With half a grin, I flip my essay closed. I drop it into my bag, my thoughts turning to tonight.
Two
I’M LATE TO SKāRA BECAUSE FRIDAY-NIGHT TRAFFIC on Highland is horrendous, and I had to hunt for half an hour for parking because I didn’t want to pay seventeen dollars for the garage. The club is on the top floor of a huge mall on Hollywood Boulevard, between tall apartment complexes and art deco movie theaters. I have to dodge tourists clogging the curb chatting in languages I don’t recognize and taking photos of the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
I finally reach the door, and the bouncer waves me in. The club is typically twenty-one and up, but tonight Rebecca Dorsey’s dad rented the place out for her birthday. They won’t serve us drinks, obviously, but people find creative ways to raise their blood alcohol content.
Under the erratic lighting, I spot him immediately.
He’s leaning on the velvet couch near the edge of the dance floor, laughing with the rest of the soccer team. He’s the picture of perfect carelessness. The picture of perfect hotness, too. He’s tall, built like the varsity athlete he is, and his smile stands out in his corner of the club. I watch him reach up with one arm to rub the back of his neck, pulling up the hem of his Beaumont soccer polo, exposing the strip of dark skin above his belt. It’s a nice strip, a really inviting strip.
This is my moment. I just have to walk up to him, join the conversation, and then lead him to a place where it’s just the two of us.
But I can’t.
The music pounds uncomfortably in my ears. I can’t even walk past the kitschy sculpture by the door.
I’ve wanted this for a year. I’ve planned for it. Why can’t I do this? It’s possible I’ve forgotten how to flirt. I’ve been rejecting guys for two years while developing this crush in secret. What if I’ve forgotten how this particular game is played?
I watch him roll his eyes at whatever idiotic thing Patrick Todd’s saying, and I know what’s coming next. His eyebrows twitch the way they do every time he’s preparing one of his effortless comebacks. He’s wonderfully no-bullshit.
It’s the first thing I ever loved about Andrew Richmond. Even when he was new to Beaumont, I noticed his quick and imperturbable humor. Our friendship deepened because we both felt out of place among our wealthy, glamorous classmates. Andrew had the added difficulty of being black in our predominately white school. For one reason or other, we both entered Beaumont feeling like outsiders.
I’ve talked to him countless times, but never in this context. Not even crappy pickup lines are coming to mind. I need help.
Feeling my heart race with frustration, I sweep the dance floor for my friends. People I know and people I don’t fill the crowded, darkened room. Morgan, dressed like a hipster on a Beverly Hills budget in a strappy gold dress with a beaded headband, perches on one of the L-shaped white couches near the balcony. She’s eyeing Brad with that eagerness I’ve learned to recognize—and avoid. I know where their night’s headed, and I won’t be interrupting that.
But in front of the bar, Elle’s running a finger down the arm of Jason Reid. Ugh. I have no problem interrupting Elle’s completely indefensible hookup plans. Before she can pull Jason into a dark corner, I cross the room and grab her by the elbow.
“Cameron!” she protests.
I ignore her and usher us both into the ladies’ restroom. I close the door, and Elle walks past me. I give the restroom a once-over. It’s filthy, and the dimmed lights don’t hide the spilled drinks and littered tissues on the floor. In one stall a girl in a sequined dress holds her friend’s hair while she dry-heaves over the toilet.
“I hope there’s a very good reason you pulled me away from Jason,” Elle says, raising an expectant eyebrow.
“Other than the obvious?” I reply, my goal momentarily forgotten. I’ve explained to Elle a dozen times why I disapprove of Jason. He’s an annoying, airheaded actor who adores nothing more than his own