What Happens Next

What Happens Next

Poppy

1

It’s four in the morning and I’m sitting on my porch steps waiting for my friends. The streetlight casts a pale glow over my yard and I’m so exhausted that the snow is starting to shape-shift into an enormous feather bed and soft cotton sheets. I should go back inside where it’s warm and wait by the window, but I’m more tired than I am cold, so I guess I’ll just stay where I am, hunkered down like a frozen gargoyle.

I didn’t fall asleep until almost two. I just laid there imagining Kirsten, Paige, and me on the slopes, ski bunnies on the rampage; no parents, hot guys everywhere. When the alarm went off, I didn’t even hear it. My mom came in and shook me awake—Get up already, jeez, it’s all you’ve talked about for weeks—then stalked back to her room like a zombie.

Finally they pull in. I grab my stuff and head toward the clownmobile that sits all candy-apple-red at the end of my driveway. It’s a car designed specifically for amusement or torture. Clowns, contortion artists, and Kirsten Lee Vanderhoff—these are the people who buy MINI Coopers.

Paige has shotgun so I stuff all five-foot-nine of me into the cramped, but thankfully empty, backseat.

“Is there time for a nap?” I groan.

Paige tries to hand a cup of hot coffee and a paper bag back to me. I wrestle with my duffel, stuffing it into the tiny space next to me, and then take the coffee and bag from her.

“Rise and shine,” Paige says, singsongy, “no naps allowed. The party has officially started.”

Paige is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as usual: makeup on, hair done, a whole raring-to-go-I’m-just-happy-to-be-alive look on her face.

“What’s in the bag?” I ask, setting it on top of my duffel and taking a sip of the best coffee ever poured.

“Breakfast. A clementine and a muffin,” Paige says.

Kirsten looks at me through the rearview mirror and says, “Compliments of Paige Daniels, Future Soccer Mom of America.”

“Shut up, brat, or I’ll tell your mom you’re speeding again,” Paige says.

“No, I’m not,” Kirsten argues.

“Yes, you are,” I say, “and there’s a cop up ahead in the Malloy’s parking lot so slow down.”

“Shit,” Kirsten says, pressing down on the brake too quickly.

Kirsten already has four points on her license. If she gets two more, her parents are going to dump her from the insurance and bury her keys in the yard till she’s twenty. We pass the cop, all of us quiet and holding our breath, staring straight ahead like he can read our minds or something. He doesn’t pull out when we pass him, so we relax and Kirsten turns on some music. Paige pulls out a wet nap from her purse and wipes off the coffee that slopped down her hand. The hot coffee and the music and my friends’ stupidity—it all starts to work its magic and wake me up.

She’ll deny it, but Paige loves being the Type A Goody Two-Shoes of our merry trio. She’s always there to pick up the slack and remember the details. I mean, wet naps? Kirsten’s right—Paige is going to make some six-year-old soccer star very happy someday. Some people find her tireless perk and nerdish tendencies a turnoff. Not me. I dig nerdy little Paige. Especially since I skipped breakfast and have a three-hour bus ride ahead of me. I bite into my muffin. Banana nut. Yum.

We get to the school lot, park the car, throw our bags onto the luggage heap, and climb aboard our assigned bus, which is freezing cold. I grab us a seat as far back from the PTA chaperones as possible, a few seats up from the Callahan brothers, who are sprawled out in the backseat like two kings. Sean’s a junior and Devon’s a senior and they’re both on the wrestling team. They’re pretty good-looking; not drop-dead-gorgeous-hand-me-a-towel-because-I’m-drooling kind of hot, but decent enough.

“Ladies, plenty of room back here,” Sean says, patting his legs and winking at Kirsten. Of the three of us, Kirsten usually gets the most guy attention. She’s blond, and she has a nice body and a great smile. Paige is pretty cute, too. She’s super tiny—about five feet tall and ninety pounds, like a little bookworm pixie. She only just got contacts last year, after spending the first fourteen sporting thick-rimmed goggles. It took Kirsten and me ambushing her in the mall and dragging her into LensCrafters to finally make her ditch them. Still, even without the goggles, she radiates this I-heart-Harry-Potter type of vibe—like the glasses disappeared from her face but resurfaced in her personality or something.

“Yeah, you’d like that, Sean,” Kirsten says, smiling, “but, sorry. Older brother already beat ya to it.”

“Oooh, burn,” Devon says, laughing as he reaches over to punch his brother.

The Callahan boys are notorious in our town. There’re eight of them altogether, and not a female among them, except for their mom. Kirsten hooked up with Patrick Callahan last year at his graduation party. The Callahan graduation parties are legendary keggers, and there’s one practically every year.

