I get to live here. In not very many months, I can eat chickpea salad to my heart’s content. Hard to believe.
It’s easy to find the apartment where we’re sleeping because of the clear directions our hosts provided, the chalk arrows scrawled on the complex paths, and the pounding bass not quite drowning out the chatter of every quidditch player in the state. Yep. Our hosts are also hosting the after-party.
Everyone has been busy while our car tracked down dinner—not only is the party in full swing, but I also see an awful lot of wet hair and clean clothes. Judging by the crowd, I’m guessing I won’t be squeezing in a shower tonight.
Which I wouldn’t mind that much, except that as I step into the living room/dance floor area, the face-beating beater from the mini tournament—Prince Jersey—walks straight through my personal space, ducking his head apologetically as he pushes through the crowd. Argh, cute boys who can probably smell me.
“Ellennnnnnn!” Alex attacks me with hugs as I stumble through the door after Melissa, grimy and sore and lugging my sports bag as well as my overstuffed backpack.
“Hey.” I step past a gaggle of A&M blondes and around a kiddie pool full of ice and cans. “Where, um, do you know where I can put . . . ?”
“How did y’all do?” Alex shouts over me. With his arm around my shoulder, I lose my place in the duckling-like line of teammates following Karey toward what I hope are bedrooms (or extra bathrooms).
“We did fine. We made it to bracket play tomorrow.” I push away the cup Alex offers me. “No, thanks.”
“Water,” Alex says too loudly in my ear. “I’m playing tomorrow, too, so I had to cut myself off. Are you going to dance with us?”
People jostle my bags and elbows, and I spy Melissa’s ponytail disappearing down a hallway. “In a minute,” I yell, extricating myself from Alex’s affection. “Be right back.”
I squeeze past a couple with matching undercuts making out against a wall and find my teammates dumping stuff in a small dark room. Our hosts (typical college kids) have squeezed two beds into a room only meant to hold one. Extra pillows, blankets, and a few towels clutter what little floor space there is, all speckled with dust bunnies and suspicious stains. I’m grateful for the sleeping bag I packed.
Elizabeth nods at me. “Slumber party,” she intones, clapping her hands together slowly. “Tee. Hee. Hee.” She slumps in slow motion to the floor and fakes a snore.
“Restroom?” I ask. Lindsay gestures. I dump my backpack but keep my drawstring bag so I can sneakily apply some deodorant. I barely get into the hallway when I crash into a string of drunk guys and then Melissa.
“Oof,” Melissa says, which isn’t really a word, but I count it as initiating conversation anyway.
“Oof yourself.”
Melissa looks at me like I’ve just crawled out of a heap of unrecycled landfill waste. While she glares, I pick up on the red shiny ring around her eyes.
“Whoa, are you okay?”
Melissa tries to shove past me to reach the bathroom door.
“Hey!” I shove back, just a little bit, just to prove that she can’t blow me off so easily.
Melissa wheels.
“What?” she demands. “What, Ellen? What do you want? What are you even doing here?”
I’ve seen Melissa snap before—at her mom, at her brother, at several different boyfriends-of-the-week. I’ve seen her eyes flash like this, seen her lips curl and heard the sharp bite of her voice. I’ve just never had all of it pointed at me.
Has she been this mad all day? I thought things were getting sort of friendlier by the end of the car ride. Where is this malice coming from?
“I’m trying,” I say, already feeling angry tears constrict my throat, “not to let you and my parents ruin my entire summer, thanks. I’m here because—and I know this will come as a surprise to you, since you haven’t talked to me all month, but—I really, really like quidditch!”
Some intoxicated person cheers and claps me on the back, utterly misreading the tone of my declaration. “Quidditch!” they yell in response.
“I didn’t ruin your life,” Melissa hisses (even though that’s not what I said), “and frankly, neither did Connie. You’re perfectly talented at doing that yourself.”
“What is this?” I ask. “Is this because I didn’t tell you about John? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about John! You’re the one who said it didn’t matter. You didn’t care.”
“I asked questions. I tried to talk.” One last unsteady person crashes into us on their way to the bathroom. Melissa throws up her hands. “I can’t right now; can you please just—” She turns to the bedroom door, stalks inside, and slams it behind her.
Great. That’s my freaking bedroom, too. I don’t want to continue this fight in front of the whole team, or out here with drunk people. And Melissa doesn’t seem to want to continue it at all.
I walk back toward the main room and kitchen (the dance floor and bar, currently). I’m sort of looking for a second bathroom. I’m sort of keeping an eye out for water and snacks. I’m planning to snag a spot on a couch and ride out this party the same way I survived the last one: listening to music and maybe letting Alex convince me to dance. Paying even less attention to Melissa than she pays to me.
But then I see John waving at me from the center of the mass of bouncing and swaying bodies. He smiles and sloshes brown liquid out of his red Solo cup. I know he wants me to join him—and dance with him, and probably make out with him—on the dance floor. I’m not entirely opposed to that idea. It could be fun, a good and desperately needed distraction. But I also know that if I go over there, John won’t ask me what’s wrong. He won’t notice anything off, won’t see beyond the excitement or the dim lights or the sheen of sweaty bodies.
At some point I’ll have to figure out how to make John stop trying to kiss me and I’ll have to confront Melissa, but right now I wave and point to the kitchen, and then let a very tall and very wide keeper step in front of me while I escape out the front door. I didn’t come all the way to Austin to be yelled at and not seen.
23
Outside is dark and muggy, full of bugs, and still loud.
The door keeps opening and closing, creating waves of music and noise that rise and fall like the pounding of my head. People stumble past me, usually laughing, often supported by heroic sober friends holding car keys. I swat a mosquito and scratch my knee, leaning against the window and letting the bass shake my shoulders.
“Hey.” A very tall stranger with a green topknot and a keeper headband still around their forehead smiles. “Do you need a ride or anything, Houston? You good?”