Just Don't Mention It by Estelle Maskame
“Maybe because I only had my first drink five minutes ago,” I fire back at him, then snatch the bottle out of his hand. He has a point. I can’t be seen at a party sober. That’s not me, so I tilt the bottle against my lips and drink for as long as I can possibly bear the burn of the vodka at the back of my throat, then I pass the bottle back. “I’m gonna go and see who’s all here.”
“Alright,” Kaleb says as he pushes himself back up onto the countertop. He takes a swig too, then lets the bottle hang in his fingertips. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
I decide to turn around and walk away from him before I really do change my mind. I could seriously do with a hit right now, but I figure I’ll crave it even more as soon as Tiffani turns up. That’s when I’ll really need it the most, so for now I’ll wait. I can hold off for another hour, but I need to keep myself distracted, so I head off on a tour of the house to see who exactly is here. So far, Kaleb is the only person I know, give or take a few people I’ve spoken to only briefly before.
In the kitchen, people are pouring drinks. In the living room, people are spilling them. Outside in the backyard, there’s a game of beer pong kicking off among half a dozen guys who are too drunk to stand let alone aim, so I don’t even bother to join in. Instead, I come back inside to toss my empty bottle of beer into the trash and to open a new one, and I notice that Kaleb has already disappeared from his reserved spot up on the countertop. So much for knowing where to find him. The guy couldn’t even last fifteen minutes waiting there.
With a fresh beer in hand, I head off again, this time upstairs. The house isn’t huge, and neither is the guest list. I’m so bored that I’ve resorted to counting how many people are actually here, and so far, I’ve counted twenty-seven. No one appears to even be upstairs except the girl throwing up in the bathroom.
“Are you alright?” I ask her, sticking my head around the doorframe. She doesn’t lift her head from the bowl, only raises her hand and gives me a thumbs-up, so I close the door and leave her alone.
“Tyler? I thought that was you,” a voice says from behind me. When I spin around, there’s a girl quickly making her way up the stairs toward me, a drunken smile on her face. I know her, but it takes me a minute to remember her name.
“Hey, Naomi,” I say. I can’t bring myself to smile at her, probably because I’m still stuck in this weird mood, so I sip at my beer instead. I don’t know what to say to her. She sits in front of me in English Lit, and the only time I ever speak to her is when I need her to translate Shakespeare for me.
“What are you doing up here?” she asks, stopping a mere foot away from me. She leans out to press her hand against the wall, steadying herself to prevent her from swaying. She drunkenly giggles while adjusting her skirt, then pouts up at me. “Shouldn’t you be downstairs? You know, where the alcohol is?”
I shake my head and take the final swig of my beer, leaning down to abandon it on the floor. I can’t remember if it’s my third or my fourth, but either way, I’m still nowhere near drunk and I’m starting to get frustrated. Naomi’s way ahead of me, but I do notice that her hands are empty. “Good point,” I say. “How about a drink?”
“Shouldn’t you be hanging out with Tiffani?”
“She’s not here yet.” I glance at the watch on my wrist. It’s just after ten thirty, so she should be here in around half an hour. I’m dreading the idea of having to face her, which means that I only have thirty minutes to consume as much alcohol as I can in order to blur out the argument that’ll most likely break out between us.
“Oh,” Naomi says, but she’s smiling as she nods. “A drink sounds nice.”
“What do you like?”
“Hmm.” She tilts her head to one side and pretends to deeply consider her answer, right before she grins and leans back against the wall entirely. “Surprise me.”
“Alright. Stay right here.”
Brushing past her, I make my way back downstairs as the music engulfs me all over again. Someone has definitely increased the volume, because it’s now at the point where people are having to yell in order to hear one another, and I shove a guy out of my way so that I can get into the kitchen. I may not be drunk, but I’m not exactly sober either. I’m starting to feel slightly more relaxed, a little more at ease here without Tiffani on one side of me and Dean on the other like I’m so accustomed to.
