Sticky Fingers (17 page)

When I get inside and check in with Mom and Dad, it occurs to me that I really meant it when I told him I’d keep an eye on Courtney. He’s the kind of guy I want to believe is truly a friend, the kind who’ll always have my back. And I want him to know he can rely on me too.

As I climb the stairs, deciding to skip TV (and the endless postholiday reruns) and just go to bed, I realize that my accidental meeting with Mat was probably the chance encounter that was supposed to change my whole day.

Not that I believe in horoscopes.

My horoscope couldn’t have been right.

It’s two a.m. and I can’t sleep, despite having read
an entire
Shape
magazine front to back, followed by an entire
Teen People.
So I’m at the computer, horsing around and doing Google searches on Mount Ida and on Simmons College (just to see where Courtney might go), and trying to bore my brain back into sleep mode.

And as I’m waiting for the Simmons site to load the page describing its various majors, it just hits me: My horoscope said that my Leo partner (namely, Scott) would be testy today. Well, yesterday, since it’s after midnight now. But he wasn’t testy at all.

I go through my old e-mail just to reread the horoscope. When I find it and click it open, I see that it also said that it isn’t the time to simply let my Leo roar, but to get to the root of his problem.

Scott roaring? Definitely not his style, and he has zero problems to roar about, anyway. Well, other than not getting into Harvard, and that’s not really a
problem.
He’ll get in during the regular cycle.

I hope.

Well, and there’s the not-getting-laid problem.

I click out of the horoscope and go back to bed, then lie flat on my back, staring through the dark at
the ceiling. Is Scott getting testy about the whole sex thing and I just don’t know it?

No, I tell myself as I roll over onto my side. Horoscopes aren’t real.

“Are they listening to ABBA in there?” I ask Scott as I get out of the Jetta, then jump over the pile of snow separating the sidewalk from the road near the end of Aric Jensen’s driveway.

Scott grabs me around the waist and lifts me into the air, spinning me in a circle over the icy cement. At the top of his lungs he sings, “You are my dancing queen …”

“Stop it!”

He lowers me so my feet barely touch the ground, then whispers, “Only seventeen …” before he gives me a sweet, warm kiss.

“You are such a goober,” I tell him as I take a step backward. I love when he’s acting cheery and mischievous like this.

“Hey, I know my ABBA,” he says, taking my hand as we start uphill, following the driveway toward the front of Aric’s house. “My dad and Amber
took me to see
Mamma Mia
when it was in Boston.”

I try not to look shocked, but I just can’t see Scott dancing in the aisles to ABBA with a bunch of forty-and fifty-somethings.

“I know, I know,” he says, swinging my hand as we walk. “But I really had fun. Just don’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, believe me, I won’t,” I say as we get to the top of the hill and start up the brick walkway to the front door. I’ve been here a couple times before, when we were younger and Aric hosted birthday parties or other little kid events. But I haven’t been here since we started high school. And I forgot how friggin’ enormous his house is. A total McMansion, complete with soaring arched windows, evergreens covered in Christmas lights on either side of the walkway, and a doublewide oak front door that’s polished to a high shine. We walk in without ringing, because it’s obvious that the party’s in full swing and no one inside can hear the doorbell over the music and all the talking, anyway.

There’s a den off to the right as we go in, where tons of coats are piled on top of what I assume has to be a sofa. I shrug out of my coat and try to find
a place on the pile where I can toss it without the entire mountain coming down on my feet.

“Here.” Scott takes my coat, then nods toward the other side of the hallway. I follow him through the crowd in the entry hall—mostly walking sideways and trying not to bump anyone or spill their drinks—until we come out in the living room. There are quite a few people here, too, but moving is much easier. Scott walks through to the dining room, then points to a small space between the china cabinet and an outside wall that is occupied by a gigantic potted plant. “I’m going to fold our coats and tuck them down here, behind the plant. They’re a lot less likely to get taken or spilled on here.”

