THE FIRST THING I see when I open the door is Chase Brosner’s bare ass, flashing at me from the bed like some neon Vegas billboard. Then I see the girl underneath him, hands gripping his back, and when I see the fingernails, I know it’s Danielle. I was with her when she painted them, black, she said, to match her heart.
They’re completely wrapped up in each other on the bed—Andrew’s parents’ bed—and I can’t move, my hand frozen on the doorknob. This is not what I expected when I wandered upstairs, trying to get away from all the people who don’t even remember it’s my birthday, who are only at this stupid party because they know Andrew’s parents are away on a ski trip and there’s free beer. But now, as I take in the image of Chase’s ass, of Danielle’s fingernails clutching his skin, her dark hair spread out on the pillow, I realize this is so much worse than the party.
It only takes about three seconds for Danielle to notice me—though it feels like three thousand—and then she screams. I scream too and drop my beer, which splashes onto my feet. We lock eyes as she scrambles for the sheet, pulling it up to cover her naked body. Chase tumbles onto the floor, wrapping himself up in the comforter like a human burrito.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, bending down to pick up my cup, wiping up what I can with the sleeve of my sweatshirt before it does damage to the floorboards. “I didn’t know there was anyone in here.”
“Get out!” she shrieks, and I do, slamming the door shut behind me.
And I know it sounds crazy, but as I stand blinking on the other side of the door, all I can think about is this: What if this is it for me? What if this is officially the first and last ass I’ll ever see for the rest of my life? When I shut my eyes I can still see it, bright and white, like when you stare too long at the sun, and I’m afraid it’s going to be seared there forever. It’s not a bad-looking ass, I guess, although I don’t have anything to compare it to. It’s just attached to a guy who I don’t even like—a guy who makes dumb jokes about his farts, who cares way too much about basketball, and has an unhealthy obsession with the word dude. But there are certainly no other naked guys on my horizon, not with the way high school has gone so far.
I’m still there when the door opens again and Chase and Danielle step out of the bedroom. They’re finishing pulling on their clothes, and I wince as Chase zips up his fly.
“Keely,” Danielle says, her voice breathy. Her arms are wrapped around his bicep, and I can smell the candy sweetness of her perfume. She’s got lipstick smudged across her cheeks, her dark hair messy like an unmade bed. I need to stop thinking of messy beds. Ugh.
“Hey, dude.” Chase lifts his arm into the universal bro-gesture to fist-bump, then brings it back down to his side, presumably remembering I’m not, in fact, a dude. Easy mistake.
“I’m so sorry,” I say again, backing away from them.
“Whatever.” Chase shrugs like it’s no big deal.
“Actually, can we talk?” Danielle motions her head toward the hall bathroom to my left. “Alone?”
“Sure,” I say, but my chest feels tight.
To everyone else it probably looks like Danielle and I are friends—which I guess, according to the rules of high school, we are. We’re in the same group and sit at the same lunch table, but we don’t really ever talk one-on-one. Looks like things change when you accidentally see someone naked.
“I’ll meet you downstairs.” Chase kisses Danielle in a way I feel uncomfortable watching, his hand just on the side of her boob, about to squeeze. She giggles and he pulls away, nodding at me. “Later, Keely.” Then he lumbers down the staircase. I can smell the stale beer on him as he passes.
Once he’s gone, Danielle pulls me into the bathroom. She shuts the door and locks it, then turns to the mirror, speaking to me while looking at herself. I don’t