sweet little peck on the cheek—quick, like he’s almost embarrassed—and then he skis away, saying, “Nine o’clock. Remember, I know where you live!”

I text the girls and head back to the condo.

3

It’s Saturday evening,
and despite my best efforts, I have had zero luck talking Kirsten and Paige into sneaking out with me for the party. I tried to enjoy the day skiing with them, suffered through black-diamond runs, and nearly broke every bone in my body to get on their good sides. I kept looking for Dax on the slopes, thinking that maybe if the girls actually met him, he could charm them into coming. But it’s a big resort, and if you don’t know where to look, it’s impossible to find someone.

It’s dinnertime and I have severe butterflies. I can barely eat. This is a shame, because the buffet in the main lodge looks and smells like some kind of cinematic food mirage: a sprawling wonderland of animal-shaped breads; a three-tiered fountain of rippling chocolate; a team of smiling, puffy-hatted chef-people carving up juicy slabs of roast beef; and smack dab in the middle of everything is a revolving ice sculpture of a giant Yeti on skis. It’s a culinary opus, indeed.

Yet none of it appeals to me. I load up my plate and pick, pick, pick, pretending to be interested in Kirsten and Paige’s conversation about some boys we go to school with who are staying in another condo, but all I can think about is Dax and the party. I push the food around on my plate and think about how blue his eyes are. After a while, a roll of bread shaped like a headless bear comes waddling onto my plate.

“Hello there, Sid. Have you seen my head? It was just here a minute ago…”

Kirsten is trying to make me laugh. I force a smile.

“All right, seriously,” she says, irritated, tossing the headless bear onto her plate. “You said he goes to college in New York. So let’s just forget for a moment that Mr. Perfect lives two states away. I mean, you don’t even know the guy. Plus, he’s old. He’s probably married with, like, fifty kids.”

“He’s not old-old,” I say. “He’s in college. And please, like you should talk. Uh… Patrick Callahan?”

“Right. I hooked up with Pat when he’d just graduated and I was a sophomore. He’s two years older and I’ve known him since elementary school. Your college man is a total stranger. I mean, you look older than sixteen, I’ll give you that, but you’re still just sixteen. Your mom’s cool, but she’s not that cool.”

Paige comes walking back from one of her numerous trips up to the five-star feeding trough. She has a tapeworm, I swear. Also, she doesn’t like a messy plate, so she only picks out about two or three items at a time. All her food is sectioned off into neat symmetrical piles on her plate. As she sits down, she catches only the last bit of conversation but instantly knows what we’re talking about. She shakes out her napkin and lays it gently on her lap.

“She’s right, Sid. Sorry. A college guy? Katherine would freak.”

“Uh, yah. And I mean completely out,” Kirsten adds, piercing a grape tomato with her fork and sliding it into her mouth.

I hate to admit it, but they’re right. My mom might let me date a college freshman, but Dax looks older than that. Twenty at least. But I don’t care. And… well… maybe he’s not in his twenties. Maybe he’s like me. Maybe he just looks older than he really is. Kirsten spreads some butter onto her headless bear and keeps on talking.

“There are a ton of guys here from school. Go for Rafe Summers or Joey Thacker. Both are single and conveniently still in high school.”

I glare at her.

“Oh, yes, that’s it, Rafe Summers and Joey Thacker. I’ll just call them right up.” I reach dramatically into the coat hanging on the back of my chair and pull out my cell. I start banging away at random numbers, concentrating extra hard.

“What’s old Rafey’s number again? Oh, hello there! Is this Rafe Summers? The guy who pushed me off the slide in fourth grade? Split both my knees open?”

I punch in some more numbers. “Joey! Baby! Cassidy Murphy. You know,
Sid
. The girl you called the Amazon Leprechaun every day of middle school?”

I shoot Kirsten the dirty eyeball. “… Along with every awful name he and his friends could think up that contained the word
tit
.”

I slam the phone down on the table. “Yes, let me just give them a shout. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to hear from Tits McGee, or Murphy McTitties, or Siddy-Siddy-Big-Fat-Titty.”

