Alpha Dog (12 page)

At first Seamus ran around like a furry motorized toy, leaping on everything and play-fighting with anything not nailed down. Eventually he settled down a bit, and I tried to pass the time by aimlessly flipping through an issue of
Cosmopolitan.
A few minutes later the band started practicing in the living room.

Wang! Wang! Wa-a-a-aaannngg!
went Robot’s guitar.

Blangity, blangity, bow, bow, bow!
went Kinky’s bass.

Tappity, boppity, crash, boom, thud!
went Lyle’s drumming.

Bark! Bark! Growl! Whimper!
went Seamus beside me.

I lay on my side with my pillow wrapped around my head, trying desperately to concentrate on the “Is He a Commitment-Phobe?” quiz, but it was no use. All I could do was stare at the graphic—a guy holding hands with one girl while putting the moves on a red-head behind her back—while Robot, Lyle and Kinky provided a weird, dissonant sound track.

All that suppressed frustration felt like a tumor inside me. It didn’t help that the guy in the magazine photo looked amazingly like Chuck, only in hipster clothes and with longer hair. I answered the quiz questions as if it were two weeks ago and Chuck and I had never broken up. After tallying up the answers, I read the corresponding analysis, which—surprise, surprise!— diagnosed our relationship as “rocky” and “imbalanced.” Their so-called expert advice was for me to stop surrendering so much control to my boyfriend. “Show him you have more in your life than just him. Join a cool club and hang out with friends now and then. Be more mysterious. Guys who think there’s nothing more to learn about you will want to move on.”

Sadly, it made some sense. Looking back, it was obvious I had let my social life revolve around Chuck. And now here I was with no social life whatsoever. With a roommate who had a constant good time, as if it was her birthright, her superpower. Christine had so much social life it followed her all the way to Austin. Unfortunately, it didn’t extend to me.

Wang, wang, waaaaanggg! Tappity, tappity!

Except for tonight. Christine’s fun-filled existence was going to be rubbed in my face all night long. I knew that I was invited, but I also knew it was a mere technicality—a default caused by my living arrangements. If I didn’t live here, Christine would have never included me.

I rolled over, letting my arm dangle lazily over the side of the bed. My fingers brushed against something soft and wet. Sensing something was wrong, I raised up and peered over the edge. The floor was completely white, as if a freak blizzard had hit the confines of my room. Seamus had somehow gotten my new carton of Kleenex off the desk and had ripped the box and all five hundred white tissues into small, soggy bits. I must not have heard it with the band so loud in the next room.

“Seamus!” I yelled, glancing around for him. I finally spotted him in the corner, chewing on the remainder of the box. He saw me and abandoned it, trotting forward with a satisfied look on his face. I was all ready to scold him loudly when I thought,
What’s
the use?
It wasn’t like he understood what I was saying. No one ever listened to me, so why should I expect him to?

I forced myself upright and cleaned up the mess, muttering the whole time. As soon as I’d finished and sprawled back across my mattress, someone knocked. I didn’t actually hear it, but Seamus’s ears pricked and he ran to the door, barking so hard his whole body scooted backward a few millimeters with every yap.

“Come in!” I hollered, too lazy with self-pity to get off the bed.

The door cracked open and Christine poked her head in. “You got any nail clippers I can borrow?” she asked.

“Sure. On top of the dresser,” I said with a sloppy wave.

“Thanks.” Pushing Seamus gently with her foot to keep him from escaping, she slipped around the door and shut it behind her. She was already dressed in a short black skirt, black-and-red Ramones T-shirt, red Pumas, and studded leather bands on each wrist, and her hair was perfectly messed up and slightly greased. She looked like a rock chick superhero.

Midway to my dresser she paused and frowned at me. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

I shrugged lamely.

“Come on! People will start showing up soon.” She did a quick about-face and headed for my closet. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Without even asking, she pulled open the louvered doors of my closet and with amazing speed began flipping through my clothes, the thick plastic hangers making a rhythmic thwacking sound as she pushed them aside. Seamus trotted up beside her and watched, utterly fascinated.

“You don’t have to do this,” I protested from my prone position.

