With that, we paraded through the parking lot to a chorus of greetings from the long list of Montgomery friends and acquaintances. I thought I saw a few of the grown-ups look askance at my outfit, and Meagan Banks and Halie Gomez giggled behind my back as I slunk past. Despite my lack of clothes, I felt myself grow hot and was sure even the backs of my legs were turning pink by this point. I just wanted to get in and sit down so I could at least hide them under the table.
As soon as we walked in, Ashley-Leigh waved us over from amongst a gaggle of girls. They all looked up at once and then down as if on cue, tittering loudly together like blackbirds on a wire.
“I got us a table, even though the wait’s over forty-five minutes!” Ashley boasted above the din. “. . . ’sall about who ya know.” After a zigzag finger snap, she turned back to gossiping with her minions, leaving me standing there, listening to the buzz of excitement surrounding me.
So this is what the gang does on a Friday night? I observed that several girls were dressed similarly, but nonetheless, most were eyeing me and my outfit and elbowing each other. One by one the group gave me the once over, and I soon found myself on the receiving end of several digs masquerading as compliments.
“I know, right?” Ashley-Leigh cut in as a girl she cheered with commented on how “different I looked tonight”—a left-handed compliment, if I’d ever heard one. “I picked it out for her. You shoulda seen what she was wearing earlier”—like I wasn’t standing right there. “It’s her birthday tonight,” she announced, as if to some unasked question. A long trail of “Happy Birthdays” enveloped me right on cue, followed by a lot of enthusiastic compliments on the outfit. “Yeah, me and my mom buy her an outfit and take her out for her birthday every year!”
Ashley’s bright smile was no match for my face, and I felt every bit the charity case as everyone pitched in a comment about how nice that was for them to do that. I was grateful when the conversation quickly spun back to the main topic—something about a new boy registering for school as a senior, out-of-the-blue, and how unbelievably gorgeous he was. I really couldn’t follow much of it through my haze of embarrassment and general disinterest.
A group of senior guys, who were piling up on each other on their way out the door, nudged and nodded my way. I pretended not to notice. Thankfully, Mrs. M returned from her girls’ chat with one of the cheer moms, and we were finally ready to sit down.
“You girls go on and enjoy yourselves. Ms. Rachel and I are going back to her house. The menfolk have taken it upon themselves to grill steaks tonight, so we get to sit back and watch them work for once.” Mrs. M winked at me. “Happy Birthday, sweet Kate. . . . . Remember, you only live once.” With that sage advice, and a quick hug, she headed out the door probably thinking she was doing me a favor. But it felt like my one ally just abandoned me.
“That’s right! YOLO, baby!” Ashley-Leigh called, high-fiving randomly as she parted the crowd, leading the way through the packed restaurant to our table. With several chairs crowded around it.
What happened to our party of three? I sidled in next to a girl I hadn’t spoken to since seventh grade. Whew! I was relieved to finally be seated and quickly spread a cloth napkin over my lap. “Do you mind if I sit here?” I inquired politely.
My icebreaker must not have gone over so well, because she looked at me like I was crazy. “It’s your birthday—do whatever you want,” she replied, then promptly hair-whipped me to talk animatedly to Stephanie Aguilar.
Wow. Way to turn on the charm there, Kate . . . I must be rustier at this socialization thing than I thought.
Actually, I was sort of surprised by the thread of hostility running through the group tonight. Usually everyone was pretty nice to me, des-pite my anti-social behavior, leftover remnants of friendships past or else feelings of sympathy for my tragic life. Tonight it was like the polite veneer had worn off, and I was fair game all of a sudden. I guessed everyone’s attitudes had something to do with me showing up with Ashley-Leigh’s mom. They probably thought we were rekindling our friendship and would be back to being besties like we’d been up through middle school. Everyone was acting like I was out to knock her down a notch from the social rung that dominated high school. But I couldn’t care less about social status when I had to care about so many other things—like surviving.
A sudden eruption of laughter roused me from my thoughts, and I found myself laughing along, a beat too late. Ashley-Leigh had just ordered up a “Skinny Bitch.” Apparently, it was funny enough to warrant hysterics. When it was my turn to order, I surprised myself by saying Arnold Palmer. A few polite giggles began because everyone was in the mood to laugh, but they soon stalled out when I explained that it was just half-tea, half-lemonade.
Ashley-Leigh commented, “Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”
Embarrassed, I wondered why I did do that? Thankfully, the focus returned to Ashley-Leigh, who was asking Meagan detailed questions about the new boy. Everyone leaned in, clearly enthralled with the idea of fresh meat to compete over.
“He was beyond gorge!” Meagan gushed, happy to have the dish on the newest item on the menu.
“How tall is he?” grilled Ashley-Leigh. She had a strict policy of not dating anyone under 5’ 10,” no matter how cute.
Meagan turned to Halie for confirmation. “At least six feet tall.” They continued on and on about what he looked like and what he was wearing. I was only vaguely paying attention, wondering how I could slip out, when I felt a heavy tap on my shoulder. I looked up into the grinning, beefy face of Ron Tillman, son and heir extraordinaire to the Tillman Mills fortune.
“Helloooo . . . beautiful ladies!” he smoothly greeted the table, then turned to look at me with what could only be described as ogling eyes. “Katie Connelly, where’ve you been hidin’ my whole life?” he boldly flirted, causing the girls’ faces to freeze mid-smile.
“Oh, you know . . . around,” I said, lamely gesturing with my hand. I tried smiling, but it felt more like a grimace. I was hyper-aware of the looks coming off the other girls.
“Well if you don’t mind me sayin’. . . you sure do look fine tonight.” This comment preceded a letch-look that began at my eyes and worked its way down.
I cleared my throat. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He gave me a cheesy smile, and I swear I saw him peek down my shirt. I squirmed in my seat. A bunch of his football buddies joined him, all jostling for chairs and trying to fit two to a seat with the girls to delighted squeals of protest.
“Scoot over, Connelly.” This was followed by a rough nudge by an overly confident Ron. I was frozen with indecision—I didn’t want him to sit with me, yet didn’t know how to refuse gracefully. “Come on, Katie, you don’t want me to have to sit in your lap, do you?”
Somehow everyone found this hilarious and obnoxious laughter followed, adding fuel to the fire of my discomfort. Grudgingly, I moved over for him while he accidentally-on-purpose bumped me all the way off. I was left seatless and the lone stander of the group, everyone else already having settled or partnered-up.
“Uh-oh, looks like you’ll just have to sit on me instead,” he jeered, accepting an immediate high-five from a running buddy.