I lingered back a bit, glancing about to make it look like I was undecided about what to eat. I was really wondering if I should get in line behind her. I didn’t feel all that hungry, but the smell of the sizzling meat wasn’t unappealing. Normally, with any other girl, I would have engaged sooner, but with this girl, I kept wondering how you feel about the guy that hits on you when you’re in line for a cheesesteak? Do you think that guy is a turd? What if his breath smells of beer and other sundries? Are you repulsed by him?
Frozen by anxiety, I let myself watch her again. From where I was standing, I could see that the markings behind her ear were a tattoo. Small and unobtrusive, a constellation of asterisks. She looked around, scanning the crowd as if she was searching for someone. Who? An icy tightness constricted my chest. I considered that she might be waiting for a guy. Her boyfriend? Sheer jealousy propelled me forward. I crossed from where I was standing to get in line behind her. From this close, I could smell her. Three days baking in the hot sun wasn’t good for anyone, but her odor wasn’t rank. She was musky, earthy like the woods, a simple, soft human scent that made me want her more.
There were three people ahead of us, but for me, they weren’t people. They were increments of time. Each person represented maybe a few minutes, which meant, best-case scenario, I had nine minutes to make an impact. Nine minutes to get her to notice me. Nine minutes to strike up a conversation so valuable that she would want me. Or at the very least, nine minutes to earn myself a tenth minute. She continued scanning the crowd. She looked over her shoulder… in my direction. It was my opening. No gimmicks, just conversation. Deep breath.
I looked right at her, the words about to drip from my tongue, and then I saw recognition in her eyes. She pressed up on her tip-toes, waving her hand in the air, bouncing. Oh, God—tits. I didn’t want to embarrass myself by having her first exchange with me be my eyes molesting her, so I looked at my feet.
“Joe! Joe!” she hollered, still waving frantically. A very tall gangly guy with a neatly trimmed beard and mirrored aviator sunglasses brushed past me. He was good looking in a grungy, fashion-y way. Not great looking, but man enough. His arms wrapped around her and he lifted her from the ground. She wrapped her thighs around his waist, squeezing her whole body against him.
“God, I missed you,” she cooed, and I tasted vomit at the back of my throat. She was supposed to be mine, but apparently, I didn’t have nine minutes. I didn’t have any minutes. She already belonged to some dude with shaggy chestnut hair and leather bracelets. I lingered for a moment, gnawing the inside of my cheek. He released her, returning her to the ground but continuing to hold her hand. Once they turned their attention to what they were going to order and share, I fucked off.
I strolled through the crowd in the direction of the campgrounds. There were people everywhere and it was an eclectic group. Lots of regulars—everything from preppy frat boy types like me to hippie types like her, but there were also crazy motherfuckers. People covered in neon paint. People in full-feathered Native American headdresses. People on stilts. People in tutus and sailor costumes. I hated them all. I wanted to snarl, to growl. I wanted to be rabid. My brow furrowed and I clenched my fists. I needed to break something. Fuck someone up… get fucked up… get fucked… something. What I really wanted was to punch my fist into his neatly trimmed jaw and watch the impact in slow motion like you do in the movies. I wanted to see his whole face crumple as if it was going to permanently lose its shape. I wanted to see the blood on his lips, the shock and awe in his eyes. I wanted him to be afraid of me. I wanted him to piss himself when people said my name. But that shit was way the fuck out of proportion, considering I’d never even spoken to her.
So, I tried to breathe. I leaned my back against a tree and then let myself slide down until my ass hit the ground. I rested my elbows on my knees and held my head in my hands. The ache that claws at your face right before you cry crept into my cheeks. I closed my eyes and pressed my palms against them. I swallowed and sucked the emotion down. There was no way I would go all weak over some hippy chick that I’d never even spoken to—no way. I thought about going back to VIP. Candice was probably wandering around looking for me. I could go back to her. She’d let me fuck her again. I knew she would, but I didn’t want to. Fucking Candice was cold. She spread her legs and welcomed me and she made enough noise to seem like she wanted me, but her eyes were empty. Fucking Candice was a lie. A dirty lie. Candice wanted to be the girl dating the senator’s son. Going back to Candice wasn’t an option. So, I just sat there until it was really dark out.
After a while, a group of geeky looking assholes congregated around one of those one-piece benches and a picnic table that was off to my left. I could see them because they had a lantern, but I was pretty sure they couldn’t see me. There were five of them, but one stood out as their leader. He was a boney dude with hard, thin features. He looked crooked—gnarly, like a kid who wore a trench coat to high school. A kid no one liked. Or maybe a kid whose life’s mission was to hack into the CIA. He didn’t look like a good kid, but not bad either—just unwanted. The others were also variations on this theme. They looked like dudes that loved girls who played video games.
They were smoking cigarettes. I didn’t smoke, but it seemed like something to do, so I got to my feet. These kinds of guys weren’t usually down with the likes of me. I was too clean-cut for their tastes. I reminded them of the footballer who gave it to their girlfriends in high school. I reminded them of the money their parents didn’t have. I was that bullshit jock, that asshole frat boy who had it easy, who didn’t know what it meant to survive on the outside. They didn’t know shit. For most of us, there was no inside, no in-crowd. We were always alone. Always unsure and unsupported—following all the rules because we didn’t have a choice. But it didn't matter. Not to punks like this, and honestly, I deserved their hate. I had done it all—pissed in their water bottles, thrown them in dumpsters, taken their little sisters’ virginity, all to be cool.
Still, I approached them—cocky, smirking. I wanted to feel the rush of control. I wanted to eat their discomfort. Their conversation halted as I hoisted myself onto the table and rested my feet on the bench. They smelled homeless, but after three days in the mud, the dancing girl was the only one who didn’t.
“What’s up, dudes?” I tossed the words at them. My voice was steady and deep, overly confident.
A small guy with acne and spikey hair at the end of the table rolled his eyes, and the leader who was sitting with his hands on the table by my hip shook his head, raised his eyebrows in sarcasm, and said, “Not much, man. Can we help you?” It wasn’t a warm and fuzzy welcome, but I didn’t want it to be.
“Oh, ya know,” I jostled his shoulder and felt him tense up, “I was just sitting over there enjoying the fanfare when, suddenly, I had an undeniable craving for a smoke, and well, wouldn’t you know? Here you are… smoking.” I smiled a tight-lipped smile.
He glanced at his friends. I noticed his hair was greasy and felt the rumble of something secret. Something they knew and I didn't, but I didn’t care that much. He looked back at me, crossed his arms over his chest, and smiled the smile of a trickster—curled lips, all teeth. “Sure, dude. Twenty bucks.” He said it casually. No fear. I had no power over him.