Paige starts choking on her applesauce, trying not to laugh.

“Oh, please, that was ages ago,” Kirsten argues, also trying not to laugh. “And they gave you shit back then because none of them had ever seen an actual live girl-boob yet. And everyone knows redheads are sitting ducks when they’re young. But when guys grow up, they think redheads are hot. Especially ones with big racks.”

“Thank you, Miss Beauty 101,” I say, settling back into my chair and folding my arms over my ample chest. Then I gesture toward her with my hand. “Oh, please. Do go on. I’m learning so many new and insightful things about myself.”

“Sorry, but she’s got a point,” Paige says. “You know we love your crazy red hair, but a redheaded middle schooler with big boobs? Might as well have a target tattooed on your forehead. And since your hair is curly, you were triple-screwed.” Then she shrugs. “But guys grow out of that stuff. Eventually, they learn to appreciate the rarer breeds—girls who look different from everyone else.”

I’m seriously going to knock their heads together. It’s like they’ve ripped a page from my mother’s Puberty Pep Talk Manual and are reading it word for word. Katherine would be so proud. I sigh and look down at my food while they continue to diagnose my sickly excuse of a love life. The puddle of gravy in my volcano of mashed potatoes is starting to form a skin.

“Also,” Paige says, “I think it was because you were taller than every boy in the state of Ohio. It made them feel like you could beat them up or something. Emasculating. That means—”

“I know what it means!”

“Anyway, they’ve caught up with you now.” Then she pauses, scrunches her nose a little. “Well, Rafe has, anyway.”

That’s it, I’ve heard enough. I stab my fork into a piece of prime rib, pick up my knife, and start sawing at it like it’s a fallen tree branch.

Kirsten gives me a teasing shove to the head. “Come on, lighten up already.”

I shove the beef into my mouth and carry on talking with my mouth full. I don’t care if it’s piggish. No boys here like me anyway.

“Height, boobs, hair? Those are the least of my worries,” I say, pointing my fork toward my backside. “Presently, it’s the ass that’s the problem. No teenage boy wants to date a girl with a fatter ass than his.”

“Hold on, girlie. You are not fat,” Paige says. “You’re voluptuous. Stacked. I mean, if you’re fat, then Scarlett Johansson’s a beast. Yeah, you’re built big, but in a good way. Hourglassy. Like a fifties pinup girl or that plus-size girl who placed third in
America’s Next Top Model
. Oh! Or that chick with the blue hair on
Dark Realms
. She’s totally hot.”

I look at her like she’s crazy. “Who?”

She stutters, “You know, on, um, Syfy. Velandra, I think her name is? Or Selandra… something like that. You have her eyes, come to think of it. Big, green, witchy Medusa eyes. Only
her
eyes have the power to bewilder. She can stun you into a life of endless stupidity with just one—” She stops, stumbles, and starts walking it back.

“—I mean, I’ve only seen it once or twice while babysitting the Newman kids. They’re really into it.” And suddenly, she has become deeply interested in removing the lip gloss smudge on her water glass.

I smile.

“Uh-huh. Just blew your cover, gamer girl,” I say.

“For like the millionth time,” Kirsten adds, laughing.

“I’m not a gamer!” Paige barks.

“Please, gamer,” I say. “Come out of your gamer closet already. Coast is clear. Nobody cares.”

“Oh, I can name two people who’d care,” Kirsten says. “Judge and Delores might call in an exorcist if they found her stash of fantasy novels. They’d chain her to the bed and chant,
Out, demons! I compel you!
until her head started spinning.”

I can’t help laughing. It’s true; Paige’s parents think fantasy novels and role-playing games are some kind of gateway to devil worship. Like pretending you’re a wizard or fairy will turn you crazy in the head, and after too much exposure you’ll be drinking your own blood and stabbing cats with jeweled daggers. They think Halloween is the devil’s birthday and don’t have cable for fear of the fantastical creatures that might come charging out of the TV screen—vampires, witches, clairvoyant teens who commune with the dead. Even superheroes and talking Disney animals are suspect.

