Life After Theft
Page 12
Or maybe Kimberlee haunted them into this. Could she do that?
“We’re having a kegger up on Harrison Hill,” Langdon continued. “It’s gonna be wild. You’re the new guy and I’m thinking you need a bona fide Whitestone welcome.”
This is the difference between jocks at Whitestone and jocks in public school. At Whitestone they know words like bona fide. “Oh yeah?” I said hesitantly.
“Dude, everyone’ll be there,” one of the more preppy-looking guys said. “We have parties up there a couple times a year and it is the place to be.”
“You should come,” Langdon said, the look in his eyes making me feel like a feeder fish—the ones in the store that have no purpose in life whatsoever except to be eaten by bigger, fancier fish. “Seriously, bro,” he said, extending one enormous fist out to me, “you’ll be my special guest.”
Kimberlee breezed in while I was walking to my seat. She looked down at me with one eyebrow raised. “What’s with the sappy grin? You look like a moron.”
Got invited to a party, I wrote in my notebook.
Kimberlee graced me with a deadpan look. “Fantastic; a D&D rave.”
I rolled my eyes and fixed her with a glare that I managed to wipe off my face about a second after I realized Bleekman would think I was looking at him like that.
I don’t even play D&D.
And it’s true. I haven’t played D&D in years. At least a year.
It’s a kegger on Harris Hill.
“Harrison Hill? Seriously?” Kimberlee asked. Squealed is probably a better word. “I love the Harrison Hill parties!”
I admit I was relieved to hear that. Now I knew the party was legit. Probably.
“Wait,” Kimberlee said, her voice deadly serious. “Did you get an invite?” She put a fist on her hips and held up one finger like she was scolding a five-year-old child instead of a sixteen-year-old . . . uh . . . me. “Don’t you dare show your face at Harrison Hill without an invite.”
I looked up at her and nodded slightly.
“From who? You can’t get some loser invite and think you’re actually in because a nerd managed to get info.”
For some reason, after our run-in on the first day, I didn’t want to admit to Kimberlee that it had been Langdon. Besides, that preppy guy had chimed in, too. That was good enough, right? Since it was a little hard to describe a guy who was dressed just like everyone else—you never realize how much you use clothes to describe people until you go to a uniformed school where everyone is a freaking clone—I drew a quick diagram to point out the preppy guy who’d piped up.
Kimberlee glanced back at him. “Neil?” She raised her eyebrows, considering. Even looking a little bit impressed. “Okay, you’re in.” She grinned now. “Awesome. See? It’s totally the hair.”
Sad thing is, she was probably right.
When the lunch bell rang a couple hours later, I froze as I was zipping up my backpack. I’d been so focused on Kimberlee yesterday that I hadn’t bothered with the whole lunch ritual. Halle and me and an old bag of chips I found under the seat made for a cozy luncheon.
Now, unless I wanted to be that guy who sat by himself every day, I had to find an actual table.
And hope I hadn’t already blown my shot by being Mr. Nonsocial yesterday. This is serious stuff! Which is why Kimberlee found me standing in the middle of the cafeteria holding a full lunch tray, suffering an acute case of analysis paralysis.
“What are you doing, loser?” she asked.
“Ummmmmm . . .” I answered honestly.
She paused for a moment, then sighed. “I really should just leave you alone and let you make a fool out of yourself, but seriously, Jeff, what kind of impression do you think you’re going to make standing here while your lunch gets cold? Go sit the hell down!”
She did have a point.
I was about to head to a half-full table and attempt to make small talk with total strangers when Sera breezed through the doorway.
With the big dude wearing the letterman’s jacket.
Crap.
I looked down at my tray and decided my mashed potatoes were in dire need of some extra pepper. I turned around and headed back to the condiment station, futzing with the small pepper shaker way longer than I could rationally justify, but most likely, no one was watching me.
Probably.
Sera made it to the end of the line and turned. She met my eyes almost immediately; probably something to do with the heat that was building up on the back of her head where I’d been staring for the last two minutes. She looked down almost nervously and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. I figured that would be it, but after a second, she looked up and smiled shyly. I wondered how soon my life would end at wrestler-guy’s hands if I smiled back.
I took the risk.
After a second she looked away and started walking toward the opposite end of the condiment station. Still, I’d take what little victories I could.
To my surprise, Mikhail didn’t follow her; he went and sat at a table with a group of guys as muscular as he was. Well, almost as muscular. Sera headed toward a rapidly filling table on the other side of the room.
She was about ten feet away—and I was about ready to admit defeat and sit alone—when she paused and looked back at me.
“Hey, it’s Jeff, right?”
Seriously? “Uh, yeah,” I said with great bucketloads of suave.
