Sean Larsson is the junior quarterback of the high school football team. He is disgustingly rich, frighteningly muscular and very popular. Of course, it's the order of nature that Greasy Bitch should be his girlfriend.
Like clockwork, Sean hosts a party every Saturday night. And right now, I'm attending said party because I have a social standard to maintain.
When someone is not invited to Sean Larsson's party, Greasy (and her posse of subhuman minions) will track them down on Monday morning. They will corner them in the hallway and feed on their shame and fear. These 'raids' serve as their daily dose of caffeine.
The lighthouse thief with the ocean eyes would know.
"Amber!" Justin Summers shouts as he heads towards me from across the room. "Am-burr!"
I continue to shake my hips in exaggerated movements, pretending not to hear his drunken slurs. The air is pounding with loud pop music, the beats resonating in my heart. But I'm forced to take note of Justin when his brawny arm winds itself around my waist.
"Hey," I say, plastering a fake smile on my face.
Evy Thomas and several other girls watch me and the hot, popular, perfect middle linebacker discreetly.
Blessed with the mental capacity of a jellyfish, Justin is one of Sean Larsson's best buddies. We have had dinner together a few times. But before you start mashing our names together, let me tell you this: our dates don't carry any commitment. I am the Vanessa Hudgens to Justin's Zach Efron; we 'date' purely for the gossip. Except, we aren't promoting a cheesy musical about basketball and tween angst.
Justin raises his red plastic cup to mine in a 'Cheers!' gesture, but he is so drunk that he loses control of his movement. His cup crashes into mine, spilling cheap beer on the floor. Justin bursts into raucous laughter at this, doubling over as tears stream from his dark eyes. I roll my eyes and continue to dance.
A few moments later, I feel Justin leaning into my ear.
"How's the party?" he shouts incoherently.
"Awesome," I nod, tipping the remnants of my cup into my mouth.
"Hey, babe?" he grins, turning me to face him.
I cringe at the b-word.
"Yeah?"
"You wanna go upstairs?"
Subtlety might as well have died with the dinosaurs.
"Yeah, okay," I say, allowing him to lead me by the hand.
We wade through a sea of sweaty bodies to one of the bedrooms in Sean Larsson's palatial home. Justin trips over his feet several times as we climb the wide staircase. He seems to be in no condition to do what he intends to do tonight. I expect him to throw up or pass out cold any second now.
Justin closes the door behind me when we enter a spacious, unoccupied bedroom. He collapses on the bed, clutching his now empty cup like a lifeline. He smiles sleepily, patting the spot next to him.
"How drunk are you?" I ask, sitting at the edge of the queen-sized bed.
"Very," he says.
He tugs at the back of my green dress until I am lying next to him, the spring mattress bouncing underneath. Justin looks at me through hooded eyes, his calloused hands trailing up and down my arms. He breathes in deeply as though he's preparing to say something intelligent and touching.
"You're so hot," he whispers finally.
So much for intelligent and touching.
"Thanks," I say with a dry laugh.
"I bet you'd look even better with your clothes off," he says, stretching his arms over his head.
"Aren't you smooth?" I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
In response, Justin leans forward and drops his mouth on mine. The kiss is all teeth and tongue, beer and pizza, energy and exhaustion. Suddenly, he does a weird cough and pulls away from me.
"I feel sick," he mutters, clapping a hand over his mouth.
"Wow," I laugh. "I'm that good, huh?"
"Not you, babe," he rushes to assure me. "It's the . . ."
Justin stops short as another gurgle escapes his throat. I am seized by a momentary panic when he lurches forward. I climb off the bed and run towards the attached bathroom, throwing the door open.
"Wait!" I shout as I attempt to drag him into the bathroom. "Hold it in for a second!"
I have had to lift K-Stew on several occasions. The only upside to picking up a one-ninety-pound Saint Bernard is that you gain enough strength to push a drunk jock into the bathroom before he throws up all over you.
(Look at me, putting my abundant strength and talents to good use.)
The next few moments are a loud, nasty, somewhat traumatizing blur as Justin throws up into the toilet violently.
"Here," I say when he stops gagging, handing him a capful of mouthwash. "Rinse."
A few minutes later, I lead Justin back into the bedroom. He climbs under the covers, his six-foot-tall frame stretching across the bed.
"Shit," he murmurs, his bloodshot eyes drifting shut. "Tonight was supposed to be amazing."
"I don't know about amazing," I say with a shudder. "But I won't be able to forget it, I'll give you that."
---
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Lighthouse Lullaby | ✓
Short Story|Highest rank #2 in Short Story| Ambrosia "Amber" Underwood is a seventeen-year-old high school junior with warped perceptions of the world. She has no friends, only acquaintances. No boyfriend, only a vague dating arrangement with a jock. A lover o...