“It’s all good,” Sean says, “there’s always more brotherly love where that came from.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Kirsten says, rolling her eyes at Sean, then squeezing into the seat with Paige and me.

“Brothers comparing notes over the dinner table,” I mumble, “that’s what you need.”

“Exactly,” she says.

Paige is squashed between us like a loaf of bread. I could seriously put Paige on my lap and never even know she was there. Still, I move closer to the window to give her more room.

“What the hell, man, I can see my breath,” Paige says, blowing out a stream of vapor. “There should be a law against this—child endangerment, inhumane traveling conditions—something.”

The PTA chaperones start clapping their hands and barking orders, taking roll call, and passing out lift tickets. Then the bus takes off. After about twenty minutes, the heater finally kicks on, and before long the bus goes from meat locker-on-wheels to rolling crematorium. It becomes so suffocating and hot that the excitement and chatter cease altogether. By the time we cross the Ohio border and into Pennsylvania, everyone is sitting in roasted agony, staring into the thick, sweaty silence.

“I’m so hot, I think I feel cold,” Paige says, gazing into the void, her voice limp, her hairline soaked.

I look up toward the front of the bus at the back of Mrs. Winthrop’s head. She’s the lead chaperone and gave everyone strict instructions not to open the windows. She’s about two hundred fifty pounds and is sporting that Kate Plus 8-But-A-Bit-Too-Late hairstyle that went out ages ago, swinging that fringe like she invented it.

“That’s it,” I say. “I don’t care what that PTA bitch said, I’m opening a window.”

I lean up and slide down the pane and call out, “Opening up a window, Mrs. Winthrop. People are getting queasy back here.”

Immediately, every window on the bus is snapped down and an audible wave of relief sweeps through the aisles. “Just till it cools down! And no throwing things out the window, not even gum! Arms and legs inside, people!” Mrs. Winthrop yells out to no one in particular

“Legs inside?” Kirsten groans. “Are we five?”

“Thank god we’re not stuck in that woman’s group,” I say.

“Yep. Dodged a bullet there,” Paige says. “Once we get to the lodge, we’ll be under the not-so-watchful eye of Cougar Di.”

Kirsten adds, “And then the fun can begin.”

Cougar Di is Taylor Anderson’s mom and the chaperone for our condo group. Her real name is Diane Mason but she also goes by The Former Mrs. Phil Anderson of Anderson’s Custom Paint & Tile or The Former Mrs. Rick Sheffield of Sheffield & Zuckerman, Attorneys-at-Law. She’s a navel-pierced, botoxed, gold-digging, career divorcée who thinks she’s Taylor’s hot big sister rather than her mom. The original Real Housewife of Cuyahoga County, and she’s all ours for the weekend.

“Can you imagine being stuck in a condo with Mrs. Winthrop?” I say. “The Queen Bee Nazi of the PTA? It would ruin the whole trip.”

“I heard a rumor she’s brewing up some kind of game night at their place,” Kirsten says. “She brought a slew of prehistoric board games—Parcheesi, backgammon—and she’s setting up stations around the condo for some kind of weird relay.”

“Gak. Poor Ellen,” Paige says. “She’s been stuck with that woman every day since birth. She must be mortified.”

“Uh-huh,” Kirsten mumbles, rifling through her coat pockets, then holding up a compact mirror and sliding on tinted lip balm. “These are the times when I’m actually grateful to be the by-product of upper-middle-class alcoholism.”

She snaps her compact shut and smiles matter-of-factly.

“Doesn’t count if it’s expensive, right?”

I laugh, even though technically it’s not funny because it’s so completely true. Kirsten’s parents spend their nights and weekends smashed on imported wine and Grey Goose martinis, fighting like two drunken pit bulls. I know it really bothers Kirsten about her parents, so I throw a bit of my own dirty laundry into the mix, spread around the misery, so she doesn’t feel like a leper.

“I know what you mean; times like these, I’m happy I have a deadbeat dad. No time to chaperone when there’s only one parent and she’s busting her hump to feed the kiddies.”

Paige sits uncomfortably quiet. I give her a playful shoulder shove.

“What’s your excuse, Miss Perfect?”

“Yeah,” Kirsten adds, bumping her shoulder against Paige, too. “Where are your parents in all this? Judge and Delores are always looking to bust up your good time.”

Paige shrugs, halfheartedly trying to defend her paranoid, overbearing parents. “They’re not that bad.”

Kirsten looks at me with her eyebrows raised. Maybe Judge and Delores have decided to loosen the apron strings?

A moment of silence passes. Then Paige comes clean: “Bible retreat in Columbus or they’d totally be here—Parcheesi and backgammon in tow.”

