One Big Cliché

Chapter 15

Nicole

          Dustin thinks I won't do it. I can't tell if I'm insulted or relieved. On the bright side, this could mean that my reputation is pure and unscathed by bad behavior. On the downside, this could mean people view me as timid, and/or unimpeachable. I am neither of these things. At least I don't think so. It's not that I'm scared to rebel and be wild, it's just that, quite frankly, I don't see the point. Getting high and wasted would just do damage to my body, and I don't want to be the one to cause my own premature death, you know? Also, why would I put myself in a potentially dangerous situation, where you can't trust your drinks unattended, or you aren't sober enough to tell the difference between a safe and hostile situation? It just doesn't make sense. That doesn't make me afraid, it makes me smart. Right? Right.

          This is what I tell myself as I wait patiently for my ride. Part of me is annoyed that my dad hasn't set up another driving test for me, but if I'm being honest with myself, it's my own fault. I never bring it up, and he's too busy to remember. He mentioned it once, a few months ago, but it was too soon after my last failed attempt, and I wasn't ready to fail again. I'm sure by my senior year it'll be a must, since I'll need a car for college, but until then, I can make do. I just need to practice more on the road. Somehow.

          My watch shows it's midnight, and my patience starts waning, since I don't see any headlights and this was the time we agreed on. Sarah would have been early, but there's no way she could sneak out. I wouldn't ask that of her, anyway, but she knows about the party. I had to ensure her that I wouldn't touch any kind of substance so she would stop freaking out and threatening to call my dad. Who, by the way, thinks I'm going to Sarah's. He won't notice anything strange, though, and neither will The Wench, who's on her fifth glass of Moscato.

          People mingle about in the living, dining, and kitchen areas; most of them are old enough to have at least half their scalps covered in thinning grey hair, but there are a few younger ones, and of course the majority of the wives look not much older than me. Cosmetics: they do wonders.

          "Nicole, before I forget," Dad says suddenly, making me jump. I hadn't noticed him approaching. "When did you change the knob on your door?"

          I blanch. Try to recompose myself. "Not long ago. Last week maybe."

          "Lyndsay noticed it earlier. Is something wrong? Do you feel like you aren't given enough privacy?" He frowns into his drink, then looks up at me a little timidly. As if he's about to talk to me about the birds and the bees. I blanch again. "If you feel like you need more privacy, all you have to do is say something, Bug."

          And now I feel like I've hurt his feelings, somehow. Although the Lyndsay comment has me grinding my teeth. "No, it's not that. I just... wanted a lock."

          He nods, seeming content with the answer. I watch him take a drink of his champagne and then promptly get called away.

          Headlights finally come into view, and I give one last glance back at my dad, who's discussing something with a man and a woman a few years older than him. I think they're colleagues he's had over before, but I'm not sure. Nobody notices when I slip out of the door and walk down the driveway, my heels clacking against the cement.

          The car parks, and I hop in, giving John a smile and pulling a twenty out of my pocket for gas. Well, that and for driving out at midnight to take me to a party that I know I don't belong at, when he could be sleeping or watching the ball drop.

          He takes it after a second of pensive debating and says, "Happy New Year."

          "Happy New Year to you, too," I chime. "How was your day?"