Candy [MCCARTNEY]

TEN

IS THE FOOL STILL SITTING ON THE HILL?

✞

Paul was inconspicuous with his dark shirt, dark pants, and uncombed hair. The beat of the loud music put him on edge, changing the rhythm of the blood pumping through his veins to something more melodic. He was both gladdened and annoyed that he blended in so well with the sea of teenagers. If he wasn't focusing so hard on reaching his end destination without being noticed, he would have severely disapproved of the couple making out in a dark corner and the group of smokers he pushed through at the front door.

Rebecca was leaning heavily against him, trying her hardest to hold her head up, but ultimately failing. It was amusing. He couldn't help but compare her to the first time he had gotten drunk — except, right now, he was going to have to haul this drunk girl up the stairs and there was nothing amusing about that.

Her legs were heavy and her hair kept falling in front of her face, but she managed to stomp up the steps with Paul's help. One of his arms was around her waist, keeping her from rolling back down, and the other on the banister.

"Do you know which room?" Paul asked, once they had reached the upstairs floor, now standing in the hallway. There were a bunch of closed doors, all identical except for one with a piece of paper taped to it reading 'toilet'.

"Hmm?" Rebecca hummed.

"Where are you sleeping?" Paul repeated, growing antsy. He really didn't want her to throw up again and he also didn't want someone to come bursting out of the toilet to see them.

The idea of someone misinterpreting Paul taking a drunk girl into a dark room was making him feel nauseous himself. Thankfully, Rebecca lifted an arm and pointed to the end of the hallway. "Uh, in there."

The end room had an air mattress on the floor beside a desk and computer, heavy curtains covering the only window. What Paul assumed to be Rebecca's bag was beside the mattress and he felt immense relief.

"Okay, here you go," Paul said. Gently, he lowered Rebecca onto the mattress where she sat with her head on her knees, swaying from side to side.

"I'm dying," she groaned.

"You're not dying," Paul laughed, watching her, helpless. He didn't know where to find a bucket or medicine; he couldn't do much for Rebecca except talk to her. "Why don't you lay down, yeah?"

At his command, the girl leaned back on the mattress, her eyes closed. She looked sweet — the light coming from the hallway lit up the shine in her hair that was spread out on the single, skinny pillow beneath her head. She rolled onto her side and curled up.

"Is there a blanket here somewhere?" Paul said.

Rebecca reached into a back pocket and pulled out her phone, tossing it on the floor beside her. "I'm cold."

"I know, I'll go find one for you," Paul replied, despite having no more of a clue where to find a blanket than a bucket.

He walked out of the room, closing the door only slightly, and stood for a moment, trying to figure what he was doing. How could this possibly happen to him? Who was he kidding: of course it would only happen to him. Only Paul could have stumbled into this situation, where the teenage girl from church who had some rabid, fixed crush on him would become his responsibility, at a party that she'd drank too much at. How could it not?