He’s kind of a dick, pardon my French, but kind of difficult to resist. Under the table, Caleb’s hand finds my knee and gives it a squeeze.
“It’s so nice to know Caleb has such a lovely new friend. He’s always been so shy and focused on sports. We’ve always worried he keeps too much to himself.” Wendy’s smile hasn’t left her face, and she directs her next comment to Caleb. “Honey, do you remember the last person you dated? Oh, what was her name… Sherri? Savannah…” She searches for a name.
“It was Sarah Schroeder,” Mr. Lockhart supplies with a chuckle.
Caleb’s face turns bright red. “How do you remember that? You know what. Never mind.” He looks at him mom, pleading. “Just please stop. That was in eighth grade.”
“Eighth grade, Showtime? Yeesh.” Blaze turns to me. “So do you see now why we wonder about his sexuals?”
Wendy doesn’t stop. “But sweetie, you were traumatized. Remember? When Daddy came to get you from that dance, he had to come inside just to coax you out of the bathroom stall.”
Caleb mumbles angrily under his breath, to the amusement of the entire table, about mean girls and harassment.
“What? Speak up, bud,” his dad says.
“I said I was not. Traumatized. Sarah and her friends were just… overly aggressive.”
Cubby shoots him a look of disdain, two plastic drinking straws dangling out of his mouth like a walrus. They flop around when he speaks. “An overly aggressive eighth grade girl? Is that even a thing?”
“They were pushy, okay?” Caleb practically shouts, crossing his ripped arms defensively over his muscular chest. He takes a few deeps breaths. “Whatever, I’m not going to argue.”
Everyone at the table laughs, and Cubby lets out a loud, obnoxious snort, straws still sticking out of his mouth.
“Cubby, could you just shut the fuc—” Caleb glances at me and his mom, clamping his lips shut and scowling. “Let’s just drop it.”
His mom wipes a tear of mirth from the corner of her eye. “Oh, honey, you always were too serious for your own good.”
Caleb
So all things considered, that went well.
It could have been worse. My mom could have told the story about the time I started pee-wee hockey at the tender age of seven and used to cry during practice to the point where it was distracting for the other kids, and Coach had to hold my hand while I skated.
Oh shit. That’s right—she did tell that story.
Fucking. Hilarious.
She also told everyone about the time my childhood buddy Aaron thought it would be an awesome idea to bring ripped-out pages from his dad’s pervy catalog of Hot Naked Russian Teens to school and pass the pictures around on the bus. Of course, he didn’t get caught with them by the bus driver—I did. School called my parents, they thought I was a closeted, masturbating little freak, and in turn—because I was sensitive at that age—I didn’t talk to Aaron for three weeks after he let me take the blame.
Of course, Weston and Blaze spend the rest of dinner with my parents speaking and talking above everyone in these horrible fake Russian accents. Cubby, on the other hand, spends the remainder of dinner doing a made-up Swedish Meatball accent, sounding a lot like Chef from The Muppets—you know, since he’s such a freaking moron.
And apparently it was the funniest goddamn thing anyone has ever heard, because they were falling all over themselves laughing.
Then they laughed at me because I wasn’t. Laughing, that is.
Assholes.
I remove the hat from my head and give my hair a shake, running my fingers through it and tussling it before pulling the cap on backwards.
We’re standing in the shared driveway between the Kappa O and Omega houses, waving good-bye to my parents as they back down the drive, when Blaze turns to me and claps a hand down on my shoulder, saying, “I need a drink. Wanna hit the bars?”
I huff. “What the hell do you need a drink for? I’m the one who had to deal with your bullshit without losing my shit.”
Shelby laughs. “He’s got you there, Blaze. You and Cubby were really obnoxious.”
Cubby fans himself with his hand and bats his eyes. “Aw, I’m flattered.”
Blaze scoffs. “Whatever. Are you guys coming or not? We’ll go somewhere else, maybe to O’Malley’s. Lone Rangers is getting played out.”
I turn to Abby, who stands next to me, biting her pinky finger and looking up at me with wide eyes. “Up to you,” I say with a shrug. “I don’t care either way.”
Actually, I do care. I could give two shits about going downtown and spending my Sunday night in a crowded bar. I’d much rather spend some time alone with Abby since we haven’t had any. Every time we try to do something, we’re either ambushed or rudely interrupted.
And being alone in my room so she could take a pee during a house party doesn’t count. And dry humping in the bedroom of a rented cabin hardly counts, either.