Just as I'd asked, Dylan Frost is waiting for me at the local park. I'd chosen that spot because it was neutral ground, not the minefields of my home or his.
If not for Dylan's look of understandable discomfort and anxiety, I almost don't recognize him. Gone are the faded old t-shirts and dirty jeans. He's now dressed in a new gray t-shirt, a dark sports jacket that even Greasy Bitch would approve of, and well-fitted jeans. His hair is a strange shade of light red under the glare of the yellow lamppost, its bulb surrounded by a dozen fireflies.
He turns towards me when the click-clack of my five-inch heels echoes into his range.
"Ambrosia, I don't —"
He appears to have forgotten what he was going to say when I step into full view. His gaze is nothing like the lecherous stare of Justin Summers, and it makes me more nervous than I'd ever admit.
The black body-con (more like body-gone because I might just explode from the pressure) dress must be doing its job, judging by the slack-jawed look on Dylan's face. Full sleeves, mid-thigh length, an oval strip cut out of the fabric two inches below the collarbone.
"Uh, wow," he says with a nervous smile. "I almost didn't recognize you."
"I could say the same about you," I retort, gesturing to his outfit.
He gives a short laugh, running a hand through his hair self-consciously.
"Are you sure you want me to come to this thing?"
He looks as though he has prepared himself for me to change my mind about this and send him home. It takes one glance at his wide ocean eyes for the damned guilt to return with a vengeance.
"Yeah, Frost. Come on."
***
I can't think of a single good reason why we should do this. And yet, here we are, standing just outside Greasy's three-storey home. Despite its grandeur, her house is the Chlorophyll Kid to Sean Larsson's Batman.
"Time to party," I mutter with the same enthusiasm as, say, "I have severe diarrhea."
We push through the door and the throngs of gyrating bodies. Red cups are raised everywhere, boys and girls erupting with cheers every few seconds.
"First things first," I say, reaching towards the nearest table.
It's not until I urge Dylan to empty the contents of his third cup that people begin to notice. A ripple of surprised murmurs passes through the crowd. I strain to hear it over the heavy dance music.
"Is that . . . Dylan Frost with Amber?"
"What's he doing here?"
"Who invited him?"
Nice.
To my horror, the table is now completely devoid of cups. I need more liquid courage before Greasy and her subhuman minions spot Dylan.
"Wait right here, Frost," I say to him.
"Where are you going?" he asks in a light slur, his eyes glinting under the dull lights.
"Refill," I say, pointing to our empty cups. "I'll be back in a minute."
I step away from him before he can protest. It takes longer than a minute just to wade through the crowd and reach the kitchen. Larsson's leaning against the countertop laden with cups, his arms wrapped around Greasy's waist. A group of football players and their girlfriends crowd around their Jock King and Ice Queen.
YOU ARE READING
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...
