Retrace the Lines

Josh

I blink once.

Twice.

Thrice.

Nope, she's still here. This is really happening.

I scrutinise her slowly, trying to absorb every detail. Same ginger hair, same cascading waves, same calm, blue eyes. My eyes slowly pan down, and hover over her snug T-shirt and denim shorts.

She grew up well.

My smirk falters slightly as I register the blatant shock on her face. I stifle a sigh and absentmindedly tousle my hair. It's not as if I can be too surprised to see her, I always knew there was a chance of this happening.

It all began some weeks ago, thanks to an absolute asshole by the name of Coby Molloy.

It all started in class, 15 minutes before we were freed for summer break. I was lying down on my desk, head on my arm in a pleasant doze when I felt a foot kick the back of my chair. I groaned and slowly rolled up, ready to find (and strangle) the culprit. I turned around to find a grinning Coby, leaning forward like a depraved meerkat.

I decided to humour him.

"What can I do for you Molloy?" I asked, stifling a yawn and resting my head in my hand.

You see, Coby is one of those football players who will pick a fight with every guy on the team and piss everyone off but is tolerated because of the kick ass parties he throws. Thanks to his rich parents, he gets to feel popular for the night and the entire grade has a place to get smashed.

Works in everyone's favour.

"Listen, there's a start of summer celebration at mine tonight. Lots of girls, lots of booze. You in?" He shot me a smirk, as though he already knew my answer.

I considered my options for a second.

"Well, I have nothing better to do. I'll be there." I turned back down onto my desk, trying to salvage some sleep for the last ten minutes. At the time, this seemed like a fairly harmless decision. The same choice I made every Friday night.

If only I had just said no. Gone to a movie. Baked a cake. Literarily anything other than going to that fucking house.

The party started the same as it always does, a few guys from the football team swung by to pick me up, beer in hand. The windows of the old jeep were all the way down, the radio blasts seeping into the quiet street.

As we pulled up to Molloy's house it was clear that the party was well underway. Plastic cups had littered the front grass, and there were already a few people huddled on the curb clearing trying not to vomit. A few guys were heaving a keg through the front door.

We all tumbled out of the car, my friend Brax cheering obnoxiously as we stepped into the threshold, already slightly tipsy.

After greeting some people in the hallway, I sat down on the nearest armchair and surveyed the room, checking to see if there were any girls interesting enough to dance with. Unfortunately, the first person who walked up to me was certainly no girl.

At least, not technically.

Coby Malloy swaggered up to me, a half empty beer bottle tucked precariously in his hand.

"What's up, quarterback?" He had barked at me as he swung his bottle in his hands.

It was barely 10:30, and he already reeked of alcohol, a dark patch lining the upper collar of his shirt - probably spilled beer.

I was in no mood for his shitty attitude tonight, so I gave him a curt nod and looked away. I hoped that if I just ignored him he would get bored, and eventually go pester someone else. But I should have known better.