“Fun,” I shout over the crooning falsetto pop song blasting out of the laptop speakers. “Congrats to your team, by the way.”
Alex plops onto the couch, followed by his chaser friends whose names I really should remember. “Thanks. I wish we could’ve taken down Fifty Shades for y’all in the finals, but”—he grabs the tiny plastic silver medal hanging around his neck—“still not too shabby. How did Johnny Cash end up doing?”
I struggle to remember. “Maybe fifth? There were seven teams, right? Maybe fourth. We won a couple at the end.” I consider leaning closer to Alex so I don’t have to yell so loud to be heard, but a full day of sprints and tackles has turned my limbs into mush and my spine into cooked spaghetti. I stay where I am, head propped up with a pillow and aching legs curled under me.
“That’s not bad.” Alex nods, but his fingers curl proudly around his medal. Over-competitive.
“Plus, y’all could have easily won the game with us,” the dark-haired chaser girl adds. “It just took you a few games to hit your groove.”
“Maybe. Thanks.” My head starts to throb along with the bass, so I make a (frankly Herculean) reach for my red Solo cup of water and drain it. In the middle of the room, Aaron and Erin dance close enough that the brim of his hat brushes her bangs, ignoring Chris and Roshni and Carlos and the rest of the people dancing. Chris keeps looking around, but he doesn’t ask anyone to dance, even though I see him eyeing and hovering near one of the girls from the Plastics. Other Chris and a few of his teammates, gold plastic medals displayed (obnoxiously) around their necks, crowd around the beer pong table (modified to include mini quidditch hoops) in the hall with a lot of the older-looking Plastics.
I texted Dad and Connie that we were eating dinner, which isn’t a total lie, since we did stop by Subway on our way over. But even as lenient as they’ve been about my grounding, I’m pretty sure a college-kid party would be considered off-limits. Which is weird considering that in less than two months I’ll be a college kid. I wonder if it will be like this.
Elizabeth was sitting with me until someone started a game of Cards Against Humanity in one of the bedrooms. Every few minutes, bursts of laughter emerge from the open doorway to my left and voices shout words and phrases that Tumblr would not find politically correct. Melissa and Karey and Lindsay went straight to the kitchen when we arrived here from the field, and I haven’t seen them come out yet.
Not that I’m looking for Melissa. Not that I want her to come join me. Not that I’m expecting anything from her.
I haven’t seen the Prince beater, either. Not that I’m looking for him.
“Don’t you want to dance?” Alex asks, his face breaking into a smile as a new song starts. “Nobody can pass up Taylor!”
I shake my head and relax further into the couch cushions. “Go ahead. I’m dead.”
I like sitting where I am, letting the music drown out thought and feeling while my body recovers from the trauma of the day. I like listening to the card game get out of hand and overhearing two UH players discussing favorite fantasy books whose authors are less of a dumpster fire than JKR. I like having teammates pause by the couch to check in on me, having strangers say hi and compliment my team, discuss certain plays. I know that technically this situation should be scary—my first real party, my first party with alcohol, a huge group of new people to meet and feel awkward around. But I’m too tired to be nervous, warm and comfortable and slightly dehydrated on the couch, and none of it scares me.
Alex collapses back on the couch when his song ends. He entertains me with stories about his quidditch injuries and all the teams he currently holds a vendetta against. He pulls people in to sit with us, using his extrovert powers to introduce me to two players from UT, one here with League City and one who works full-time in Houston and played with the Plastics, the mercenary team formed from all the teamless players who wanted to come to the tournament.
“The good news,” Layla, the Plastic, tells me, “is that there’s a lot of quidditch at UT.” She leans close enough that I can smell the tang on her breath. “The bad news is you have to be good if you want to make the travel team.”
I nod. “I’m not sure I really have what it takes . . . I mean, I’ve only been playing for a little while . . .”
“Whatever,” the second girl says, “you seem competent, and they’re losing a bunch of seniors. You should definitely try out. And if you don’t make it this year, there’s the JV or the community team. You’ll still get to see all these losers at the local tournaments.”
I smile. It’s only a tiny anchor point, knowing that I can play quidditch in college, that I might keep going to tournaments and seeing Alex, Elizabeth, Karey, and Lindsay. But it’s something. In the giant mental black hole that is my future after this summer, it’s one possible point of light.
My phone buzzes.
Where are you? On your way home?
It’s getting close to nine thirty, and I told Connie I would almost certainly be home before ten.
I respond: Almost. Waiting on Melissa.
You should really be heading back already, Connie texts back.
Uh-oh.
Extracting myself from the now crowded couch, I find people crammed just as tightly in the tiny kitchen. Melissa and Lindsay perch on the counter among empty and half-empty liquor bottles and overturned Solo cups. Karey stands over an open cooler full of ice and a smaller one full of Capri Sun and mini Gatorade bottles. The group scattered in chairs or leaning against the stovetop and refrigerator looks so clean-cut and buff that they must be the A&M players.
I wish I didn’t have to invade Melissa’s group to get home.
“Hey.” I wave my hand. “Melissa?”
Someone taps Melissa’s shoulder, points at me.
What? Her eyebrows shoot up, and I imagine her internal sigh.
I need to go, I convey through pointing, eyebrow raises, and mouthing the words. I hold up my phone. Connie is pissed.
Melissa shakes her head, looks at the ceiling. You are ruining everything.
“Hey.” John appears behind me, his voice loud and close to my ear. “Everything all right?”
“Fine.” I try to make my word snap, but its bite gets lost in the noise. “My parents . . .”
John snorts. “What, you have a curfew? How old do they think you are?”
“Yes,” I growl. “It’s annoying, okay? But I need—” Melissa very slowly and reluctantly hops off the counter. She pauses for a handful of chips, holds the bag up to me like she thinks she can stall me with snacks. “Ugh!”
“I can drive you,” John offers.