A Midsummer's Nightmare

Untagged. He’d untagged himself from the photo.

From me.

17

“I think you’ve had enough, sweetie.”

Harrison tried to take the glass from me, but I jerked away from him, keeping it out of his grip and spilling some of the vodka on my purple top at the same time. I hated vodka, but that’s what Harrison’s sister had bought for us. Whatever. It was better than nothing. Way better than yucky beer.

“Leave me alone,” I said.

“You’re smashed. And not in your usual goofy, fu

“I’m fine,” I snapped. “It’s the Fourth of July. I can have as much as I want. Mind your own business.”

“God, Whitley, stop being so dramatic,” he called as I walked away from him, crossing his backyard in a beeline for the row of trees.

I wondered if he’d seen the Facebook page.

I took another gulp of the vodka. I was still thinking about the Facebook page, about Dad. I was still thinking, so I wasn’t drunk enough.

My hair was all in my face, and I tried to flip the strands out of my eyes somewhat gracefully. Thank God Harrison lived way out in the country. His house was set almost a mile off the highway, surrounded by thick woods. This was a fabulous thing since, apparently, he was incredibly popular. There had to be a hundred kids at this party. Every member of the Blond Mafia. Wesley and his stupid, ugly girlfriend. Geeks, jocks, preps. People in high school and on summer break from college. Harrison knew everyone.

I knew that these people had their little cameras ready, ready to catch me doing something skanky or illegal. I’d thought about it as soon as I arrived at the party. And then I thought, Fuck it, because Dad didn’t care, so why should I? Might as well give these people the show they wanted.

But I flinched each time I saw someone on their phone, wondering if they were about to sneak a picture of me.

So I drank more, and waited for the moment when I’d stop caring.

I stumbled over a patch of uneven ground and my drink flew out of my hand, sending shards of glass scattering across the grass and turning the dirt into vodka-flavored mud.

“Shit,” I whined, trying to correct my posture. I got a little assistance when a hand took hold of my elbow and helped me straighten up.

“Steady there.”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“Not a problem.”

I turned to face my rescuer. He had blond hair, a strong jaw, and really shiny teeth. Maybe it was just the drunk goggles clouding my vision, but at that moment, he looked like perfection in the flesh.

“Hi,” I said, smiling. Behind him, the backyard blurred and tilted.

“Hey,” he said, still holding my elbow. “You’re Whitley, right?”

I grimaced. “How did you know?”

“Harrison told me about you,” he said. “His sister and I go to college together. My name is Theo.”

I was relieved to know that he knew me from Harrison rather than from the Facebook page. For a second, I was worried he was one of the 167 people who’d joined the group.

“Theo,” I said. “That’s an interesting name.”

“So is Whitley.” He gri

A chill ran up my spine. “Do you?” I murmured.

“It’s sexy.”

I laughed. “Theo… Your name makes me think of Alvin and the Chipmunks.”

He chuckled, pulling back from me and letting go of my arm. “Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll leave you alone. You probably want to hang out with your friends.”

I scoffed. “What friends?”

Theo gestured to the crowds all around us. They were a fog of brightly colored clothes and swaying limbs. No faces. No familiar or distinct voices. Everything blended together. Strange and unreal.

But Theo was right in front of me. Solid. Clear.

“They’re not my friends,” I said, stepping closer. “I’d rather spend time with you.”

“Me?” He raised an eyebrow. “An old college guy? I’d probably bore you to death.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

His arm was around my waist. I wasn’t sure how it got there. “Then maybe you’ve just made a new friend, Whitley Johnson.”

I shook my head, but that only made it hurt. “Nah,” I said. “I don’t do friends. But we can hang out.”

“That works for me.”

So Theo and I sat on one of the picnic tables, away from the rest of the partygoers, and just talked for a while. He was a music major. He liked Elvis, Jet Li, and extra-cheesy pizza. He knew the names of every constellation in the sky that night, and he didn’t mention my father once.

By one AM, I was smitten.

But by two, he was standing up, moving away from the picnic table.

“Where are you going?” I asked, trying to follow him and tripping over my own feet. I’d had two more glasses of vodka and Sprite since we’d started talking.

He smiled at me. “I just have to run to my car,” he said. “I left my cell phone out there, and I should probably make sure my mom hasn’t tried to call.”

“Your mom?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged, apparently a little embarrassed. “She gets a little protective when I’m home for the summer. It’s sweet.”

“Moms don’t like me.”

“My mom would.” He gri

“Can I come with you?” I asked, stumbling after him.

“Of course,” he said, his hand quickly sliding around my waist, helping me to keep pace and remain upright. “You’re great company. I just feel bad for keeping you from all the other kids your age.”

“First of all,” I slurred, “I’m not a kid. And secondly, I like you better. They’re dumb. You’re fun.”

“And you’re just drunk enough to actually believe that.” He laughed. “I’m boring, I swear.”

“No, you’re not. You’re cute.”

We were walking around Harrison’s house now, nearing the front yard. The sounds of the party faded into the distance behind us as we moved toward the driveway and Theo directed me to his SUV.

I snorted. “My dad drives one just like that.”

Theo chuckled. “Your dad must have good taste. This baby is amazing.”

“Boys who like cars are lame.”

“Hey,” he said, pulling open the driver’s side door, “you’re the one who thinks I’m cute. So, technically, that makes you pretty lame, too.”

“Shut up.”

I glanced through the window as he pulled his cell phone from the console. Leather interior. All shiny and pretty. Everything was exactly like Dad’s… except for the stereo.

“Dude!” I cried. “Your stereo kicks ass!”

“Girls who like stereos are lame,” Theo teased.

“I thought I told you to shut up.”

“Never said I’d listen.”

I made my way around the front of the car and climbed into the passenger’s seat. “Play me something,” I demanded, leaning back. “I want to see just how awesome that thing must sound. What did you pay for it? Two hundred bucks?”

“With the new speakers, it was closer to five hundred,” he said, sitting down in the driver’s seat and shutting the door. The windows were rolled up. The party was far, far away. We were all alone.

“What are you in the mood to hear?” he asked, hooking his MP3 player into the system.

“Michael Jackson,” I said.

Theo raised an eyebrow at me. “Really? You like MJ?”

“Yep. Can you guess my favorite song?”

“Easy,” he said. “ ‘Billie Jean.’ ”

“You got it.”

He smiled and pushed a few buttons on his MP3 player. Seconds later, Michael Jackson was singing to us about the beauty queen who was not the mother of his baby.

“You know, Whitley,” Theo said, his lips suddenly very close to my ear, “you’re pretty cute for a high school girl.”

“I’m not in high school,” I told him. “I just graduated, thank you very much. I’m going to be a freshman in college soon. Maybe I’ll major in music, like you. But I’m a big girl now, no kid.”