“Just remember where they are at the end of the night,” I tell him. This house is so big, I’m afraid I won’t remember which plant in which room is the one hiding our coats.

“No worries,” Scott says. He puts his hands on either side of my waist to give me a quick kiss, then turns it into more. I let him because I’m just picking up the best vibe from him. Something that makes me think he’s here because he wants to be with me and
to show me off, not because he wants to hang with the guys or drink like a fish or get an ego boost from all the girls who drool after him, which is what I’ve been worried about ever since he said he wanted to come here tonight. Something that makes me want to blow off whatever it is he and Courtney have been talking about, and just enjoy the night.

Plus, his kisses are freaking amazing.

When he finally lets me go, he has a smile on his face that lights me up inside. “I want you to have fun tonight. It’s our last night together before school starts again Monday. I want it to be special. The best New Year’s ever.”

“Me too,” I tell him. “Just don’t forget to kiss me at midnight.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve got it all planned out.

“You do, do you?”

He grins, then leads me out of the dining room with his hand resting on the small of my back. I glance at him over my shoulder. “Where to?”

“Let’s go in the kitchen, grab a drink, and then see what’s what.”

“Courtney and Mat should be here already,” I tell him, though I have to raise my voice and lean back so my mouth is close to his ear to be heard. “She told me they were going to be here at nine, and it’s almost ten.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” he says. “We should try to say hi to Aric before he gets too smashed. And I need to talk to some of the guys to see what time we’re meeting up for hoops tomorrow night.”

“Who are you playing with?”

“Just some guys from the team,” he says with a shrug. “We totally sucked against Wellesley two weeks ago and we play them again right after break, so Coach Ritter wants us to run through some pick-and-roll drills. We really screwed up our inbounding in that game too. Completely inexcusable.”

He starts talking about how some guy on the Wellesley team is six feet six, but how they think they can get around him. I’m just smiling and nodding, because—in addition to all the party noise making it hard to hear him—I only vaguely get basketball. I mean, I understand the basics and I love going out and shooting hoops just for fun, but the logistics of actual plays are beyond me. At this point,
I’m not going to ask Scott to explain the definition of a “pick-and-roll.” It’d be too humiliating to let on that I have no clue what he’s talking about.

We finally make it to the Jensens’ enormous kitchen, and it’s the exact opposite of my parents’ tacky-but-cozy 1980s kitchen. This one’s modern, with stainless-steel appliances and shining black granite countertops. There’s not a thing on any of the counters either. No toaster, no flour or sugar canisters, nothing. It’s like someone came through and sanitized it all. Well, except for the three little ceramic plaques hanging from ribbons beside the sink, each with a different Bible verse.

“Hey, man!” I nearly fall over as Aric Jensen comes up behind us and stumbles into Scott. “I was wonderin’ when you’d get here. Where the hell is your beer?”

“Dude, you didn’t bring me one?” Scott says as he and Aric knock their closed fists together in greeting.

“Hell, I can barely walk. The keg got here at seven.” He points toward the far end of the kitchen, and sure enough, there’s a keg surrounded by a group
of juniors and seniors. “I think we’re almost out of cups, though. Here”—he ducks around the kitchen island and, after making sure no one’s looking, grabs two red plastic cups out of a bottom cabinet—“from the emergency stash. Have at it.”

“Thanks, man.” Before I can tell Scott I’d prefer to just grab a soda from the fridge, he’s across the room and elbowing his way to the tap.

Aric reaches over and flips the end of one of my curls. “Hey, glad you could make it, brainiac. Guess now that you’re into Harvard, you can let go of some of your anal-retentive tendencies and make it to one of my parties, huh?”

I’m about to say something sarcastic, but I realize from his expression that he’s actually being complimentary. “Yeah. Scott’s been on me to get out more. Thanks for inviting us.”

