Page 12 of Dirty Chorus

“Well, how does it feel? Graduating and all.”

She gives me a half shrug, getting her hands on a White Claw. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. What was yours like?”

I take another drink, letting the cold beer coat my throat. I’d rather chug the pineapple-flavored White Claw she cracks open, but I don’t want to come off like a seltzer-drinking pussy. “I’ve only walked across a stage to sing a song, never touched a diploma.”

She blinks several times, and her lips press into a line as we stand in silence. I proceed to take several large sips. That’s one fact about myself I hate admitting to. I don’t have a diploma. When she shifts weight from one foot to the other, I can read her mind. It’s screaming at her that I’m a red flag. No education, a starving musician, looking like a complete bum. Girls don’t dig that, but I don’t plan on going back.

“I’m sure your boyfriend was really happy to see you walk?” I sip again..

“I guess...” A strained chuckle slips off her lips. “... if he had actually showed up.” She mumbles out the words, and she taps her fingers against the metal can. “You seriously never graduated from high school?” She scowls at me as if it’s not a common occurrence.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“No... No...” She points a finger at me. “Why didn’t you graduate?”

Because I became an orphan at fifteen years old and decided to leave only to come back to take care of my grandfather and his record store. But let’s not dump that type of nuclear bomb on her. Either way, it would make her feel sorry for me, and I don’t like people pitying me. “No reason at all,” I say. “Why didn’t your boyfriend show up at your graduation?”

Her jaw muscles tighten. “Shit happens, but umm...” She glances behind her shoulder and starts to walk backward, and the pit of my stomach fills with stones. Yep, I'm about to get ditched. “So, umm... I should go find my boyfriend, and you should go find your girlfriend?”

Charlie uses an index finger to point at the beerpong table where Amy is squealing her brains out holding her hands up as a group of guys drink from their cups.

Chapter 8

Charlie

Ishouldn’t have opened that door.

My brain and body disconnected and all I could do was stare. Noah’s hand tangled in some girl's hair is ingrained in my memory bank. The way his head tilted back, his lips parting just enough to let out a sound that made my thighs burn... His breathless expression, the sound of him losing control, and the curve of his jaw when he glanced directly at me... It’s almost too much.

I hate myself because I always thought dicks were gross. I’m always gagging at those little stray hairs on the ballsacks, and all those jagged blue veins running down the middle. And yet, the mere seconds of seeing Noah’s dick has been burned into the back of my eyelids. I’ve seen them crooked, fat and squishy, and too thick to handle. His was molded straight out of heaven, glistening and looking smoother than baby’s skin. That fucking thing could win an award, but why the hell am I thinking about another guy's dick?

I want to erase the image of Noah getting head right out of my memory bank, forget about how the dim bathroom light caught the tattoos on his arms. Even the sounds that girl made. I want to forget it entirely. I should've knocked before going in, and I should've immediately slammed the door.

I’m not the kind of girl who watches, or gets turned on by it either. It may have only been seconds, but when he glanced at me, keeping my gaze, I swear on my life he wished it was me. Now my face is on fire and my hands are shaking as I grip the edge of the sink in the same bathroom he was in, not even fifteen minutes ago.

I splash my face with cold water. I should go find Payton and tell her we should dip for the night, but I lost her somewhere in the crowd, and I bet she's hovering over my brother somewhere in the massive amount of people. The one thing I’m avoiding is talking to Brody, even though I need to.

I head back down the hallway, into the pulsating house. It’s alive with bass thudding through the wall, shaking the picture frames. My heels stick to the tile from spilt beer.

I push through the crowd, my hair sticking to my neck as I scan faces half-lit by the lights. I picked out one of the football players. He’s big, round and definitely on the defense. I’m not sure what position since I only stare at their asses, but I know he tackles the other team for a living. “Hey!” I tap him with a pointed finger on the shoulder, and he turns around.

I lean into his ear and shout, “Have you seen Brody?”

He shrugs his shoulders, lifting up his red cup. “I saw him heading to the living room to dance the Cupid Shuffle.”

I roll my eyes and glance at the large number of people. They're jumping up and down like waves in an ocean. I pass some girls, laughing as they record reels with glitter on their cheeks, making peace signs. There’s a group of guys attempting to crowd surf. I stand on my tippy toes, but I still don’t see a beefy man with moppy blonde hair.

Another player leans against the wall, wearing his football jersey. He’s checking out the girl in front of him, who is twirling a strand of hair in her finger. “You’re so fucking fine, I can make you mine tonight,” he says to her, licking his lips as he gazes at her breasts that are about to rip through her tight dress.

“Hey!” I push him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me.”

The girl puckers her lips and throws her hands up into the air. “He’s mine, bitch!”

I wave a flat palm in her face. “Excuse me! Have you seen Brody?” I ask over the music.

“I don’t keep tabs on him.”