We skirt the woods, and head for the sidewalk along the main road. Cars zip past us at forty, forty-five, fifty miles an hour. I wonder if any of the drivers have been drinking too much. I wonder if everyone we see through the wide, clear windshields is going to make it home. My mind floats full of phrases like “massive trauma to the cranium.”
Steve Burns apparently lives in Randemwood, the neighborhood directly behind Rallyburger. Once we’re in the subdivision, it’s easy enough to tell which house is Steve’s. There are cars lined up and down the block, two wheels in the street and two on the grass. Music leaks from the house’s open windows, and there are people on the front porch talking and laughing. Mostly juniors and seniors.
What are we doing here?
Inside, the party looks pretty much like what you see on TV, which is surprising. People mill around with drinks in their hands, sort of talking. I always thought it was just a Hollywood thing, trying to make high school seem extra cool or something. Every high school “party” I’ve ever been to involved pizza and pretzels and canned pop in someone’s basement, with their mom and dad upstairs. Maybe some card games. Maybe a movie. Ten to twelve people, tops, who all knew each other already.
There are pretzels here. That’s about the only thing that seems familiar. Well, and the guys look mostly the same as usual, dressed in jeans and T-shirts. The girls look fancier than they do at school, in short skirts and slinky tops, or low jeans and tank tops scrunched up to bare their flat stomachs. Lots of jewelry. They’re standing around clutching cans of beer or blue plastic cups that almost seem too big for their hands. They move their hips and their arms a little, sort of dancing in place.
“Do you see Cindy?” Alex cranes his neck.
“Be cool, man,” I warn him. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
Steve’s house is pretty big. On the first floor alone there’s two living rooms, a dining room, a den, a bedroom, and a kitchen. No wonder half of the school fits in here. Steve’s parents must be fairly rich, because they go away for the weekend a lot. We’ve heard tell of Steve Burns’s legendary all-night parties. Some people stay until after midnight, it’s rumored.
In the kitchen we find a bunch of guys who look like they play on the football team. Patrick is in there. He looks a bit surprised to see me, but he catches my eye and nods. Other than that, we pretty much pretend we’ve never spoken before.
“Get you something to drink?” Patrick asks. He sweeps his hand over the offerings like a bartender. The kitchen island is littered with bottles of liquor. I read the labels. Vodka. Tequila. Rum. There’s also orange juice. Cranberry. Club soda.
Front and center there’s a padlocked wooden box with a slot in the top. Alex sticks a couple of bucks in the slot. “Beer,” he says. He seems smooth, like he’s done it a thousand times. I’m impressed.
Patrick opens a cooler chest on the floor and tosses us two icy cans of Budweiser.
“None for me, thanks.” I hand it back.
Patrick shrugs and cracks it open himself. Alex cracks his, too, but doesn’t sip. As we leave the kitchen, he still doesn’t drink any. I guess it’s worth the two bucks to him to hold it and look like he’s drinking.
“Do you see her?” he repeats.
“Dude. I’m looking.” I get the feeling that this quest for Cindy is somehow going to land us both in some kind of major trouble. The beery smell of this party alone, if it sticks to me, will be good enough for a grounding.
“Let’s go to the backyard,” Alex says. “Maybe she’s out there.”
We walk through the dining room to get to the sliding glass doors to the back porch, which is epically huge and full of couples talking and kissing and holding hands and leaning into each other.
“Ew,” Alex says. “Let’s not.”
We turn around, and there she is. Cindy Duncan, in all her supposed glory. I gotta be honest. I don’t see it. She has slightly bucked teeth and a pointy nose and her eyes are really close together. She’s pretty-ish, but the way Alex goes on about her you’d think she was a runway model. She’s wearing a short, strappy dress and carrying a blue cup and smiling. She has good legs, though. That’s for sure.
“Hi, Alex.”
“Oh. Uh. Hi, uh, Cindy.”
“Hi, Cindy,” I say.
“Hi, Kermit,” she says, still looking at Alex. Then she falters. Looks at me. “Oh gosh. Hi. I’m so sorry about Sheila.”
“Thanks.” My gaze falls to the carpet. No one has said her name to me in days.
“How are you?” she says. I’m about to tell her “Fine, I guess.” But she isn’t talking to me anymore.
“I’m good,” Alex says. “Great party, eh?”
“Yeah.” Cindy twirls one of her dusty brown locks around her finger. Flirty. I take that as a good sign.
I edge away. “I think I’ll, um, I’ll go get something to drink.”
“Okay,” Alex says.
“Anyone need anything?”
Cindy shakes her head. “We’re good,” Alex says. He can’t get rid of me fast enough.
Since I’m not actually getting a drink, I don’t really have anywhere to go, so I watch from the dining room doorway. Cindy twirls her hair and giggles. She sways back and forth, from one foot to the other. Maybe she’s a little drunk already, but it’s hard to tell because girls also just kind of do that sometimes. Alex is nervous, but he’s doing good. Cindy’s laughing. Alex gets brave and puts his hand on her arm. You go, buddy. Cindy steps a little closer to him. Yes. Alex leans in and kisses her. I should avert my eyes, but I don’t. It’s long awaited and lovely. Alex slides his arm around her and with his other hand opens the screen door, steering Cindy out onto the couples’ porch.
Part of me cheers, and part of me aches. Not the Sheila part. A new part.
I think it’s the part of me that hangs with Alex at Rallyburger every Friday, wondering if now that, too, might be over.