Page 67 of The Fangirl Project
I wrinkle my nose, watching the liquid turn an almost purplish shade of brown. Even justlookingat it threatens to turn my stomach. Surely nobody has to drink it?
I don’t realize I’ve said that last part out loud until Max says, “You’ve never played Ring of Fire before?”
“What?” Then I blink. “Andyouhave?”
“Like I said—I do okay. This isn’t my first house party.” He lifts his Coke slightly. “And I’m not always the one driving.”
“But…”
Butwhoinvites him anywhere? He said himself, most of these people don’t even get his name right. Who does he have parties with,playing drinking games like this? I have so many questions, but I’m aware how not-civil they all sound, so I keep my mouthshut.
Max must be secretly cooler than I give him credit for.
As we watch and people take turns pulling cards from the pile surrounding the gross pint glass, Max explains the rules to me. He’s standing close—my shoulder grazing his chest, his mouth near enough to my ear that he doesn’t have to raise his voice to be heard over the shouting and the music. His breath tickles at loose strands of my hair and the edge of my neck, and a shiver threatens to roll down my spine. Someone bumps me and makes me spill some cider over my hand and shoes, and my mind goes completely blank at the sensation of Max putting his arm around me—wrapping it solidly around my lower back, his hand resting on the back of the sofa just by my hip, like a shield between me and stumbling partygoers. The heat of his arm seems to burn right through the thin fabric of my borrowed dress, my attention zeroing in on my shoulder against his solid chest, his breath skating across my skin and justhowclose his face is to mine.
I don’t catch all the rules, and blame that on the noise. It’s not like I’m distracted. It’s not likehe’sdistracting me.
Unthinkable. Impossible.
I think he asked me something, because from the corner of my eye I notice that he tilts his head, looking at me as if he’s waiting for my response. I’m biting my lip and staring a little too hard at the gameplay—seeing none of it.
“Uh-huh,” I manage, a noncommittal mumble.
The arm isn’taroundme, obviously, he’s just trying to balance himself, that’s all.
Whatever comment or question I’ve just responded to, though, Max chuffs a breath of laughter and faces back to the game again. Did I insult him? Ignore him? I don’t quite have the brain capacity to care.
Someone draws a card and there’s a cacophony, voices hollering and howling, and the boy who drew the card—Alfie, the goalkeeper who flaked on games to be with his on-off girlfriend—buries his head in his hands with a loud curse before lurching to his feet, throwing his card, a king, down on the table, and reaching for the pint from hell.
“He’s not!” I gasp.
“He is,” Max says.
There are chants around the room—“Chug, chug, chug!”and “Weeeee like to drink with Alfie, ’cause Alfie is our mate, and when we drink with Alfie…”—and I watch in horror as he downs the entire horrible concoction, gagging only a little halfway through, and belching when he slams the empty glass back down on thetable.
Grim.
A fresh game of Ring of Fire is set up, with the players shifting as some spectators and participants swap places, and the scummy glass is set back on the table for everyone to pour a little of their drinks in anew, laughing and looking excited.
Raf is in the group playing now, and sits cross-legged on the floor opposite us. He notices me, and waves me over with a grin.
“Wandy’s gal! You wanna join? We can make room for onemore.”
I eye the dubious foam floating on the top of the mixed pint, as people who don’t even know me are smiling, calling me over, making space to include me. “Er, I don’t think…”
Isn’t this what I wanted, though? Isn’t this whateverybodywants, when they think about going to house parties? Isn’t this the teenage dream, the stuff of rom-coms? This is how I become the cool girl, popular and well loved and oozing “fun” from every pore, and Jake will wander in and see me getting on with all his new friends, see me being the life and soul, and he will sit down next to me to join in, hating to be left out, and…
If it was all the girls playing, if it was Daphne asking me, would I join in? If it was Jake asking me to play, would I hesitate?
I can’t even summon up any excitement about being referred to as Jake’s “gal.” My stomach is too busy churning.
“We were just gonna go get some air,” comes a reply for me, and I’m being steered out of the room to a disappointed chorus that ends before I’m even through the living room door, and my brain doesn’t catch up until we’re in the hallway.
I twist around, shoving Max’s arm off me.
“What the hell was that?”
He rolls his eyes, head facing more toward the living room than to me. “I know, Raf means well but—”