Kaleb is back up on the countertop again, exploding into laughter with some guy he’s talking to, but when he spots me, he winks and mouths, “Pot?” I shake my head no.
Half my beer has been stolen by the time I find the packs, and there’s only four bottles left. It’s to be expected at house parties, so I steal a random bottle of Bud from someone else and crack it open, then find a cup and scour the center island. I spot a box of Red Bull, so I grab a can and then mix it into the cup with what I’m pretty certain is more than a double measure of vodka. I shrug, crush the can in my hand, then toss it onto the countertop.
“Tyler,” Kaleb says, just as I’m turning to head back upstairs. I glance over my shoulder and he motions for me to come over with his index finger, so I deeply inhale and then make my way back over to him. “You know the rules,” he says, his words a little slurred. “Every time you come into the kitchen, you gotta take a shot.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. This rule has never existed until right now, but who am I to argue with him? Only idiots turn down free shots. “C’mon then.” With both my hands full, I step closer to him and tilt my head back, parting my lips.
Kaleb grabs the bottle and raises it to my mouth. The vodka hits my throat as he tips the bottle up even higher, but he doesn’t stop, only grins in satisfaction as I continue to swallow and swallow and swallow until my stomach physically burns. I can’t keep going, so I clamp my lips shut, only for Kaleb to spill the vodka down my neck and onto my shirt.
“That’s how you do it,” he comments, taking a shot himself with a nod of appreciation. I don’t know how much I just drank, but I’m glad he’s enjoying how queasy I suddenly am. I focus on my breathing for a moment or two until I’m convinced I won’t throw up on the floor.
“You’re an asshole,” I mutter once I’ve recovered. I set Naomi’s cup down so that I can pull my shirt up to dry my neck, then I run a hand through my hair and pick the drink back up. I’m not sure if the house has been this hot the entire time, but heat seems to hit me out of nowhere, and I need to get away from this pounding noise and the bodies pressing all around me. Quickly, I manage to snatch the almost-empty bottle of vodka out of Kaleb’s grip, balancing both it and my bottle of beer between my fingers. He narrows his eyes at me, but all I can do is wink back at him. “You know the rules,” I mimic, backing away. “Every time you leave the kitchen, the bottle goes with you.”
Kaleb rolls his eyes and says, “Touché.” It’s not like there’s much left anyway. A couple shots’ worth, max, and he’s already both drunk and high, so he doesn’t need it. At least not as much as I do.
Someone touches my shoulder and says hey as I make my way back through the living room, but I don’t bother to turn around because I have three drinks in my hands and my focus is on the cup I’ve thrown together for Naomi. It’s filled to the brim and when someone else accidentally knocks against me, I spill a little on the carpet, so I quickly keep moving before anyone notices. Given how drunk half the people around me already are, I’m surprised no one’s thrown up on the carpet yet.
It’s a relief to get back upstairs again. The hallway lights are still off and everything is so still up here with no one around, not even Naomi. I peer around the bathroom door, but even the girl from earlier is gone, so I take a step back out into the hall and call Naomi’s name, though it sounds more like a question. She’s probably not even here anymore.
“In here!” she replies almost immediately, and I don’t know why, but I feel myself exhale in relief at the thought of her still being up here. Who else am I supposed to talk to when there’s no on
I follow the sound of Naomi’s drunken voice into the room across the hall, and I carefully knee the door open, balancing the drinks as I take a few steps into the bedroom. I can’t remember the name of the girl whose party this is, but I doubt this is her room, judging by the NFL posters on the walls. Naomi is leaning against the dresser, her hand on her hip as she studies the poster of Philip Rivers in front of her.
“Her brother likes the Chargers?” she says, glancing over her shoulder at me with a look of exaggerated disgust. Her knowledge takes me by surprise.
“Looks like it,” I say. I could have an entire conversation with her about football, about how much I hate the Chargers, that the 49ers are better, but instead I add, “Here,” and move across the room toward her, closing the distance between us and offering her the drink I’ve mixed up for her.
