Page 9 of Lying Hearts

Chapter Six

Annie

Totally over awful, stupidity-saturated college parties like this one. Wishing I was back in bed. Still heavy, heavy, heavy in my Goth phase. If you don’t like it you can fuck right off.

Iask Corrine, “Why did I come to this stupid thing again?” as she snakes her way through too many faces I pretend not to recognize. These people are all friends-ish with her.

With me? Not so much.

“You came because I made you! You can’t stay stuck behind a computer every night, Annie! How are you ever going to get laid?” She throws a look my way that says I should know these things.

“You mean fall in love. How am I ever going to fall in love,” I correct her. The trouble with me is that under the dyed black hair, black lipstick, black wardrobe – I’m a hopeless romantic.

She snorts disapproval and stands up on the toes of her already high-heels so she can peek over the mass of stupid. “I see booze! Come on!”

“I can’t wait.”

My hand gets encased in hers and I am dragged by force. Corinne is the sitting-on-the-back-of-a-motorcycle kind of beautiful. No tiaras for this one. She’ll wear pink, but it’s gotta be hot pink. Her hair isn’t just dyed blonde, it’s platinum. Her jewelry is a little too heavily applied, as is her red lipstick. Makeup around her green eyes is the only thing she keeps low-key. She’s a little bit on the trashy side and I really like that about her. You wouldn’t catch me dead around a pastel-wearing girlie-girl. Corinne’s not afraid to swear, get dirty, and be maybe a lot slutty. Vicariously, I live through her wild side. She’s fine with that, because everyone needs a cheerleader and I’m her biggest. I just cheer from behind a sarcastic grin and dry witticisms, that’s all.

When we get to the multitude of inebriation materials, she turns to me. “Falling in love is an antiquated notion. We don’t need men. They need us. We center them. And from them, we get sex. Hot sex, if we’re lucky. And if we’re not lucky, we move on.”

I watch her grab the gin bottle, and I almost scream, “No! No gin. I can’t even think of gin without vomiting up the last three years of my life.”

She drops it back to the table. “Oh yeah. That was a fun night. If fun equals a nightmare. How ‘bout this?” She holds up a bottle that says Chopin. I lean in closer and see that it’s some highfalutin vodka. “This good?”

I shrug. “Let’s give it a shot.”

“Shots! Yes!!”

“Uh oh.” My tone is as dry as a scone left out for five days and then two more. “We’re doing shots. Great.”

Corinne pours while talking. “Look, you. You’re making Marilyn Manson jealous with that outfit. Your social skills are bested by mutes. We need to loosen you up if we’re going to get you any action – like EVER.”

My tongue plays with the roof of my mouth as I suck on her game plan. “Why do you even hang out with me?”

“Because I love you, Squid. And you make me feel good when I’m around you. You get me, and you don’t judge. Do you know how rare that is?” She calls me squid because of the black hair dye I’m addicted to. I’m naturally strawberry blonde and even though the lowest percentage of the population is born strawberry blonde – I could give a fuck. It’s too puppies, kittens and roses for me.

“That’s very sweet. I may throw up.” We tap our cups together with no celebratory clink bouncing back, thanks to the plastic. Very low end, this party. I vow that when I’m all grown up and have got my own place, I will have enough glassware to throw a party without red plastic cups sullying the classy festivities. I drink the vodka and wince. “Blech… add some cranberry or something?”

With her hand, Corinne shakes her platinum hair and musses it up all sexy style like she’s readying herself for battle against the weaker sex, and I don’t mean women. “Hello. Shots aren’t supposed to taste good. Drink up.”

“Eesh.” I drink it back and cough once. Just once because her laser-beam eyeballs stop me from making a scene. “Sorry.”

“You’re not a lost cause!” She chuckles. “You’ve still got these.” She points to my eyes, which – I have to admit – are probably my best feature. They’re bright cotton candy blue. I am fond of them. Why do you think I smudge so much eyeliner around them? “And these!” She reaches out and grabs my boobs, which are cleverly hidden behind a baggy shirt and jacket, not to mention several silver stone-pendant necklaces. Each stone has a different healing property: protection, communication and love. I fancy myself a bit of a witch. Or spiritual. Or whatever.

“Anybody besides you touches my boobs and I’ll punch them in the face. And you can let them go now, too.” She laughs and obeys. I’m not into girls. Neither is Corinne. But I don’t really mind her grabbing them. Someone’s got to.

“Hey!” she barks at a girl pushing through to the booze-table. The girl eyeballs her and a silent war is won by neither. Corinne looks back to me. “Does that include Brendan Clark? Would you punch him in the face if he did this?” She grabs them again and giggles.

My heart jumps out and kisses her for saying his name. But then it goes dead all over again and I swat her hands away. “Brendan’s got a girlfriend, remember?”

Corinne leans in. “Not anymore. Word is, he dumped her right before they were supposed to go away and celebrate their graduation with a good boinking.” She eyes me. “Interesting news, isn’t it?”

See this is the problem with friends. They see things you don’t want them to see. Which means you can’t live in happy denial. I’ve not told anyone how I feel about Brendan Clark, not even her. But somehow she spotted me staring at him with my mouth open one too many times. Now I can’t get her to drop it.

But still my heart pirouettes at the news.

Brendan’s single?

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