5
“Teena, did you invite Evan Brighton?” Karen Walsh’s shrill voice came through the intercom in Teena’s room. “He has an invitation, but I don’t know why.”
If you wanted something done right, you didn’t ask a drunk girl to do it. She’d told Karen she was taking a little break—after learning Cameron was going to bring that non-Virgin Mary, Nina, she needed a breather—but to let her know when Evan Brighton got there. Teena should have given the assignment to someone who hadn’t been mainlining Jell-O shots all night.
“I’ll be right down,” Teena sighed, letting go of the speaker button on her nightstand. “Subtle, Karen,” she mumbled to herself as she sprang up from her oak four-poster bed.
Teena had about given up on the loser, figuring he’d chickened out.
She wove past a group of her girlfriends, all wasted and comparing hair textures. “My hair is so fine,” whined Nathalie Oliverio, clutching her straight caramel strands. “I can’t do anything with it. Look at Teena’s hair. It’s so thick.”
Teena smiled tightly. Locking up Nathalie for the night would be great. Actually, she was kind of sick of all the guests who she wasn’t locking in the wine cellar, aka the Loser Dungeon. She used to like hosting the most exclusive party at Ermer High—her freshman year, even seniors had begged her for invitations—but now that she was a senior, throwing the year’s biggest bash had lost its luster.
In the living room, defensive lineman Dave Brandt was performing yet another keg stand, with three other football players holding up his massive, jiggly frame. As he chugged upside down, his Ermer Elephants shirt slid down, exposing his pasty belly. Nasty.
“Thanks, Karen, I’ll take it from here.” Teena patted Karen’s bony shoulder, exposed in an all-wrong off-the-shoulder sweater. Teena greeted Evan with a thousand-watt smile.
She was surprised to see him looking so … good. She knew he had the basics: a lithe, athletic frame; a decent face; and thick, sandy-blond hair. And here, on her doorstep, he’d encased his basics in a cashmere sweater that cut close to his lean abdomen and a pair of dark jeans that hinted at muscular legs and showed off a very cute butt, Teena’s boy weakness. Evan Brighton was supposed to show up at her party in an ugly polo shirt still creased by store folds and a pair of Dockers that Mommy had ironed for Sunday’s sermon.
“Hi, uh, Teena,” he said, picking up a Jewel bag at his feet and handing it to her. “I, uh, brought some chips and dip.”
Okay, here was the loser she knew and didn’t love. Who brought chips and dip to her party? Would he pull out Scattergories next? Teena forced herself not to laugh, instead taking Evan by the arm.
“You’re so thoughtful! Thank you,” she said sweetly, steering Evan into the living room. “I think there’s a bowl downstairs that needs refilling. Do you want to come with me?”
Evan’s ruddy cheeks turned redder. “Um, sure,” he said, smiling widely.
This was just too easy. She probably could have just asked Evan outright, “Hey, I’m going to lock you underground for several hours, maybe all night, okay?”
“Come on.” She brushed past Karen, Nathalie, and several other girls. They watched her, bewildered either by Evan’s new look or by the fact that Teena was talking to him. She had her reasons, though. Evan had to pay for getting her busted in calculus. And while Teena could take an occasional detention for using her cell phone in class or showing up late for first-period French without a note, she’d never in her life been suspended before. She’d had to give up her red Honda Pilot for a full week, and her dad had started imposing limits on her Visa card.
As for Leo, she should have left him down in the cellar to rot the same day they’d hooked up there. She hated that he’d been the one to stop calling her. And even in the middle of their fling, or whatever it had been, he’d treated her like a piece of meat. Like he was so deep and thoughtful and intellectual, and she was the moron who looked good naked. She grinned to herself, thinking of Leo’s face as she shut the door on him. Who was the moron now?
She’d really only intended to exact revenge on Leo and Evan. Sarabeth had been a crime of passion. It was true—she’d never have invited her to the party if she could help it. But Cameron could make her act not like herself at all. He’d hinted that it would be nice of her to throw an invite his sister’s way. So finally, on Friday, at school, she’d casually said, “I have a few extra invites for my party tonight. Do you think your sister would still want to go?” Cameron had raised an eyebrow and looked at her skeptically, but she’d been sincere. Sure, she didn’t want losers at her party, but a girl had to do what a girl had to do to get the guy she wanted to do.
Teena turned to look back at Evan, who was walking goggle-eyed through the kitchen, where things had gotten even rowdier as more liquor was consumed. Dahlia Dovetail was sitting on the counter with her legs wrapped around Brad Michner, her ever-present elf boots pressed into his back. Brad’s hands were shoved up her shirt, clumsily fumbling with her breasts.
“Only a little farther,” she purred, watching the blush return to Evan’s face. He really would be cute if it weren’t for his wide-eyed Jesus-freak stare. What girl wanted to date a guy whose stepfather could banish them to hell?
She slowed her steps and took his arm. “You’re not nervous, are you?” She lowered her eyelids, looking up at him through her lashes.
“No,” he said, sounding as nervous as if Teena had started to unbutton his pants. She thumbed the fingerprint pad, slid in the keycard, and opened the door. And there was Leo in the middle of the stairs. Sarabeth stood on the steps behind him, her hands on her hips in a display of attitude Teena would never have imagined possible.
“Is it okay if we open this?” Leo asked, holding up the bottle of Opus One wine that Teena’s dad had bought himself the day he golfed a three-over-par at Goose’s Landing Country Club. The certificate of its authenticity was framed, while Teena’s own birth certificate was stuffed in a box somewhere. Leo knew all of this, because in a weakened state, Teena had entrusted him with a rant about her father and how he cared more about his booze and guns than his own family.
“No!” she shouted, running down the stairs and pulling Evan with her. Her heart beat wildly. Trashing her parents’ house was hardly a big deal—that’s what housekeepers were for—but the demise of Mr. McAuley’s Opus One would be the death of her.
She reached Leo and grabbed for the bottle of wine, her left shoe nearly coming off in the process. Leo waved the bottle tauntingly, holding it hostage over his head.
“It’s yours, if you let us out,” Sarabeth said quietly, a flush in her cheeks. Teena paused. Who did Sarabeth think she was?
“Okay, fine,” Teena said through gritted teeth, hating that she had to give in to these losers. “But you can’t stay for the party.”
“Oh, what a letdown,” Leo said sarcastically.
Teena dug into her pocket for her keycard and realized with a jolt that it wasn’t there. In her rush to grab the bottle from Leo, she’d left it in its slot. On the other side of the entryway.
Her eyes darted up. The door was still open a crack, thank God. She lunged toward it, stumbling forward. Her body connected with the cool metal just as it closed completely, the whooshing, suctioning noise practically slapping her in the face.
Sprawled on the steps, Teena looked up at the top of the stairs helplessly. Now she was trapped, too.