Speechless(50)

                These days the only heads I turn are the ones who want to glare                     at me.

                Brendon wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand, turns                     around and—oh. Eye contact! Eye contact! Houston, we have visual!!

                Oh, God, what do I do now? Think, dammit, think! Suddenly,                     inexplicably, I’m raising my hand in a wave. Brendon, frozen in place, looks at                     me like a deer caught in the headlights of a semi barreling forward at one                     hundred miles per hour. So then we’re both just standing there, six feet apart,                     gawking at each other like idiots.

                The warning bell rings, loud and shrill. We both jump, startled                     out of this weird transfixed staring contest. Brendon’s face burns bright red,                     and he hesitates, looking like maybe he wants to say something. But he doesn’t.                     Instead he hurries off and merges into the stream of stragglers rushing for last                     period, disappearing down the hall in the opposite direction.

                God, he must hate me for embarrassing him with my come-ons at                     the party. I’ve been so preoccupied dealing with the repercussions of ratting                     out Warren and Joey that it’s easy to forget everything else that happened. To                     him I’ll always be the ditzy alcoholic slutbag who tried to jump his bones that                     one time.

                Even if I could explain myself, what would there be to say?

                * * *

                Last year I went to every school-sanctioned dance,                     except for the senior prom, of course, which isn’t held in the gymnasium anyway                     but at the one nice hotel Grand Lake has in midtown. But as for the                     rest—Homecoming, Spring Fling, End-of-Year—you name it and I was there. Well, at                     least for part of it, anyway, since usually about an hour after arrival Warren                     would inevitably get bored and want to leave, and since he was our ride, that                     meant we all had to go. So we’d all pile into his truck and head over to                     Kristen’s.

                The dances themselves are lame. Student Council is in charge of                     organizing them, and all they do is throw up some streamers in the gym and pay                     some of the tech kids to DJ. Really it’s just an elaborate excuse for all the                     guys and girls to grind on each other to that month’s Top Forty until it gets so                     obscene the chaperones intervene.