We all bust out laughing. Then we settle in and relax quietly inside of our friendship, safe in the knowledge that when it comes to the family ideal, all three of us got screwed.

2

We arrive at the resort around eight a.m. Our condo has direct slope access. Just walk out the back door, slap on your skis, and slide downhill. We hit the powder at eight thirty sharp, and by eight thirty-one, it is apparent to all who witness the carnage that I suck entirely.

Usually I’m more athletic than either Kirsten or Paige, but apparently skiing is not my forte. Three hundred bucks down the drain. Kirsten’s parents, despite being high-functioning alcoholics, make decent bank. Paige’s family is also fairly well off, so it’s not a big deal for them to spend three hundred dollars. I had to beg my broke-ass mother to let me join the ski club this year, and all I got for Christmas was a homemade gift certificate wrapped in a neck warmer: SKI CLUB MEMBERSHIP WORTH 300 CLAMS. NO REFUNDS.

Kirsten and Paige push me to the bunny hill and work patiently alongside me for two hours, instructing me on various novice techniques that go by precious names like “making pizza slices” and “cooking French fries.” None of their hard work and patience is paying off. For the hundredth time, I unscrew my limbs, dust myself off, and look up at my friends’ faces.

“It was better, I swear,” Kirsten says, helping me up.

“Right.” I say. “Face it, I’m a ski bunny reject. A ski-ject.”

“But you stayed up a whole six seconds that time!” Paige says, nodding her head up and down, beaming a little too enthusiastically.

They’re trying hard to be nice but I know it isn’t fair. They’d be doing some world-class skiing right now if it weren’t for me. Zigzagging down black-diamond runs with menacing names like CPR Gully and Body Bag Drop-Off.

“Why don’t you guys go on ahead?” I offer. “I’ll be okay here on the bunny hill.”

“What? No, it’s fine. You’re getting the hang of it! Really!” Kirsten says.

I look at her flatly.

“Uh, Kirsten, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’ve been here for two hours. For two solid hours, every trip down that tiny lump of hill has ended with me tumbling into a crumpled heap at the bottom. You guys paid good money to be here and shouldn’t be stuck babysitting the ski-impaired all day.”

Paige’s smile disappears. “But you’ll be all alone.”

“There are other kids from school here,” I say. “I do have other friends besides you two.” I look around for a familiar face. “Look,” I say, pointing over toward the lift line at a group of snotty girls from school. “My fellow cheerleaders are right over there, just waiting to welcome me into the fold.”

Starsha Lexington, Amber Franks, and the rest of the squad are huddled together like a package of pink marshmallows. They see me pointing at them, scowl, and then turn into themselves to whisper. They’re probably sending up prayers to the Barbie gods in hopes that I break my legs so Cameron Fitzpatrick can finally be restored to her rightful place on the squad—the place that I callously snatched out from under her last year when I had the unmitigated gall to try out for cheerleading.

“You get onto that ski lift with Starsha,” Kirsten says, “you better chain yourself to the seat, sister. Otherwise you’re goin’ down. All the way down.”

We laugh, but I still feel like a ski bunny reject holding back her two best friends, who’ve been skiing since they were in diapers.

“Seriously, guys,” I say, “I need a break anyway. I’ll go to the lodge and get a hot cocoa or something. I’ll find someone to hang with. I’ll text you later for lunch or something.”

“Are you sure?” they say.

“Yes! Now go! Have fun!”

I shoo them away from me and they slide effortlessly off toward the black-diamond runs. As I watch them disappear around a thicket of trees, I think about how excruciatingly long this weekend just became.

I don’t go for hot cocoa.

I dig my heels in, determined to get it done.

I’ve been called a lot of things in my life—fat, obnoxious, snarky—but never a quitter. I work hard at the bunny hill, and after about an hour, my body starts cooperating a bit. I do finally start to get the hang of it. I think the pressure of being watched and critiqued was affecting my confidence. I head toward the intermediate runs, skipping the easy trails altogether. Unless I plan to spend the next two days alone, I need to step it up.

Sweaty and nervous, I get into the lift line at Snowshoe Dip. I look around at people and notice a hot specimen in the crowd. Is he staring at me?

Snowboarding tweens to the left.

Geezers to the right.

Yes.

I’m pretty sure he is staring at me.

I take off my gloves and casually run my hand over my face, sure that I have something disgusting smeared across it. The slopes are packed and the grouchy crone running the crowded lift shouts out for single skiers, pairing people up if they’re alone. Staring Hot Guy bustles through the crowd and plants himself next to me.

“Hey there, how’s it going?” he says, smiling directly at me, beaming with that self-confidence that only the truly gorgeous or truly disturbed seem to possess. I force an awkward smile before looking down at my skis.

