Panic flares through my veins, but I manage a small smile. “Sure. Yeah. Go. I’ll be fine.”
She smiles, relieved. “I won’t be long. Text me if you need anything.” Then she spins around and gets swallowed up by the crowd.
I stand there, watching her go, highly aware that people are still gossiping about me.
“Why is she here?” a girl from my English class, whose name I can’t remember, shoots me a nasty look from the beer pong table. “I didn’t know Miss Know It All came to parties.”
Miss Know It All?
“Yeah, seriously,” her friend agrees, scooping up a shot with her eyes narrowed at me.
“We should ask Benton to make her go home,” the girl who spoke firsts glowers at me from over the brim of the plastic cup she’s holding.
Looking away, I frantically search the thickening crowd for some of my friends on the cheerleading squad. But I can’t see any of them.
“God, she thinks she’s so better than everyone,” the girl holding the cup says. “Did you see how Taylor just left her? Even her best friend can’t stand her.”
My stomach clenches. Is that how people see me? That I think I’m better than everyone? Is that what Taylor thinks of me?
“Ignore them. People are stupid,” Benton says, startling me.
I honestly thought he took off right after Taylor did, that he wouldn’t want to be seen standing with me. “
My gaze slides to him. “Weren’t you saying the same thing like ten minutes ago?”
He winces. “Yeah, sorry about that. I was just being paranoid. But, in my defense, someone did bring a newbie partier to my last party. And just like I said, he got trashed and couldn’t handle his shit and ended up panic drunk dialing his mom who called the cops. Lucky we got everyone cleared out before they showed up, but it was way too close, you know.”
I nod, even though I don’t know. “If it makes you feel any better, I won’t get trashed and lose my… shit.” I’m not much of a swearer and stammer over the swear word. But hopefully, he doesn’t notice my dorky move.
Benton presses his lips together, restraining a laugh, completely noticing my spazztastic behavior. My cheeks feel like they’re on fire as I look away, embarrassed. He chuckles, but promptly clears his throat and goes back to being serious.
“Here.” He hands me the other cup he’s holding. “It shouldn’t get you too trashed.”
I peek inside the cup filled with red liquid and chunks of strawberries. “What is it?”
“Mostly just punch, but I did put a splash of rum in there, so you can at least say that you tried a drink at your first party. But it shouldn’t get you drunk.”
“So no rum, vodka, and whiskey for me?”
He eyes me over. “You don’t seem like a rum, vodka, and whiskey kind of girl.”
“Taylor didn’t seem too happy about the concoction either,” I feel the need to point out. But then I realize I’m probably coming off bitchy. “Sorry.”
His brows drip. “For what?”
I shrug. “For being rude to you.”
He gives me a really look. “I don’t think you could be rude if you tried.”
A stressed breath eases from my lips. “That’s not true. I was rude to you at the front door. And I’m really sorry about that. What I said… I shouldn’t have said that. I was, I don’t know, just trying to prove a point or something.”
Confusion clouds his eyes. “What point were you trying to prove?”
I shrug, staring down at my feet. “That people don’t really know me. Not the real me, anyway. But how I did it… What I said… I never should’ve used my parents’ deaths like that.”
He grows quiet and when I glance up, he’s intensely assessing me, like he doesn’t quite believe I’m real. I’m not sure why he’s looking at me like that. Instead of shrinking from his scrutiny, I find myself wanting him to crack me open and see what’s inside. I don’t know why. I don’t know him very well. Perhaps that’s the reason. Maybe it’s easier to show someone you don’t know who you truly are because they don’t have such high, set-in-permanent-ink expectations.
His lips part. “Do you want—”
“Yo Benton! Some girl just threw up in your kitchen!” A guy shouts, shattering the moment into a thousand pieces.
Benton blinks, like he’s coming out of a daze, then glances over at the kitchen and back at me. “Um, yeah, I have to go take care of that,” he says then hightails it away from me like he thinks I have cooties.
I watch him go, wondering what he was going to say before we got interrupted. Did I want to what? Go somewhere and talk? Go somewhere and kiss? Drink the drink he made for me? Leave his party? The list of possibilities is endless, but I’m probably too clueless to ever figure out what a guy like Benton would ever say to a girl like me.
Sighing, I look down at the drink in my hand and my overthinking mind kicks in. Isn’t there some rule that you aren’t supposed to drink a drink you didn’t make yourself? I doubt Benton put anything in it, but I still feel super paranoid. My insecurities only grow the longer I stand there, watching people have fun. I want to move, do something, but I don’t know where to start.
Do something, Zhara. Break out of your comfort zone. Stop being so afraid.
Squaring my shoulders, I head to make myself a drink since I’m too scared to drink the one Benton gave me. But as I’m turning around, the girl that was talking about me earlier slams her shoulder into mine. My drink goes sailing from my hands and spills down the front of my tank top, staining the white fabric.
Her lips twist to a smirk. “Whoopsie. I didn’t see you there.”
My fingers curl around the now empty cup, crunching the plastic.
You’re a nice girl, Zhara, my mom’s voice haunts my thoughts. You’re always so forgiving. It’s one of my favorite things about you.
I smash my lips together and suck in a breath, fighting the overwhelming urge to knock the drink she’s carrying all over her. “It’s okay. I’m sure it was an accident.”
“Oh yeah, it totally was.” She rolls her eyes at me before spinning on her heels, her hair flicking me in the face. “Told you she wouldn’t do anything about it,” she says to her friend. “She thinks she’s too perfect to get mad.”
“What a loser,” her friend says through her laughter.
Tears sting my eyes as their words nick through the shield I try so hard to keep around me.
Don’t let them see you cry. It’ll only make it worse.
Breathe in. Breathe out. They’re only words. And words can’t hurt you.
But no matter how many measured breaths I take, tears manage to escape my eyes. I consider running for the door and leaving, but a friend of ours dropped us off here. Walking isn’t an option since I live over fifteen miles away. I could call Loki or Jessamine to come pick me up, but then they’ll know I came to a party. I don’t think I’m ready for them to know that yet—to show them who I really am.
Lowering my head, I hurry toward the hallway to find the bathroom before I start sobbing. The long line forming in front of a shut door makes it pretty easy to spot. I think about pushing my way to the front, but my polite manners take over and I go to the end of the line. Keeping my head down, I breathe in and out, over and over again.
You’re fine. You’re always fine. Suck it up and put on a smile.
The deep breaths are calming and my tears almost dry until a couple of guys stagger passed me and one gropes my ass.
Something explodes inside me, like a growing wave about to crash against the shore.
I shove him away from me, hard enough that he bumps into the wall. He blinks at me, his shock mirroring mine. Mortified by my behavior, I race to the front of the line and push my way into the bathroom as the person that was in there walks out.
“Hey! What the hell!” the girl at the front of the line shouts. “It’s not your—”
“I don’t care!” I shout at her, then slam the door shut and twist the lock.
My legs shake as I grip the edge of the counter and try to catch my breath. I’ve never been that rude to someone before. Normally, I would’ve let people cut in front of me. But I couldn’t take it anymore. The laughing, the ridicule, the awful feeling of everyone thinking I don’t belong here. All I was only trying to do was start over, have some fun, explore life, but apparently, no one thinks I should.
Ignore them. People are stupid. Benton said it so casually, as if ignoring what people think is as simple as breathing, But I’m quickly learning I’m terrible at not caring about what people think of me. Just like I’m terrible at breathing at the right moments.
I continue to cry, overwhelmed with hurt, fear, and shame. People bang on the door and yell at me to get out. I feel bad, but I’m not about to walk out and let everyone witness my meltdown.