Page 52 of Where It Begins

“Kick ass party, Buck. Who’s your friend?” A dude-bro swagger weaves over and leers at my tank top covered chest.

“This is Vi, she’s gonna be my stepsister. Vi, this is Jeff, I mean Jordy,” Miller squints at his friend. “He’s my good buddy.”

I wave. Then turn back to my drunk future stepbrother. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Yeah. Of course. Anyfing for you.” He does a thumbs up dance for his friend. “We’ll be back.”

I duck out from under his arm. Miller’s ability to walk in a straight line is highly compromised, so I take his elbow and lead him to the pool house.

No less than six people call him Buck on the way.

It’s moderately quieter in the pool house and there are no bodies fornicating, which is a relief. “Why is everyone calling you Buck?”

“It’s what all my friends call me. You should call me that, too, actually. Only my dad calls me Miller.”

“But why?” The only connection I can make is to a bucking bronco. Which might fit.

He pulls on his front teeth and suddenly they’re in his hand and his mouth is sporting a black gap where they used to be.

“What in the actual fuck?”

“I got a puck to the face last year. Best thing that ever happened to me. Knocked out my front teeth, so now I have these fakies until I can get implants.”

“I still don’t get the nickname.”

“It’s a joke. Everyone knows me as Buck around here. Just roll with it.”

I rub the back of my neck. “Uh, okay then, Buck. You realize there are people making out all over your house, right?”

He looks confused. “I thought I locked the screen door.”

“There are people fucking in my bed.”

“Oh shit. Really? I’ll get them out.”

I grab his wrist before he bolts for the door. He’s way stronger than I am, though, so he drags me along for a few steps. “Wait!”

He comes to an abrupt halt, and I slam into him. His eyes are wide and mostly vacant. He’s so wasted. This is not good.

“How many of these people do you know?”

He shrugs. “Most of them are from my school or my hockey team.”

“And the rest of them?”

He shrugs.

“Not to be a total downer, but you realize we have to clean up this mess tomorrow, right?” And based on his inability to focus on my face for more than two seconds, I’ll be doing the lion’s share of the work involved. Unless I throw him under the bus. That’s looking more appealing the longer I watch him do a weeble wobble impression.

“It’s cool. I’ll take care of it.” He blinks repeatedly. “Let’s get those fuckers out of your room.”

I have little confidence in his ability to put one foot in front of the other, let alone get people to stop banging in my temporary room, but I follow him across the patio, anyway.

He falls into the pool on the way. Which is not a surprise. It helps sober him up a little. He’s accosted by no fewer than four girls in the pool. He strips down to his boxer briefs. Unfortunately, they’re white, so I’m treated to the very clear outline of his peen when he drags himself out of the water.

He continues across the backyard, undeterred, apparently. Again, he’s stopped several times by girls who are very excited by his wet boxers. Eventually, by some miracle, we make it to the house. He drips all over the floor as we pass through the kitchen. He nabs an open bag of chips on the way and shoves his giant mitt in the bag, cramming a handful of chips into his face, half of which end up on the floor. When we reach the living room, there are three couples going at it on various pieces of furniture.

I don’t know what kind of high school he goes to, or whether I’m just extraordinarily sheltered, because I’ve never seen so many exhibitionist teenagers in my entire life. Although I am a Mathlete, and I did accidentally teach one of my teammates how to French kiss without using too much tongue. Because he and Abby are still dating, and I’ve heard rumors about his exceptional kissing skills, I feel justified in taking some credit for that, even if the whole situation was cringey and awkward.

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