Our turn is up. We both stumble forward, shuffling like mad to beat the bench that is fast approaching our rear. Staring Hot Guy grabs my arm and nearly sends us both crashing to the ground but then right at the last second, the seat clips the backs of our knees and scoops us up in a tangle of skis and poles. He starts laughing, which makes me laugh, too. Ho! Ho! Ho! We are both laughing away, hanging on for dear life, up, up, and away we go, just the two of us, suspended in midair for the next ten minutes.

When we settle into the seat, he pulls down the safety bar, leans in, and flashes his Colgate smile. “Apologies. I don’t usually maul unsuspecting females in public. I’m new to this skiing bit.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I stink, too.”

“Dax Windsor. I’d shake your hand but I’m afraid I’ll lose a glove or a pole.”

He looks below us at the snowy ground, which is getting farther and farther away.

“Cassidy Murphy. Or… um, Sid.”

“Nice to meet you, Cassidy Murphy.”

I say his name in my head. Dax Windsor. It is beyond a doubt the coolest name I’ve ever heard in real life. He proceeds to talk my ear off the whole way up. Not that I mind this, of course, because, well, did I mention that he’s hot?

“So, where you from, Sid? No, wait, let me guess. I can already tell you’re a Midwesterner, but if you answer three questions then I’ll tell you within one hundred miles where you’re from.”

“Oh, like what’s the capital of your state or who’s your congressman?” I say with friendly sarcasm. Not that I would know the answer to that second question if he did ask it.

“No, not ones that are dead giveaways. General questions about what you call things and how you say things. I’m taking a course on shedding accents and perfecting the non-regional American dialect. I’m studying broadcasting at Central U. I can pinpoint accents and vernacular down to under a hundred miles.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

Then, slow and deliberate, he asks, “What do you call a carbonated beverage that comes in a can?”

“Pop.”

“Okay, you’re from western Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, or Michigan.”

“But which one? That’s a lot of territory you’re covering there.”

“Oh, you don’t think I can do it?”

“No, it’s not that, I’m just saying that you—” The more I talk, the more I am giving him information, so I cut myself off, zip my mouth shut, and pretend to throw the key over the side of the bench.

“Oh, a wiseass. All right. Number two: Is it a drinking fountain, water fountain, or bubbler?”

Bubbler? What the hell is a bubbler? And my confused expression gives me away.

“Cross out Wisconsin,” he says smugly. “So which is it? Water fountain or drinking fountain?”

“Water fountain.”

“Okay, I already know the answer from the way you said water, but I’ll go ahead with the last question. Shits and giggles.”

“Well, if you already know the answer, then tell me where I’m from, smart guy.”

“But then the fun is over, and I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what?”

“The answer to the last question.”

I mull this over for a second.

“Okay, I know,” I say. “Write it down ahead of time, and when I answer the question, we’ll see if you’re right.”

I hand him my poles, reach into my pocket, and pull out a tiny pencil that I accidentally filched when I was filling out my ski rental forms. Then I fish around for some paper until I find a piece in my snow pants.

“Okay, here. Write it on the back of this receipt,” I instruct, handing him the pencil and paper.

I hold his poles while he writes his guess down.

“So what if I guess correctly after only two questions? Do I win something?” he asks.

“You win the satisfaction of knowing you are Master of the Universal Accent or whatever you called it. Anchor of the Year!”

“Nah, that’s not good enough. I want you to promise to come to a party.”

My heart jumps.

“A party?”

“Yeah. At my roommate’s uncle’s condo tomorrow night. We have this dinner thing tonight, but Tony’s uncle’s leaving in the morning. My roommates and I are planning the mother of all blowouts. Bring your friends, roomies, sisters, whatever. So long as it’s female and at least half as gorgeous as you.” Then he bumps his knee against mine, grins, and says, “Just kidding. You can bring your ugly friends, too.”

“Ha, ha,” I say dryly, but on the inside I’m jumping up and down, screaming, Hooray!

“No, for real, if I guess right, you have to come.”

He looks at me and he is not joking. It’s a real invite. I start to get panicky as my mind races in circles. A party? I just met this guy. He’s in college. He looks like he’s in his twenties. He said “roomies,” so he thinks I’m in college, too. Holy crap! Somebody pinch me. What do I do? Do I tell him how old I am? That I’m a sixteen-year-old junior who rode in on a big yellow bus with the rest of the ski club from Lakewood High? That I have a curfew and if I’m caught breaking it, it means deep shit trouble and a guaranteed suspension? How do I politely decline without looking like a toddler freak? Did I mention that he is hot?

“Okay, deal.”