“You know,” she says, leaning back fully against the dresser and tracing the rim of the cup as she stares down at the drink, “you’re not as big of an asshole as everyone says you are.” Her eyes flash up to meet mine the second she tips the cup to her lips, and I watch her as she drinks while I try to figure out if her backhanded remark was actually a compliment. I think, maybe, it was.
I’m unsure how to reply, so I swig awkwardly at my beer and then ask, “Is it too strong?”
But apparently it’s not, because she holds up a finger and tilts the cup back even further, finishing it off in one. She sucks in a large breath of air once she’s done and slams the empty cup down against the dresser, crushing it beneath her hand. “Did you say it was too strong?”
I blink down at her. Who knew Naomi from English Lit was such a drinker? Because I certainly didn’t, not until now, and although she’s wasted and unable to handle it all, I’m still impressed by the way she shotgunned that drink, given the amount of vodka I put in there. “Wow” is all I can say, and I pass her the vodka bottle, and she finishes that too.
“Can Tiffani drink like I do?” she asks, stepping closer to look up at me with a challenging smirk on her lips, and it pisses me off that she’s brought up Tiffani’s name. I’d only just stopped thinking about her, and I can feel that anger returning as Naomi presses her hand to my chest and moves the empty vodka bottle back to her mouth. Her mascara is smeared beneath her eyes, but that doesn’t stop me from seeing the devious expression that dominates her features. She parts her lips and then encloses them around the bottle neck, her eyes never leaving mine as she slowly runs her tongue around the glass. Then, her voice nothing more than a hushed slur, she presses even closer against me and whispers, “Can she?”
She’s so close, I can almost taste the alcohol on her, and her body is warm, almost too warm, and there’s a lump in my throat that feels as though it might just stick straight through my skin. I swallow hard, but I’m rooted to the spot, paralyzed by her body against mine. “I think this is my . . . my cue to leave,” I murmur, but before I can take a single step back, her hands are on my jaw and her lips are against mine.
It’s so abrupt that I stumble back from the force, but then I regain my balance and grasp her waist and pull her closer, my beer against her hip, my mouth fast in sync against hers, fueled by the alcohol in our bloodstreams. I weave my hand into her hair, but it’s a tangled mess which I only end up pulling at, yet I continue to hold her against me as her hands run down my chest, grabbing fistfuls of my shirt. She tastes like the vodka she’s just consumed and I’m not thinking straight, too distracted by someone’s body against mine that I can’t bring myself to put a stop to it. I don’t want to. I like distractions.
Naomi bites down on my lower lip in what I think is an attempt at being seductive, but she bites too hard and for too long, and I swear that for a second I think she may have torn my lip open. There’s no time to wonder if blood has been shed, because her hands are under my shirt now, running across my chest, all over my skin, until suddenly her fingers are hooked over the waistband of my jeans.
I tense up, and I firmly reach for her wrists and move her hands away before she can go any further. I tear my lips from hers, but I keep my eyes closed as I absorb the reality of what we’re doing, and then, my breathing heavy, I slowly open them again to look at her. “Naomi . . .” I murmur, shaking my head. “I can’t.”
The irritation is clear on Naomi’s face as she harshly pulls her wrists free from my grasp. “Why?”
“You know why,” I say quietly, heaving a sigh and running a hand back through my hair as I turn away from her, moving over to the bed where I sit down and dump my beer on the bedside table.
I’ve done this before, but only this. Never anything more. I couldn’t do that. I can be an idiot sometimes, but not that much of an idiot. Tiffani may put me through hell and back, we may only be putting on a show for the most part, we may not actually be in love with each other, but I’d never dare fuck her over.
Naomi drifts over and drops to her knees on the carpet in front of me, purposely blinking up at me from beneath her eyelashes. Her devious expression is no longer a turn-on. In fact, it turns me off as she purses her lips together and says, “Tiffani’s never going to know. I’m not going to tell her and neither are you, so what’s the big deal?”
