She yawns. “I think I’m going to go to bed.” She turns and heads for the stairs. With one hand on the banister, she turns around to face me again with her eyes downcast to the floor boards.
In a soft voice I barely register, she speaks. “In the spirit of Thanksgiving, thank you for saving me, Jason.” I stop at those words, at the emotion lacing her voice with sincerity. “And…I don’t think I’ve ever said this, but I’m sorry for the way I treated you in high school. I made mistakes, a lot of them. And I’m sorry for the way I acted. For what I took part in.”
Silence. I hope she wasn’t expecting me to forgive her or wash her of her sins.
But she apologized. She said what no one else has. She dropped herself down a level and willingly offered her shame on a silver platter. I don’t know how I feel about it. I’m not angry, I never forgave her, but I also forgotabout it long before she came back into the picture. Her spitefulness wasn’t worth any more consideration.
God, it would have been so much easier if she’d never driven headfirst back into my life.
After a long pause following her apology and gratitude, she drops her head and walks upstairs with a heavy weight in her posture. And I’m left to think about shit I don’t want to cross my mind.
Chapter Ten
Jason-Senior Year of High School
Mr Brightside-The Killers
Prom wouldn’t have been my first choice on a Saturday night. But Mom insisted I attend at least one normal school function before I graduate. I never went to football games, never attended Dylan’s wrestling matches before he was kicked off the team. And I sure as hell never went to any school dances.
It’s as tortuous as I expected.
Lots of flowers, twinkling lights, a dorky theme that was designed by little girls to live out their childhood fantasies. We even have the cliche trifecta: jocks spiking the punch bowl, a girl crying with her friends over something stupid, and a power couple suffocating whatever space they occupy.
People like Mara Meyers and Bryce Quinn are infuriating. They’re both good looking and they know it, which leads to stuck up personalities wrapped in an egoistic bow. How stereotypical can you get? The good girl who’s perfect at everything she sets her mind to and the dumb, asshole jock who doesn’t have two brain cells to rub together.
I was in the same SAT testing room he was assigned to and the guy who answered for Bryce when the monitor took attendance was not Bryce Quinn. But I’ll bet his test scores were good enough to get him into college.
I don’t even know why I took the SATs since I don’t want to go to college. I’ve been taking courses for metal work and fabrication. Trade jobs aregoing to become the more lucrative career path, mark my words. And I want to be a well established business by the time that comes around. You don’t need good SAT scores to operate a leith.
I don’t exactly havefriendsat this school, but I have people I tolerate and in turn tolerate me. I sit with a couple of them at a table in the back of the large event room drinking the punch from little plastic cups.
Even though spiking the punch is a cliche, I’m not complaining.
People dance in a provocative manner on the dance floor to the mainstream covers the band plays on stage, I think it’s called “Mr. Brightside”.
Dancing isn’t really the right word for what they’re doing. The girls without dates jump up and down with their dateless cohorts while the couples leave absolutely no room for Jesus between their bodies. There’s a couple of chaperones around the room, but none of them care enough to interrupt. Or maybe they’re afraid they’ll accidentally be incinerated by the heat from the friction thedancingis giving off.
Bored of the people I’m with and trying to pass the one hour I told my mom I’d stay for, I head to the buffet table to scrounge up some edible food. Whoever was in charge of the catering menu ordered more accommodations for the vegans and gluten free weirdos than for those of us who eat normal food.
But every party has some form of pigs in a blanket and this one is no exception. Little cocktail sausages and cheese wrapped in a flakey croissant. Paired with some vegetables from the colorful spread with various dips makes for a lackluster meal, but sustaining, nonetheless.
Standing at the end of the buffet table watching the pornographic display on the dance floor, my left side ignites with awareness of someone else standing oddly close. Oddly because very few people risk getting this close to me. I see vibrant blue out of the corner of my eye, then platinum blonde hair.
Mara Meyers? What the fuck is she doing? Maybe she doesn’t see me or mistakes me for someone else.
“It’s overwhelming isn’t it?” She says to me without taking her eyes off the mass of bodies on the dance floor.
I finally turn my head to look at her. She’s stunning. Her dress hugs all the right places without trying too hard. She used the fairytale theme perfectly without taking on a full cartoon princess vibe. The neckline of her dress draws attention to her chest that’s expertly lifted but not completely spilling out, the swell of her breasts shine with some glow she must have applied herself.
Captivating.
She meets my gaze then looks back to the dance floor. “I’m kind of surprised you’re here,” She admits. “I didn’t think this would be your scene. But I guess you’re full of surprises. Keep them guessing, right?”
That’s one way to look at it.
Then she fully turns her body to face me, direct and powerful. She carries herself with the confidence of someone who’s never been bullied a day in her life.
“Do you want to go somewhere with me?” She asks with so much conviction it’s scary. “We don’t have to leave the building. Let’s just…not be around all this.”