And I say it, not having the slightest clue how I will go about honoring said deal if I lose the bet. I guess I’m hoping deep down that he’ll guess Pittsburgh or Detroit and I’ll be off the hook.

“Cool. All right, here we go. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“And no cheating by throwing in a fake British accent or something.”

I nod.

“Okay. What does C-A-N-D-Y spell?”

“Candy,” I say, biting down on that first syllable to where it sounds like Kyandy.

I am trying to fool him into guessing Chicago.

He flips over the receipt. It says, Cleveland Rocks!!!

“You’re good,” I say, looking at him wide-eyed.

“Yep, all that from the way you said one little word. Candy?” he says smoothly while pulling out a half roll of Life Savers, offering me one.

My favorite flavor peeks out the unwrapped end. Lime green. He takes the next one, cherry red, and pops it into his mouth.

“Two-twelve Snowbird Trail. Be there by nine, little girl.”

My stomach leaps when he calls me “little girl.” My heart hammers away inside my chest as I look out at the snowy mountain passing below us. I say nothing for the next few seconds as I ponder my unanticipated situation. This is the best-looking guy I have ever seen up close and he is interested in me—goofy, loudmouthed Sid Murphy, with my crazy red hair, bubble butt, and obnoxious laugh. The busty cheerleader who was put on the squad solely to hold up bony-ass princesses like Starsha Lexington and Amber Franks. Always stuck at the bottom of the pyramid while the real cheerleaders dive gracefully from the top like size-zero Christmas stars, right into the arms of good old dependable Sid. I mean, I’m not the girl who reels in the big fish. I’m the funny sidekick who gets the leftovers. I’m Sid Murphy: Designated Driver, Best Friend, and eternal Wingman.

“Okay. I’ll be there,” I say.

Dax leans in, smiles mysteriously, and raises one eyebrow. “You’d better come. Remember, I know where you live.”

It’s during the lean-in that I smell it—liquor mixed with cherry Life Saver.

“Oh, my god! Have you been drinking?” I ask, laughing.

He scrunches up one eye, makes a pinchy “little bit” motion with his fingers, and then puts a forefinger to his lips.

“Shhhhh. Don’t tell the snow patrol.”

I look behind me at the mountain below. We aren’t on the wussy hills anymore. It’s a long, long, steep way down.

I turn back to him.

“Are you crazy?”

“Certifiable,” he says, then pulls out a flask from his coat pocket, twists off the cap, and takes a long pull of what I can only assume to be hard liquor.

“You’re gonna kill yourself.”

“Liquid courage, baby,” he says, wincing as he swallows another mouthful. “Whooo. That’s the stuff.”

He holds the flask out to me.

“Wanna lil’ nip?”

“No! I can’t be skiing drunk! I’d be maimed!” I say playfully, turning my blushing face away from him to hide my shock.

I look over at the top of the forest passing next to me. Some free spirit had removed her bra and tossed it up into the top branches of a giant pine tree. Seventy feet in the air, it clings there, frozen stiff, for the world to see.

He continues to work on me.

“Come on. It’ll relax you, improve your game. We’ll be doing double diamonds by noon.”

I eye him suspiciously, then look down at his flask, then back up at his face.

God, that face.

I cave, take the flask and rock back a tiny sip, and start coughing as the fiery liquid lights up my pipes.

“What is that? Gasoline?” I sputter, handing the flask back.

“Gasoline? I beg your pardon,” he says, slapping me on the back a few times, and then takes another long drink before putting it away.

Neither of us has realized that the end of the line is fast approaching until the guy running the top of the lift leans out of his control booth and screams, “Lift up your bar already! Jesus!”

As Dax lifts the safety bar and readies his poles, he says, “That’s High Glen single malt scotch you’re drinking, aged fifteen years, little missy.”

Little. Missy. Double. Stomach leap.

And with that, he jumps off the lift and slides effortlessly down and around the operator’s booth. I stumble off and come to a ragged stop at the top of the mountain.

“Otherwise known as liquid courage!” he yells, and takes off down the hill at top speed howling, “Yeeeee-haaaww!”

We spend the whole day together skiing and falling and laughing our asses off. I text the girls and tell them to have lunch without me, that I’ve met someone.

They text back: Where r u? We want 2 meet him!

I turn off my phone and go have lunch with Dax. If they come, they’ll ruin things by mentioning high school and asking him his age. I know I should ask him myself, but the stupid, selfish part of me doesn’t want to know. The stupid, selfish part of me doesn’t care how old Dax Windsor is because, well, I’m having fun with a hot guy for once in my life and screw it, I don’t wanna know.

I mean… he’s probably not that much older.