“Well, I think it rocks that you got into Harvard. And you
should
be out celebrating.” The edge of his mouth curves up and he says, “Scott probably shit a brick when you got in and he didn’t. He’ll get in on the next round, though. Hell, if I can get into MIT—”

“You got into MIT?” I know I sound surprised,
but I had no idea Aric was even thinking about MIT, let alone that he might have good enough grades to get in. Not that I think he lacks the ability—he’s always struck me as being fairly smart—but he’s definitely not one of those guys who competes in Brain Bowl or hangs out at the computer lab after school.

“Yeah. Just got the letter yesterday.” A blush creeps into his cheeks, and he takes a long sip of his beer—I assume to hide the fact he’s embarrassed. He sets his cup on the counter and adds, “I lucked out on the SATs, and my dad got me a job with a biotech company in Cambridge last summer so I could get some good recs and have something to say in my interview. But don’t go telling everyone. Might ruin my rep.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

He smiles, then says, “Thanks. But I did want to tell you congrats on Harvard. And that I’ll cross my fingers for Scott to get in too.”

He looks past me, toward the monstrous family room, where someone is flipping channels on a flat-screen television that takes up half of the far wall. “I
don’t see her now, but Courtney Delahunt was looking for you,” Aric says. “About a half hour ago.”

“Is she still around?”

“She was in the family room when I saw her, over by the couch. She was with her boyfriend—the Brazilian guy, I think his name’s Mat?—anyway, I heard him tell her she should go outside and try to call you on your cell, but I’m not sure if she did.”

“Thanks. I’ll try to find her.” His eyes are a little red, but despite his claim that he can barely walk and the boisterous way he greeted Scott, he looks sober enough to be able to tell a half hour from an hour.

“If I see her before you do, I’ll let her know that you and Scott are here.”

“Thanks.”

I turn to go find Scott, but Aric puts a hand on my arm. “Hey, Jenna?”

I stop and look at him. There’s just something in his tone that sounds very un-Aric-like.

“You know, I’m not exactly Courtney’s favorite person.” He brushes what looks like potato chip crumbs off the front of his shirt, then shrugs. “We get along all right and all, but … well, she doesn’t
exactly make a point of finding me at a party to say hey—you know?”

“Do you think she went home?”

“No, that’s not my point. It’s just … when she didn’t see you around, she pushed her way through the whole party to find me and ask about you. And I picked up a really weird vibe from her.”

I frown at him. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know, exactly. Just weird. She really seemed worried about you. And she was asking about Scott, too. Like she was afraid you guys might’ve ditched her and gone to a different party or something.” I can tell he’s dying of curiosity but trying to sound like he doesn’t really care as he asks, “Is everything okay?”

“With Courtney? Or with me and Scott?”

“Both, I guess.”

I shrug. “As far as I know, everything’s good.”

Well, except for Aric Jensen asking me if everything’s okay.
That
is weird. Weird enough to make me wonder if there really is something going on.

Then again, I had no clue he was the MIT type either.

“Well, have a good time tonight, okay?” His voice is low and serious. Like he’s afraid I’m about to have a stress-induced heart attack right here in his kitchen and it’s his duty to prevent it. “You did it, Jenna. You’re in. So go dance and drink and don’t worry about anything tonight.”

I scan the mass of people dancing in the family room, trying to pick out Courtney’s blond hair and not think too much about Aric Jensen.

Courtney’s always been right about one thing: I am a horrible judge of character. I mean, how shallow am I that I’ve always judged Aric based on gossip about his wild parties rather than on his brains? Or on actual conversations I’ve had with him in the years since, I dunno, fourth or fifth grade?

How bad can the guy be if he’s smart enough to get into MIT, modest enough to not brag about
it, and caring enough to worry about Courtney finding me?

As I watch the crowd move around me and listen to them all sing along with the music and greet one another with huge grins on their faces, I feel a pang of envy. Clearly, Aric’s learned to balance his social life and his school life better than I have. There’s no way I’d have been able to get into a good school—probably any school—if I partied the way Aric does. I know the trade-off was worth it for me, but for the first time, I resent that some people didn’t have to make the trade-off at all.