Finally, when we reach the bottom step, I hear the sound of One Republic from inside and the busy hum of voices. When the door flings open, an Axe-scented guy breezes past us, talking on his phone about the upcoming baseball conditioning that was scheduled for next week. Giving Corinne a grin, I gesture for her to go up the four steps first.
“See? We’re fine,” I say.
“Just wanted to make sure, I didn’t want to—” She stops short, nearly tilting over in her outrageously high shoes, when the big guy standing in the doorway bars us from entering. “Um, excuse me?”
“You got your ID?” he asks.
Corinne blinks a few times. “What?”
“Have to see it before I let you in,” he drawls.
“I’m not—” She takes a step back, a bold flush creeping across her round cheeks, as she shoots me a flustered look. “I don’t have it. Daniel Hanson asked us to come, and—”
“He’s just screwing with you.” I point to the red Sharpie in his left hand. “It’s some bullshit accountability thing they like to do in case they’re busted by the cops. They check your license; stamp your hand if you’re under twenty-one. Trust me, it means absolutely—”
The stamper shushes me loudly, but his shoulders are shaking from muted laughter. He motions me to him with a jerk of his head. “Goddamn, girl, you’re giving away all our secrets.” Curling my lips into a frown, I stretch my arm out, and he pulls my fingers into his roughly. When he’s done writing, I roll my eyes at the words he wrote on the back of my hand.
Do Not Water the Freshman.
On Corinne, he settles for the simple but effective: Under 21.
Flashing us a wide grin, he steps aside so we can move through. “Enjoy your evening, ladies.”
“Gotta love the dicks,” I mutter as soon as we’re out of earshot.
Corinne giggles nervously. “You’re good at this stuff.” She gestures around us, nearly hitting a couple coming from the opposite direction. After she gives them a quick apology and earns a nasty look from the girl, she continues, “Did you go to a lot of the parties in ...”
All evening and even throughout dinner a few hours ago, my new roommate had probed me for more details about my life. Even though I haven’t directly asked, I now know everything there is to know about Corinne Mayer. She’s seventeen, she graduated a year early, she’s taking a break from her boyfriend because they both want to be able to fully enjoy the college experience, and she’s a communications major but is seriously considering education because her entire family teaches.
Up until now, I’ve successfully evaded talking much about myself but as we come up to a table full of drinks, I finally let my guard down just a little.
“Bristol. I grew up in Bristol, on the Virginia side. And no, I didn’t really go to a lot of parties—well, at least none there.” I look back and forth between a giant bowl of jungle juice that reeks of 151 and a half-empty case of cheap beer, making it seem like choosing one or the other is a night-altering decision. “I went to a different college last year.”
Corinne starts to make a comment, but I quickly add, “I’m repeating half of my freshman year because I screwed up. A lot.”
“Oh,” she says.
To my relief, instead of asking me more questions, she grabs a can of beer and pops the tab. I study her pinched expression as she takes the first sip, and I cringe along with her. She must notice, because she quickly downs another drink, keeping her face completely void of emotion this time. “It’s good. Really good.”
“Never heard anyone call piss-flavored water good before, but hey, who am I to judge?” Still, I grab a can for myself because I can feel the body heat coming from the person who’s shuffling impatiently behind me. Cupping Corinne’s forearm, I steer her out the way.
Just when I think she’s given up on hounding me with questions, she turns to me and asks, “So, where exactly did you go to college last year?”
Chapter Four
I should’ve known the silence was too good to be true. Positive that I’ll have to come up with a fib so Corinne won’t go digging around, I glance over only to find her darting her gaze everywhere but on me. It’s obvious that she’s trying to find Hollister in the crowd. She’ll probably forget the name of the school as soon as I say it, but that’s still not enough for me to tell her.
I’m an idiot for opening this conversation in the first place.
So, I do what I do best. I change the subject. It takes me five seconds to spot Daniel. “Look.” I point across the room to where he’s standing in front of a closed door with an oversized Keep Calm and Play Baseball poster hanging lopsided on it. He’s busy talking to two girls—the same who were smoking on the front porch when Corinne and I arrived.
They seem to be hanging on to his every word.
What the hell was the appeal with this guy?
“We should go over and say hi,” Corinne says, unable to keep the eagerness out of her voice.
I decline quickly. “You go ahead. I need to use the bathroom, but I’ll catch up in a few.”
Before she can offer to tag along, I take off in the other direction. When I reach the nearby hallway and glance back, I’m relieved to see that she’s made her way over to Daniel and is beaming up at him as he teases one of her springy curls.
Although every door is closed, the bathroom is easy to find—there’s a sloppily written sign that reads Don’t Piss in the Garbage Can taped to the center. Glancing down at the penmanship on the back of my hand, I’m 99.9 percent sure the guy guarding the front door made this sign, too.
When the door opens, a face I’ve seen before stumbles into the hallway. It’s the blond girl who came out of Professor Cameron’s office earlier this afternoon. She gives me a friendly smile and a nod before rushing away, leaving behind the scent of vanilla-scented body spray. Before I have a chance to go inside, a guy with shaggy brown hair and a giant grin comes out behind her. He doesn’t spare me a second glance before he takes off in the direction the girl went.
I’ve seen this so many times before that I don’t blink an eye. As soon as I’m finished, I adjust my hat in the fingerprint-smudged mirror. Behind me, there’s a frayed The Hangover poster and a wastebasket overfilled with crushed beer cans, paper towels, and God knows what else.
“Just like every other damn party,” I say.
Grabbing my untouched can of warm beer from the back of the sink, I follow the sound of music, which is louder than when I arrived, back to the party. Krewella booms from the sound system plugged in by the couch, and the musician in me feels every beat vibrating off the beer-soaked floor as I make my way over to Corinne and Daniel.
While I try not to run into anyone or anything, something hits me: This is the first time in the history of Evie vs. Parties that I’m not the cliché drunk—the one stumbling around, breathing beer breath in everyone’s face. Of course, the night is so young that nobody is at this point, but it’s bound to happen.
It always happens.
It just won’t be me.
The blond girl I’d seen in the music building and then in the hallway here a few minutes ago walks past me, but instead of continuing on, she freezes and faces me.
“You look totally bored.” She holds her cup to her lips, smiling over the rim as she inches closer to me. “I’m Mac, by the way.”
“Evie.”
Nodding, she mouths my name, committing it to memory as she races her hand through her chin-length hair. “Look, Evie ... what you saw back there—”