He buys me a Coke and a burger and we split a tray of chili-cheese fries at this ski-in cafeteria place. We talk about his classes and his dickhead roommates and my friends and books we’ve read, shows we like. I keep my end of it all very vague and noncommittal so he can’t pin me down to anything age-related.

Around five, it starts getting darker, and I can no longer avoid the fact that I am, indeed, not on a dream vacation with Dax Windsor, Sexiest Man Alive, but on a ski trip with my stupid high school. I need to check in or they’ll send the fun-sucking PTA mom-patrol out hunting for me.

Dax makes me promise again to come to his party the next night. He gives me a sweet little peck on the cheek—quick, like he’s almost embarrassed—and then he skis away, saying, “Nine o’clock. Remember, I know where you live!”

I text the girls and head back to the condo.

3

It’s Saturday evening, and despite my best efforts, I have had zero luck talking Kirsten and Paige into sneaking out with me for the party. I tried to enjoy the day skiing with them, suffered through black-diamond runs, and nearly broke every bone in my body to get on their good sides. I kept looking for Dax on the slopes, thinking that maybe if the girls actually met him, he could charm them into coming. But it’s a big resort, and if you don’t know where to look, it’s impossible to find someone.

It’s dinnertime and I have severe butterflies. I can barely eat. This is a shame, because the buffet in the main lodge looks and smells like some kind of cinematic food mirage: a sprawling wonderland of animal-shaped breads; a three-tiered fountain of rippling chocolate; a team of smiling, puffy-hatted chef-people carving up juicy slabs of roast beef; and smack dab in the middle of everything is a revolving ice sculpture of a giant Yeti on skis. It’s a culinary opus, indeed.

Yet none of it appeals to me. I load up my plate and pick, pick, pick, pretending to be interested in Kirsten and Paige’s conversation about some boys we go to school with who are staying in another condo, but all I can think about is Dax and the party. I push the food around on my plate and think about how blue his eyes are. After a while, a roll of bread shaped like a headless bear comes waddling onto my plate.

“Hello there, Sid. Have you seen my head? It was just here a minute ago…”

Kirsten is trying to make me laugh. I force a smile.

“All right, seriously,” she says, irritated, tossing the headless bear onto her plate. “You said he goes to college in New York. So let’s just forget for a moment that Mr. Perfect lives two states away. I mean, you don’t even know the guy. Plus, he’s old. He’s probably married with, like, fifty kids.”

“He’s not old-old,” I say. “He’s in college. And please, like you should talk. Uh… Patrick Callahan?”

“Right. I hooked up with Pat when he’d just graduated and I was a sophomore. He’s two years older and I’ve known him since elementary school. Your college man is a total stranger. I mean, you look older than sixteen, I’ll give you that, but you’re still just sixteen. Your mom’s cool, but she’s not that cool.”

Paige comes walking back from one of her numerous trips up to the five-star feeding trough. She has a tapeworm, I swear. Also, she doesn’t like a messy plate, so she only picks out about two or three items at a time. All her food is sectioned off into neat symmetrical piles on her plate. As she sits down, she catches only the last bit of conversation but instantly knows what we’re talking about. She shakes out her napkin and lays it gently on her lap.

“She’s right, Sid. Sorry. A college guy? Katherine would freak.”

“Uh, yah. And I mean completely out,” Kirsten adds, piercing a grape tomato with her fork and sliding it into her mouth.

I hate to admit it, but they’re right. My mom might let me date a college freshman, but Dax looks older than that. Twenty at least. But I don’t care. And… well… maybe he’s not in his twenties. Maybe he’s like me. Maybe he just looks older than he really is. Kirsten spreads some butter onto her headless bear and keeps on talking.

“There are a ton of guys here from school. Go for Rafe Summers or Joey Thacker. Both are single and conveniently still in high school.”

I glare at her.

“Oh, yes, that’s it, Rafe Summers and Joey Thacker. I’ll just call them right up.” I reach dramatically into the coat hanging on the back of my chair and pull out my cell. I start banging away at random numbers, concentrating extra hard.

“What’s old Rafey’s number again? Oh, hello there! Is this Rafe Summers? The guy who pushed me off the slide in fourth grade? Split both my knees open?”

I punch in some more numbers. “Joey! Baby! Cassidy Murphy. You know, Sid. The girl you called the Amazon Leprechaun every day of middle school?”

I shoot Kirsten the dirty eyeball. “… Along with every awful name he and his friends could think up that contained the word tit.”

I slam the phone down on the table. “Yes, let me just give them a shout. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to hear from Tits McGee, or Murphy McTitties, or Siddy-Siddy-Big-Fat-Titty.”

Paige starts choking on her applesauce, trying not to laugh.

