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You’re leaning against the wall, terrible dance music pounding in your skull, wondering what the hell you’re doing here. This ain’t your sort of party at all, and you sure as hell weren’t invited – the Vortex Club might tolerate your presence here, but they definitely wouldn’t welcome it. You drain the last of the cheap beer you managed to score from a bartender who didn’t check the guest list, and toss the plastic cup to the floor. Why the hell are you here, surrounded by people you hate, listening to music you can’t stand?
No.
That’s a stupid question.
You know exactly why you’re here. Because you knew she’d be here.
Through the writhing teenage bodies, under the flashing lights, on the far side of this disused-warehouse-turned-party-spot, you can see her. Dancing, smiling, chatting, laughing. She’s not a member, as far as you know, but she has the rich shits of the Vortex Club eating out of her hands. One guy is following her around like a puppy, desperate for approval; One girl looks like she wants to kick a puppy, furious at being outshone so effortlessly.
Rachel fuckin’ Amber is why you’re here, and you feel butterflies in your stomach every time she turns her head, hoping she’ll notice you; Butterflies that quickly turn to stone when her gaze slips past you to some asshole Vortex Club member or other. You want to run over there and slap her, or kiss her, or grab her and shake her until she at least acknowledges your existence. But you can’t.
Frustrated, you push yourself away from the wall, onto the dancefloor. The music may be shit, but at least it has a strong beat. You throw yourself into it, blocking out anything except that pounding bassline, and it works, for a while. Your dancing may be more suited to a mosh-pit, but focusing on movement helps you forget everything – no hopes, no fears, no anger, no hate; Just a driving rhythm, and your body in motion.
And then you catch a glimpse of her out of the corner of your eye, and all that focus is lost. Fuck, you need to get out of here. You need a smoke.
-
The night air in the parking lot is cool and refreshing, and you shiver as you feel drops of sweat run down your back. The thick warehouse walls have muffled the noise from inside down to a dull rumble. You light your cigarette at the third attempt – damn cheap disposable lighter – and take a long drag. The familiar ritual and the taste of smoke calm you down – not to mention the hit of nicotine satisfying that subtle, incessant craving.
Jesus, Rachel fucking Amber. You can’t believe you’re so fucked up about a girl you barely even know. You’ve talked to her, what, five times now? It’s just that the first of those times was maybe the most important conversation of your life. She doesn’t know, has no idea what you were about to do, but when she smiles at you, it seems like everything’s going to be ok. You don’t feel like a total, pitiful fuck up. She’s the reason that you bothered to turn up to school that first day; The only reason you’re still attending Blackwell Academy.
You haven’t felt like this about anybody since – and there’s another thing you don’t want to think about. You can’t believe she didn’t see you in there. Goes to show that you’re just not important to her. God, how pathetic. Or maybe she did see your dancing, and decided never to have anything to do with you ever again? That sounds about right. How fucking sad, Price. You’re supposed to be a bad-ass pirate that doesn’t give a fuck about what anybody thinks. Why the fuck are you cowering out here like a total pussy?
-
You grind the cigarette butt out beneath your heel, and flip open the packet to grab another one. Shit, it’s your last one - guess that’s a good a sign as any to end this horror show of a night. Well, at least this one lit easier. You crumple the cigarette packet in your fist and toss it to the ground.
“And here I was about to ask if I could bum a smoke!”
Your head snaps around towards the voice, but you slowly let the smoke escape from your lips, buying yourself a few seconds before you respond.
“Hey, Rachel.” You hope you sound a lot cooler than you feel.
“Hey, Chloe!” she responds, smiling. You knew she wanted to be a model, and that always seemed obvious, natural for her, but here, under the shitty fluorescent exterior lights of the warehouse, with a slight sheen of sweat on her face, she’s so fucking gorgeous it seems inevitable. You look like a damp sack of shit; She looks like a goddess.
“Can I at least have a drag on your cigarette? I forgot to bring mine, and I think I’m gonna go mad if I don’t get my fix soon!”
“Uh, sure!” You pass it over to her, and can’t help but stare as she brings it to her ruby red lips. Lame as it is, you can’t help but think of something you saw in some stupid anime or other: Indirect kiss.
You feel your face flush and you turn away from her and stare out into the darkness beyond the parking lot, hoping that she can’t see your cheeks glowing red in the gloom of night. C’mon Price, keep it together!
She passes the cigarette back to you. “Not your kind of party, huh?”
“Nah, thought I’d give it a shot, but I can’t stand that music – and those stuck-up Vortex Club pricks…”
You panic for a moment, worried that you’d just insulted her friends, but she just laughs.
“Hah, yeah, they can be a bit much! So, what kind of music do you listen to? No, wait, let me guess – you’re more of a rock chick, am I right?”
“Pretty much, yeah – rock, punk, metal, whatever.” You consider listing a few bands you like, but worry that she’ll either not have heard of them – and think you’re some sort of hipster music snob – or worse, she’ll know them and think they’re lame and you have terrible taste in music. “And I like some, like, indie bullshit when I’m in the mood, y’know?”
“Mmm, I can just picture you moping around in your room, listening to some, like, Bright Eyes, or something!” Rachel grins, but without malice, and you can’t help but smile back at her. There go those butterflies again…
The two of you chat inconsequentially – Rachel seems to have an inside line on all the latest school gossip – as you pass the cigarette back and forth, until it is totally and utterly dead. Regretfully, you toss the butt to the ground. Now Rachel will head back into the party, and you’ll be left out here alone again – you’re not gonna go back in there, just to follow her around like puppy-guy earlier. You like to at least pretend you still have a little pride.
Rachel glances over her shoulder at the warehouse door, but then turns back to you with a mischievous grin. “Hey, Chlo? You wanna blow this party? I know I guy we can score some weed from…”
Shit. Woah. She wants to, like, hang out with you instead of those Vortex assholes? And she called you “Chlo”? Ok, calm down, calm down…
“Uh, yeah, sure, sounds cool, Rach…” You wait to see how she reacts to your own little nickname for her, but she just smiles.
“Great, did you drive here? I got a lift from one of the guys…”
“Yeah, I came in my truck,” you reply, pointing to the big, brown rust-bucket in the parking lot, as if it didn’t stand out a mile among the other cars there.
“Oh, so that beast is yours? I’ve seen it a couple of times at school, didn’t know who owned it.”
The two of you head over towards it. “Well, it was cheap, and it gets me where I need to go – mostly.”
“I think it suits you!”
You nudge her playfully with your elbow. “Hey! No need to be insulting!” you say in mock offense, and she bursts out laughing.
“No, I mean it, it’s hella cool”.
You feel yourself blush again at the suggestion that Rachel thinks you’re cool. You pull yourself into the driver’s seat, as Rachel slips in beside you.
You start the engine – at the first attempt, thankfully – and then turn to her with a curious look on your face. “Wait…Hella?”
“Yup, hella. I’m bringing it back,” she says, with such confidence that you can’t help but smile as you pull out of the parking lot.
“Ok, hella it is.”