Speechless

                                      six hours later

                I don’t know how I’m going to talk myself out of this                     one.

                My phone buzzes insistently in my hand, like it knows I’m                     trying to avoid it. A glance at the front screen confirms my impending doom: MOM                     flashes there like it’s mocking me. Crap.

                Kristen nudges me in the rib cage with her elbow. “Who the hell                     is calling you?” she demands. “Everyone worth knowing is already here.”

                It’s true; the party is in full swing, the room filled with                     half of Grand Lake High’s student body—well, the half that matters, anyway—and                     loud music. It’s no secret Kristen Courteau throws the best parties. Absentee                     parents, an older brother who has no problem supplying minors with alcohol, a                     big house with a top-notch stereo system—it’s everything a group of rowdy                     sixteen-year-olds could ask for.

                On this couch I’m packed in tight like a sardine, stuck between                     Kristen and Brendon Ryan. Brendon Ryan, the last person I want knowing that my                     mother is calling to check up on me.

                “It’s my mom,” I explain, leaning my head close to hers to be                     heard over the racket and praying that Brendon is too absorbed in downing his                     beer to pay attention. “She’ll be pissed if I don’t answer.”

                “Then answer it,” Kristen says, like it’s that simple.

                “And have her hear all this?” I                     shake my head. “She’ll kill me!”

                “Fine, then don’t answer it.”                     Kristen rolls her eyes and knocks back the rest of her drink. Somehow she                     manages to look good doing even that. “I’m getting more beer,” she informs me,                     peeling herself off the couch and dancing her way across the room to the cooler                     and abandoning me to resolve this problem on my own. Sometimes Kristen can be                     such a bitch. If she wasn’t my best friend, I’d probably hate her.

                Next to me, Brendon curls his hand over the cap of my shoulder                     and leans in close to my ear. Normally I’d be thrilled because a) Brendon Ryan                     is touching me, b) his near proximity means I can smell him, and c) BRENDON RYAN                     IS TOUCHING ME OH MY GOD (!!!), but I can’t even savor the moment because I’m                     too panicked. Also, tonight he reeks too much of beer and cloying cologne. This                     is a disappointment because I always assumed that a perfect creature such as                     Brendon would smell of spring rain and mountain breezes and other heavenly                     aromas.