“Oh, please, that was ages ago,” Kirsten argues, also trying not to laugh. “And they gave you shit back then because none of them had ever seen an actual live girl-boob yet. And everyone knows redheads are sitting ducks when they’re young. But when guys grow up, they think redheads are hot. Especially ones with big racks.”

“Thank you, Miss Beauty 101,” I say, settling back into my chair and folding my arms over my ample chest. Then I gesture toward her with my hand. “Oh, please. Do go on. I’m learning so many new and insightful things about myself.”

“Sorry, but she’s got a point,” Paige says. “You know we love your crazy red hair, but a redheaded middle schooler with big boobs? Might as well have a target tattooed on your forehead. And since your hair is curly, you were triple-screwed.” Then she shrugs. “But guys grow out of that stuff. Eventually, they learn to appreciate the rarer breeds—girls who look different from everyone else.”

I’m seriously going to knock their heads together. It’s like they’ve ripped a page from my mother’s Puberty Pep Talk Manual and are reading it word for word. Katherine would be so proud. I sigh and look down at my food while they continue to diagnose my sickly excuse of a love life. The puddle of gravy in my volcano of mashed potatoes is starting to form a skin.

“Also,” Paige says, “I think it was because you were taller than every boy in the state of Ohio. It made them feel like you could beat them up or something. Emasculating. That means—”

“I know what it means!”

“Anyway, they’ve caught up with you now.” Then she pauses, scrunches her nose a little. “Well, Rafe has, anyway.”

That’s it, I’ve heard enough. I stab my fork into a piece of prime rib, pick up my knife, and start sawing at it like it’s a fallen tree branch.

Kirsten gives me a teasing shove to the head. “Come on, lighten up already.”

I shove the beef into my mouth and carry on talking with my mouth full. I don’t care if it’s piggish. No boys here like me anyway.

“Height, boobs, hair? Those are the least of my worries,” I say, pointing my fork toward my backside. “Presently, it’s the ass that’s the problem. No teenage boy wants to date a girl with a fatter ass than his.”

“Hold on, girlie. You are not fat,” Paige says. “You’re voluptuous. Stacked. I mean, if you’re fat, then Scarlett Johansson’s a beast. Yeah, you’re built big, but in a good way. Hourglassy. Like a fifties pinup girl or that plus-size girl who placed third in America’s Next Top Model. Oh! Or that chick with the blue hair on Dark Realms. She’s totally hot.”

I look at her like she’s crazy. “Who?”

She stutters, “You know, on, um, Syfy. Velandra, I think her name is? Or Selandra… something like that. You have her eyes, come to think of it. Big, green, witchy Medusa eyes. Only her eyes have the power to bewilder. She can stun you into a life of endless stupidity with just one—” She stops, stumbles, and starts walking it back.

“—I mean, I’ve only seen it once or twice while babysitting the Newman kids. They’re really into it.” And suddenly, she has become deeply interested in removing the lip gloss smudge on her water glass.

I smile.

“Uh-huh. Just blew your cover, gamer girl,” I say.

“For like the millionth time,” Kirsten adds, laughing.

“I’m not a gamer!” Paige barks.

“Please, gamer,” I say. “Come out of your gamer closet already. Coast is clear. Nobody cares.”

“Oh, I can name two people who’d care,” Kirsten says. “Judge and Delores might call in an exorcist if they found her stash of fantasy novels. They’d chain her to the bed and chant, Out, demons! I compel you! until her head started spinning.”

I can’t help laughing. It’s true; Paige’s parents think fantasy novels and role-playing games are some kind of gateway to devil worship. Like pretending you’re a wizard or fairy will turn you crazy in the head, and after too much exposure you’ll be drinking your own blood and stabbing cats with jeweled daggers. They think Halloween is the devil’s birthday and don’t have cable for fear of the fantastical creatures that might come charging out of the TV screen—vampires, witches, clairvoyant teens who commune with the dead. Even superheroes and talking Disney animals are suspect.

Paige’s eyes flatten into a glare. Her jaw tightens and she lets out a dramatic, irritated nose-sigh. She’s trying to appear mad, but she knows that exorcist comment was funny. She’ll laugh about it later.

I pat Paige on the knee and try to get her to break. With a wicked grin I whisper, “Don’t worry, gamer girl, your secret’s safe with us.”

“Oooh, burn,” Kirsten says, diving into a big bite of potatoes and laughing even harder.

Paige wipes her mouth in a huff, crumples her napkin, and throws it on the table.

She leans toward Kirsten. “I’m sorry, but how did we start talking about this, again? Oh, I remember. We were talking about Sid’s unique ability to repel even the most idiotic of teenage boys.”

Kirsten slaps the table. “Oooh, double burn. Good one, P.”