Paige’s eyes flatten into a glare. Her jaw tightens and she lets out a dramatic, irritated nose-sigh. She’s trying to appear mad, but she knows that exorcist comment was funny. She’ll laugh about it later.

I pat Paige on the knee and try to get her to break. With a wicked grin I whisper, “Don’t worry, gamer girl, your secret’s safe with us.”

“Oooh, burn,” Kirsten says, diving into a big bite of potatoes and laughing even harder.

Paige wipes her mouth in a huff, crumples her napkin, and throws it on the table.

She leans toward Kirsten. “I’m sorry, but how did we start talking about this, again? Oh, I remember. We were talking about Sid’s unique ability to repel even the most idiotic of teenage boys.”

Kirsten slaps the table. “Oooh, double burn. Good one, P.”

“Yeah,” I say, tearing a piece of bread off with my teeth. “But then we switched topics to your unique ability to attract half-orc magic users.”

Paige’s eyes narrow even more; she’s starting to get mad for real. And I’m starting to get vicious for real. But I can’t help it—it makes me feel better, pointing out someone else’s freakishness.

“Okay, let’s not fight,” Kirsten says. “We’re all friends here, remember?”

We sit and sulk for a minute. Finally, I speak.

“Sorry, runt,” I mumble. “You know I love ya. Even if you’re a closet gamer.”

“Me too,” she mumbles back. “Even if you’re a Siddy-Siddy-

Big-Fat-Titty.”

We all start laughing and I eventually have to cover up my big, obnoxious mouth with my hand. It’s pretty fancy in here, and our classmates at other tables are shooting me dirty looks.

“Okay. Seriously, let’s think,” Kirsten says. “Who do we know who is a) available or b) willing to cheat on and then dump their girlfriend for Sid?”

“Uh, nobody. Trust me,” I say, picking up my water goblet and taking a swig. “I’ve scoured the yearbook quite thoroughly.”

And that’s the suck-ass truth of it. The only males who have ever shown interest in me were and are, like Dax Windsor, older. A problem since age eleven. Yes, you heard me, eleven. The summer I turned eleven, I was attacked by mutant hormones. They invaded my body and sent all the baby fat in my belly, limbs, and face screaming directly into my boobs, hips, and ass. I filled out so fast, I actually got stretch marks. The boys my own age either dove for cover or sat around thinking up funny tit names to call me. But I’d get all kinds of lusty looks from older guys—teachers, coaches, neighbors, old farts in grocery stores. As if the height and hair weren’t enough? It was humiliating shopping for a C cup in the sixth grade, and then a double D by eighth.

Kirsten finally gets it that I’m stuck on Dax and won’t be moving an inch toward her line of thinking.

“All right, if you’re so crazy about this Dexter guy—”

“Dax!”

“Dax… then why didn’t you get his cell number? That way you could’ve met up with him today instead of sneaking out after curfew.”

“Because his cell won’t pick up a signal here so he didn’t bother bringing it.” I pick my cell up and wave it around. “We’re in the mountains, Kirsten. I’m working off one bar over here, two if I stand on one leg and hold it over my head. Your cell shits out every time you try to call home. So if I don’t show up tonight, Dax Windsor is nothing more than a distant memory. I’ll never see him again.”

“Well, you can Facebook him when you get home,” she says, digging into her mashed potatoes with finality. “Because no way are you going to some frat party after curfew alone. I’ll hog-tie you and sit on you all night if I have to.”

Screw it, I give up. They aren’t going and I’m too chicken to go alone, so that’s the end of it. I push my plate away, get up, and skulk over to the dessert bar. I start piling it on higher than Snow Ridge Mountain.

Dinner ends and everyone goes back to the condos. After a while, Cougar Di becomes so engrossed in gossiping with her daughter’s friends and playing the role of Cool Mom that she is completely unaware of the illegal behavior going on around her—oblivious to the cooler of beer hidden in the woods out back and the fact that couples are making out in every corner of the house.