“You look . . . lost.”
“We’re having a kegger up on Harrison Hill,” Langdon continued. “It’s gonna be wild. You’re the new guy and I’m thinking you need a bona fide Whitestone welcome.”
This is the difference between jocks at Whitestone and jocks in public school. At Whitestone they know words like bona fide. “Oh yeah?” I said hesitantly.
“Dude, everyone’ll be there,” one of the more preppy-looking guys said. “We have parties up there a couple times a year and it is the place to be.”
“You should come,” Langdon said, the look in his eyes making me feel like a feeder fish—the ones in the store that have no purpose in life whatsoever except to be eaten by bigger, fancier fish. “Seriously, bro,” he said, extending one enormous fist out to me, “you’ll be my special guest.”
Kimberlee breezed in while I was walking to my seat. She looked down at me with one eyebrow raised. “What’s with the sappy grin? You look like a moron.”
Got invited to a party, I wrote in my notebook.
Kimberlee graced me with a deadpan look. “Fantastic; a D&D rave.”
I rolled my eyes and fixed her with a glare that I managed to wipe off my face about a second after I realized Bleekman would think I was looking at him like that.
I don’t even play D&D.
And it’s true. I haven’t played D&D in years. At least a year.
It’s a kegger on Harris Hill.
“Harrison Hill? Seriously?” Kimberlee asked. Squealed is probably a better word. “I love the Harrison Hill parties!”
I admit I was relieved to hear that. Now I knew the party was legit. Probably.
“Wait,” Kimberlee said, her voice deadly serious. “Did you get an invite?” She put a fist on her hips and held up one finger like she was scolding a five-year-old child instead of a sixteen-year-old . . . uh . . . me. “Don’t you dare show your face at Harrison Hill without an invite.”
I looked up at her and nodded slightly.
“From who? You can’t get some loser invite and think you’re actually in because a nerd managed to get info.”
For some reason, after our run-in on the first day, I didn’t want to admit to Kimberlee that it had been Langdon. Besides, that preppy guy had chimed in, too. That was good enough, right? Since it was a little hard to describe a guy who was dressed just like everyone else—you never realize how much you use clothes to describe people until you go to a uniformed school where everyone is a freaking clone—I drew a quick diagram to point out the preppy guy who’d piped up.
Kimberlee glanced back at him. “Neil?” She raised her eyebrows, considering. Even looking a little bit impressed. “Okay, you’re in.” She grinned now. “Awesome. See? It’s totally the hair.”
Sad thing is, she was probably right.
When the lunch bell rang a couple hours later, I froze as I was zipping up my backpack. I’d been so focused on Kimberlee yesterday that I hadn’t bothered with the whole lunch ritual. Halle and me and an old bag of chips I found under the seat made for a cozy luncheon.
Now, unless I wanted to be that guy who sat by himself every day, I had to find an actual table.
And hope I hadn’t already blown my shot by being Mr. Nonsocial yesterday. This is serious stuff! Which is why Kimberlee found me standing in the middle of the cafeteria holding a full lunch tray, suffering an acute case of analysis paralysis.
“What are you doing, loser?” she asked.
“Ummmmmm . . .” I answered honestly.
She paused for a moment, then sighed. “I really should just leave you alone and let you make a fool out of yourself, but seriously, Jeff, what kind of impression do you think you’re going to make standing here while your lunch gets cold? Go sit the hell down!”
She did have a point.
I was about to head to a half-full table and attempt to make small talk with total strangers when Sera breezed through the doorway.
With the big dude wearing the letterman’s jacket.
Crap.
I looked down at my tray and decided my mashed potatoes were in dire need of some extra pepper. I turned around and headed back to the condiment station, futzing with the small pepper shaker way longer than I could rationally justify, but most likely, no one was watching me.
Probably.
Sera made it to the end of the line and turned. She met my eyes almost immediately; probably something to do with the heat that was building up on the back of her head where I’d been staring for the last two minutes. She looked down almost nervously and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. I figured that would be it, but after a second, she looked up and smiled shyly. I wondered how soon my life would end at wrestler-guy’s hands if I smiled back.
I took the risk.
After a second she looked away and started walking toward the opposite end of the condiment station. Still, I’d take what little victories I could.
To my surprise, Mikhail didn’t follow her; he went and sat at a table with a group of guys as muscular as he was. Well, almost as muscular. Sera headed toward a rapidly filling table on the other side of the room.
She was about ten feet away—and I was about ready to admit defeat and sit alone—when she paused and looked back at me.
“Hey, it’s Jeff, right?”
Seriously? “Uh, yeah,” I said with great bucketloads of suave.
“You look . . . lost.”
