Page 67 of Call the Shots
“I’m not interested in signing prints or screenshots or whatever.”
“No—um—I wanted to say…that was really crappy.”
“What?”
“What Xavier did, that was crappy.”
I glanced through the windows, where Xavier was talking to a dozen people. “No, he was making sure it didn’t come up. I get how you see it but he’s looking out for me.”
She hesitated. “Alright.”
“Hey, Sloane?” someone called from inside and she left with a soft goodbye. Then, it was just me. A dumbass in a suit jacket.
Back in North Dakota, I’d always been with the Kérouacs and my teammates. Keggers, drinking contests, late-night movies, we stuck together. It wasn’t like I missed them, because my team and Paisley could go fuck themselves, but I didn’t like this weird feeling of being out of place in a party full of people. Like a puzzle piece in the wrong box.
And I yelled at the one kid who actually liked me.
I took a deep breath and pulled out my phone, calling without a second thought. Only two rings followed before a happy voice joined in. “Hi, Bear!”
“Hey, Montoya,” I said. There were voices in the background. “Are you with the Gladiators?”
“Uh…no. June and King picked me up. We're getting frozen yogurt. Do you want us to?—?”
June’s voice carried through the call. “Bear’s not invited.”
“Oh—uh—sorry, the car’s full, Bear.”
“Hey, Montoya?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh.”
The line was quiet while I gazed into the party. Xavier threw some poker chips on a table and the group burst into laughter. I hunkered down into the call. “That was wrong to jump you like that. You were trying to be nice. I was an asshole. I’m sorry.”
There was some shuffling, and I could hear Montoya’s voice, muffled now. “June, can Bear come? Please?”
“No.”
“It’s okay,” I said quickly. “I'm at a party.”
“A party?”
“Yeah.” I kept my eyes trained on the wooden divots in the patio. “It’s fun. I’m having a good time. We’re having a great time.”
“Is it a drinking party?”
“Montoya?” June’s voice cut in. “Can I have the phone?” I steeled myself for whatever June wanted to say until I could hear her draw a slow breath over the line. “We’re going to a toga party for Montoya’s birthday.”
“Toga party?” I repeated, confused.
“He wants to get drunk, so we’ll keep an eye on him, and feed him pancakes. That’s the plan in its entirety. I told Montoya that you and I could be civil for the night.”
I paused. “Is that our gift?”
“Better not be yours. Cheap ass.”
