He laughs and then blushes and it’s sort of cute. We make our way back toward the keg, which looks as if it’s edged even closer to the lake, the grass below the barrel all trampled and muddy.
“How long till someone topples into the water while trying to refill their cup?” Alex asks, cracking open a Sprite from a cooler.
“An hour, tops.”
He maneuvers around the boy-surrounded keg, looking at the lake gently lapping at the tall grasses and brush. “It’s not the smartest spot to store the liquor.”
“It’s probably not the smartest spot to hang out—”
Someone knocks into my back, shoving me forward to collide with Alex’s chest. His hands brace around my arms, but my punch splashes all over his sweater anyway.
“Oh, shit, sorry,” I say, turning to see who else is already trashed at eight thirty at night.
“My bad,” Greta Christiansen croons. Her blond hair falls into her heavily made-up eyes.
“Oh, absolutely no problem,” I say, injecting as much saccharine as I can into my voice. I refuse to let Greta get to me. She’s a kick-ass alto—?consequently playing Lucille in the fall musical, No, No, Nanette—?and one of my compatriots in Empower. Also, she believes that my leadership of the group is weak, thinks that I sing perpetually flat in chorus (I absolutely do not), and is basically bitter that I wouldn’t put in a good word for her with Owen when she was crushing on him last year. For the sake of female camaraderie, we’re sweet to each other—?the kind of sweet that could give you a massive cavity.
“I’ll get you another drink, Mara,” she says, grabbing a cup. She fills it with about a centimeter of liquid and hands it over.
“Thank you so much. You’re so considerate.” I knock the swallow of punch back in one gulp, then push past her in search of some paper towels. Alex is still standing there, watching us passive-aggressively claw at each other while his sweater suffers the consequences.
“Hey, I have some napkins in my car,” he says, tapping my elbow. “Come on.”
Without another glance at Greta, I follow Alex back to the car, glad to get away from the melee. He opens the passenger door and roots around in the glove compartment before pulling out a pile of Sonic napkins. He dabs fruitlessly at his sweater. Soon he gives up, tossing the pink-tinted mess into the back seat. He leans against the car and runs his hand through his hair.
“Not really your kind of party?” I ask.
“Not really, no. I come because Owen annoys the hell out of me until I agree.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
He laughs. “Plus, I try to make sure he doesn’t make an ass of himself.”
“I do believe that. For many seconds.”
Alex’s smile widens and he looks down, scuffing one boot-clad foot against the other.
“So what is your scene?” I ask. Alex has always been something of a puzzle. Well, not so much a puzzle as an anomaly among teenage boys, especially considering his best friend is Owen. Where my brother is all wind and noise, Alex is the smooth surface of a lake. Pebblebrook can get pretty competitive, especially for people in leadership roles like Owen and Alex, but Alex never gets ruffled. He’s a quiet Korean-American kid who shrugs when Owen takes over first chair, almost as if he’s relieved, frequents the gym at least three times a week because his arms are oh-my-god gorgeous, and reads tattered Stephen King novels in his spare time.
Alex shrugs and glances away, a tiny smile settling on his mouth. This wordless gesture is nothing new, which is exactly why after years of friendship by proxy, I still don’t know Alex all that well. He’s beyond economical with his words. Weirdly, he doesn’t come off as aloof or as though he doesn’t want to talk to you. More like he hasn’t figured out the right words yet and he refuses to waste your time.
“What’s the story with this car?” I ask when it’s clear he’s not going to offer anything else. I pat the butter-yellow hood.
“Oh, god.” He releases a single laugh and drags his hand down his face. “Um. My sister won it.”
“Really? Like at a raffle or something?”
“No . . . on The Price Is Right?”
I try to swallow a laugh and fail, choking a little. “Is that a question?”
“It’s an I-can’t-believe-I’m-actually-speaking-these-words declarative sentence.”
“She was really on The Price Is Right?”
“Yep. A couple of months ago, she and a bunch of her college friends took a bus to LA for the weekend and waited in line for hours. I’m pretty sure they were still drunk from the night before. Who knew she was such a price-guessing savant?”
“And she didn’t want to keep it?”
