The Music of What Happens - Bill Konigsberg Page 0,60

can get into BS West with my fake ID, there’s all these dudes there giving me shade, acting like their shit don’t stink. I don’t have the time for that.

I tell Rosa I’m off to Betts’s place for some Madden, and she’s busy reading Isabel Allende’s The Japanese Lover and tells me to have mercy on those other boys. I walk out with thrilling shivers dotting my arms and legs. I’ve never lied to Rosa before about something this big. I’ve never had to, and I’m not even sure I have to now, but it feels like it adds to the excitement to make this a Max-only adventure.

The party is out of control by the time I arrive at ten. Shirtless dudes running around with Super Soakers and thump-y music blaring and girls dancing up on each other in tight tops and skimpy bottoms. I can smell the alcohol as I walk in, and part of me wants to turn right around because I’ve never walked into a party alone before. Always had my boys there, even with BS West, which Betts dug because he could mack on the straight girls hanging with their gay buddies, and they were all like, No thank you, please. It was pretty funny.

Thankfully it doesn’t take long to spot Kevin. His blue faux-hawk gives him away, and he gives me an uneven smile and a tiny wave from across the room. When he speaks, his mouth closes crookedly, and that adds some additional quirk to his look. I like him immediately.

As we walk toward his dorm, my heart pulses in my ear.

I ask him, “Do you have protection?”

He tells me to relax. He’s only been with five guys. This logic eludes me, but Kevin is older, more experienced. I defer to him.

I am shirtless in his bed. It’s like Kevin is two people. One at the party, and one ever since we left. Ever since it’s seemed like a done deal, I guess. At the party he talked fast and seemed overeager to please. Now he seems almost cocky in his attitude, and we don’t say much. And when we do, it’s not — not what I want. At all.

He stands at the foot of his bed, his shirt off too.

“Wanna smoke up?”

I shake my head no. I don’t know exactly what he means, which makes me feel stupid. It’s like I missed a class in Hooking Up 101. Weed? More than weed? I don’t know, but I am not interested in finding out. A few beers is enough for me, and I’ve heard enough of my mom’s diatribes about how Mexico has been ruined by America’s hunger for drugs. Not gonna be part of that.

He takes out a pipe and a tiny wooden case and he pinches a bit of greenish-looking stuff and puts it in the pipe hole and lights up. He inhales heavily, holds it in, exhales. Pot for sure. I try not to take in too much of the smoke. Then he shakes his head, over and over, regarding me like I’m some sort of prize he’s won.

He says, “Are you my dark-skinned boy?”

My esophagus fills with something slushy. “Um.”

“Are you my Arabian prince?”

I’m like, Are you for real? My jaw tenses, because he doesn’t laugh, or say “Just playin’.” He means this, or thinks this is acceptable, a normal thing to say. I want to say something, make a joke at least about how fucking stupid that is, how ignorant. But I don’t want to kill the moment. I’m too curious to see what’s next. When the room has been silent for so long that it feels like my not saying anything is a form of consent, I say, “My mom was born in Mexico City and my dad is from Indiana.”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. Don’t be so sensitive. It’s a fantasy, okay?”

I feel my shoulders tense and my face heats up. Nope. This is not me being too sensitive. And suddenly the quirky, talkative guy from the party has been replaced by this asshole I don’t like at all.

I sit up and look away. “I’m gonna jet,” I say.

I’m about to turn my legs to the side of the bed and stand when he jumps on the bed next to my feet, thumping into me slightly. He smirks. I stare. He sits on my legs.

“Nah,” he says. It’s half a statement and half a question, and I don’t answer because I’m so shocked that he’s