“Naomi,” I repeat, but more firmly this time, more annoyed. When she places her hand on my knee, I promptly push it off again. “No.”
“Fine,” she huffs. Pushing herself up from the ground and back onto her feet, she sways in front of me, adjusting her hair. Then, she grins and tells me, “The dare was only to make out with you anyway,” before turning and walking straight out of the door.
I stare after her as the muscle in my jaw tightens. What the fuck? Groaning, I throw both hands into my hair and collapse backward onto the bed. I stare at the ceiling for a while, focusing on maintaining a steady breathing rate, wondering what time it is. The music pulsing through the house from downstairs is hard to ignore, and I know that I can’t disappear for long, because I should be in the kitchen, calling the shots but also pouring them, because that’s what I do at parties. I don’t hide upstairs, that’s for sure.
Sitting back up again, I heave a sigh and pull myself together. I have to mentally remind myself to glare at every sophomore guy I pass from now on, and to smile only briefly at the girls, and to laugh whenever someone cracks a joke even if it isn’t even remotely funny. I have to remind myself to be convincing, to put on a good act.
Before I leave the bedroom, I fix up my shirt and try to tame my hair with my fingers so that it doesn’t look so ruffled. That would raise suspicions. I almost gather up the empty cups and the bottle of vodka that’s lying on the carpet, but cleaning up after himself is not the sort of thing Tyler Bruce would do, so I quickly finish off my beer and then toss the empty bottle onto the floor.
As I’m heading for the door, I notice the flashing alarm clock on the dresser for the first time. It’s eleven fifteen exactly, and I have no doubt in my mind that Dean will be here by now, and Meghan, and Jake. But also Tiffani, who I’m dreading seeing the most, especially now.
7
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
Dad’s car has disappeared down the street within a second of me closing the door, but I like that he never sticks around. The quicker he is gone, the sooner I can breathe a sigh of relief. My shoulders sink as my body relaxes from its tensed state and I fall into step next to Dean as we make our way across campus. We still have ten minutes until first period, so everyone is sort of milling around, leaning against lockers, waiting for the bell to ring. I only have a couple friends, but I still smile at the other kids in my classes whenever I pass any of them, and they sometimes wave back. I’m pretty good at the whole smiling thing. I find myself doing it even when I don’t want to.
“There’s Jake!” Dean says, pointing off toward the main office. He seems to speed up, so I keep up with him while I search for Jake, and when I spot him, he’s already walking toward us.
&
“Did you get your braces?” I ask.
“Oh yeah,” Jake says, as though he’s totally forgotten all about them, despite only having them for less than twenty-four hours. He grins wide to show them off. “What do you think?”
“Why did you choose green?” Dean questions.
“Because I like green, idiot,” Jake answers, and then thumps him on the shoulder.
We’ve only known Jake for a little over a year, since we first started middle school, but we may as well have known him forever. It feels that way, at least, and I like that there’s three of us now instead of two. We all love football, we hate math, and we play too much Madden NFL on PlayStation 2.
“They, like, totally pried my mouth open!” Jake tells us as we begin to walk, headed inside toward our classes, though I’m not listening too closely. I feel far away again, that disconnected feeling surrounding me. “But my dentist is rough as hell, so my dad started yelling at him, telling him to stop tearing my mouth apart. Now I have to eat nothing but soup all day.”
I glance over at Jake. He always talks a lot, always rambles on about pointless stuff, but this time, he has grabbed my attention. “Your dad wouldn’t let you get hurt?” I quietly blurt out without thinking. I am always curious about everyone else’s parents. If it was me, Dad would have rolled his eyes and told me to man up.
“Uh, no. Would yours?” Jake shoots back, then dramatically presses his hand to his face. “My jaw was in agony! I could barely breathe! I shouldn’t even be at school today. I’m in pain.”