“Yeah,” I say, tearing a piece of bread off with my teeth. “But then we switched topics to your unique ability to attract half-orc magic users.”

Paige’s eyes narrow even more; she’s starting to get mad for real. And I’m starting to get vicious for real. But I can’t help it—it makes me feel better, pointing out someone else’s freakishness.

“Okay, let’s not fight,” Kirsten says. “We’re all friends here, remember?”

We sit and sulk for a minute. Finally, I speak.

“Sorry, runt,” I mumble. “You know I love ya. Even if you’re a closet gamer.”

“Me too,” she mumbles back. “Even if you’re a Siddy-Siddy-

Big-Fat-Titty.”

We all start laughing and I eventually have to cover up my big, obnoxious mouth with my hand. It’s pretty fancy in here, and our classmates at other tables are shooting me dirty looks.

“Okay. Seriously, let’s think,” Kirsten says. “Who do we know who is a) available or b) willing to cheat on and then dump their girlfriend for Sid?”

“Uh, nobody. Trust me,” I say, picking up my water goblet and taking a swig. “I’ve scoured the yearbook quite thoroughly.”

And that’s the suck-ass truth of it. The only males who have ever shown interest in me were and are, like Dax Windsor, older. A problem since age eleven. Yes, you heard me, eleven. The summer I turned eleven, I was attacked by mutant hormones. They invaded my body and sent all the baby fat in my belly, limbs, and face screaming directly into my boobs, hips, and ass. I filled out so fast, I actually got stretch marks. The boys my own age either dove for cover or sat around thinking up funny tit names to call me. But I’d get all kinds of lusty looks from older guys—teachers, coaches, neighbors, old farts in grocery stores. As if the height and hair weren’t enough? It was humiliating shopping for a C cup in the sixth grade, and then a double D by eighth.

Kirsten finally gets it that I’m stuck on Dax and won’t be moving an inch toward her line of thinking.

“All right, if you’re so crazy about this Dexter guy—”

“Dax!”

“Dax… then why didn’t you get his cell number? That way you could’ve met up with him today instead of sneaking out after curfew.”

“Because his cell won’t pick up a signal here so he didn’t bother bringing it.” I pick my cell up and wave it around. “We’re in the mountains, Kirsten. I’m working off one bar over here, two if I stand on one leg and hold it over my head. Your cell shits out every time you try to call home. So if I don’t show up tonight, Dax Windsor is nothing more than a distant memory. I’ll never see him again.”

“Well, you can Facebook him when you get home,” she says, digging into her mashed potatoes with finality. “Because no way are you going to some frat party after curfew alone. I’ll hog-tie you and sit on you all night if I have to.”

Screw it, I give up. They aren’t going and I’m too chicken to go alone, so that’s the end of it. I push my plate away, get up, and skulk over to the dessert bar. I start piling it on higher than Snow Ridge Mountain.

Dinner ends and everyone goes back to the condos. After a while, Cougar Di becomes so engrossed in gossiping with her daughter’s friends and playing the role of Cool Mom that she is completely unaware of the illegal behavior going on around her—oblivious to the cooler of beer hidden in the woods out back and the fact that couples are making out in every corner of the house.

I grab a pop from the fridge and head toward the basement. I open the wrong door, the door to a pantry, and interrupt a couple of lovebirds in the early stages of molesting one another.

“God. Creep much, Ginger Bitch?” the girl says, yanking her top down.

It’s my fellow cheerleader and archnemesis, Starsha Lexington. Ginger Bitch is her favorite name for me these days.

Oh, how Starsha Lexington hates me. And not just because I bumped Cameron Fitzpatrick from the cheerleading squad. Starsha’s hatred of me dates back to the first week of kindergarten, when I was playing Food Channel Hostess in the play kitchen. I must have looked like I was having too good of a time, because she tried to take over my cooking show, and when I wouldn’t let her, she grabbed me by the hair. I grabbed her back and we went careening into the toy refrigerator, all the fake plastic vegetables and dishes spilling everywhere. We both started crying, were sent to opposing time-out corners, and glowered at each other from across the room.

Not much has changed. Starsha glowers at me and I glower back. She and Tate have lipstick smeared all over their mouths and chins.

“Eck, gross,” I mumble, and shut the door.

I get to the basement and survey the landscape. Misery sets in when I realize how my night’s going to play out from here. Some senior boys are shooting pool and playing foosball in the lower rec room while a gaggle of junior girls, Kirsten and Paige included, buzz around them like bees at a honey pot. I slump into a papasan chair and sulk.

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Excerpted from What Happens Next by Colleen Clayton Copyright © 2012 by Colleen Clayton. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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