“Bullshit. No way have you jumped from the roof into the pool!”
“Can we talk?” I ask, hand on hip. A chorus of “oohs” erupts from the gaggle of twats around him.
He shrugs. “I don’t know that there’s much to talk about.”
“Marc, look, I—”
“I’ve said what I have to say and that’s it, okay?” More snickers break out around him.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Oh, fuck off, losers.”
Marc gives me the world-weary look of a forty-year-old divorcé. “Actually, guys, if you could give us a sec,” he says, and they slink off, smirking. Once they’re gone, he turns to me sharply. “What exactly do you want from me, Natalie?”
The edge in his voice slaps more life into me. I want this. I want him.
“An explanation for what the hell happened today woul—”
“What more could you need? I don’t want to be with you. I want you to leave me the fuck alone. Now, piss off.”
Despite the kind invitation, he’s the one who actually walks away. I immediately scan the crowd around me. A few people are looking over, hateful smiles on their faces. Nosy bastards and bitches, the lot of them.
Even though only a few people will have heard what he said, everyone could read our body language, and the few people within earshot have already whispered their version of events to their neighbors. I can see the gossip spreading through the party like wildfire in real time.
For the third time that night, my face is hot with shame. Emily finds me—rescues me, really. She whisks me away to a bathroom, dabs away my tears.
“You’re a bad bitch, Nat.”
“Yes,” I sniffle. “Yes, I am.” Although I don’t feel like one—and with Marc Baxter so publicly declaring me Unwanted, I’m not so sure other people will be convinced, either. Being an object of desire for a boy like Marc Baxter comes with social currency, social currency I wasn’t born with, and social currency I’ve worked for. I can feel my balance depleting.
The party rages on. Emily and I unearth a bottle of top-shelf tequila that Marc has tried to hide away and we go to town on it. Before long, my dizziness graduates into blurriness. Everyone looks fuzzy. My casual clumsiness escalates into something more volatile, and several glasses are broken.
I’d love to say that my drama with Marc is quickly forgotten, but it’s obvious that people are talking about it through the night. About me. Some of his friends come over to say they’re sorry to hear how things went down. They touch my shoulder, my waist, my ass, as they say this. I suppose I don’t have a “hands-off” rule on me anymore. I no longer belong to Marc Baxter. I slip away from quick palms and into pulsating crowds of dancing bodies. The tequila bottle never leaves my side. Someone pinches my bum and I hate it, but I drink until I don’t care anymore.
And the rest is fragments.
Elbowing my way to the front of a toilet queue and chundering everywhere.
A text from my mother asking if I’m going to bed at a sensible time at my “sleepover,” ignored.
More tequila.
More dancing.
Spilled drinks. A bottle of rum carelessly elbowed to pieces on the kitchen tiles.
More tequila.
Cannonballing into the pool with my prom dress on.
Shivering.
More tequila.
A search for dry, warm clothes.
I know where Marc’s room is.
A door opened. A sudden scream. Two naked bodies interlocked.