Christine ignored me. “No, no, no . . . ,” she mumbled as she pawed through the rack. She was already halfway down the row of garments and nothing had passed inspection yet. Obviously in her eyes I even dressed like a loser.

I felt like a sniffly serving wench—a clueless Cinderella being aided by a pushy, gum-smacking, whippet-thin fairy godmother.

Then suddenly she halted and lifted out one of my blouses—a green-and-black-striped wraparound cami. “This is awesome. It’s, like, mod or something. Where’d you get it?”

“Ireland.” I’d forgotten I’d packed it. It had been a thrift store find in Cork. I’d thought it looked cool, and it was the same Kelly green as all the souvenirs. Even though it was low-cut, Mom let me keep it as a novelty memento of our trip.

Christine dangled the top by the crook of the hanger and turned it around, admiring it from all angles. “Man, if I had boobs I would totally wear this.” She turned and thrust it toward me. “Okay, you need to wear this tonight. Do you have a black skirt?”

I squinted at her, trying to figure out why she was helping me. Did she pity me? Was she afraid I’d embarrass her? Or did she actually think of me as a friend?

“I have a black pleated mini,” I replied.

“Perfect.” She tossed the blouse next to me. Seamus immediately jumped on the bed and began sniffing and walking all over it. “You should probably hurry. People will be here any minute.”

As she resumed her trajectory toward the dresser for the clippers, I bit my lip, wondering how I should tell her I was planning on hiding out in the bedroom all night. “Umm . . . Christine?”

“Yeah?” she said, without looking around at me.

“I don’t know about tonight. I was sort of thinking I should stay in here.”

She turned and gaped at me. “Why the hell would you want to do that?”

I bit the inside of my cheek, unsure how to explain. She obviously wouldn’t understand my fear—fear of not fitting in, fear of meeting new people, fear of getting thrown in the slammer. “What about Seamus?” I said, scooping him up off my blouse. “I can’t just leave him in here by himself.” That was another fear. One she could probably grasp.

“Why can’t you?”

“Well . . . what if he gets out?”

“Can he turn doorknobs?”

“No.”

“Then he can’t get out. He’ll probably just sleep through the whole thing.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Quit making excuses. You need this party more than anyone. That was part of the reason I thought it was such a good idea.”

“Really?” My mood lifted a bit. So she had been thinking of me.

“Yeah. You need to forget all about what’s-his-name and meet some new guys. I’m tired of you moping around.”

My eyes widened. “Have I been moping?” I asked as my face went all tingly. I really thought I’d been doing a good job of playing it cool.

Christine sat down on the end of my bed. “You haven’t been whining and crying or anything—which, by the way, thank you for that—but yeah, you’ve been kind of out of it. You have this perpetual crack in the middle of your forehead.” She leaned over and tapped me right above the eyebrows with my nail clippers. “Makes you look fragile, like if someone yells
boo!
loud enough, you would split right down the middle.”

I didn’t know what to say. I had no idea Christine had been paying that much attention to me.

“So that’s that,” she said, heading for the door. “Get dressed pronto and get your ass out there and have fun.” She flashed me one last stern glance and marched out of the room.

I looked down at Seamus and ran my hand through his bristly fur. She was right. He probably would just crash all night. And it wasn’t like I had to rock him to sleep or anything.

I smiled slightly as I fingered the smooth fabric of my striped top. So Christine really had been playing fairy godmother—in her own stone-ground, abrasive way. A little more “boo” and a little less “bibbity-bobbity.”

Fine. I would give the party a chance. And who knew? Maybe a little fairy-tale magic would come my way.

An hour or so later I was studying my new party self in the dresser mirror. I was packed tight in the green-striped top, which I’d paired with my pleated mini and scuffed, clunky Mary Janes. My eyes and lips were freshly painted in the darkest makeup shades I owned. And after wrangling my hair into a dozen different twists and shoots, I’d finally given up and let it hang loose. Ironically, though, all that battling with it created an ideal mussed-up look.

Judging from the rumbling of voices on the other side of the door, the party was officially under way. I turned toward Seamus, who was rolling on my bed, growling and chewing up my headband.

“Be good,” I said, backing toward the door. My voice came out low and wavery. Was I hesitant to leave him or hesitant to go out there? Probably both.

Seamus leaped off the bed and ran over.

“No, no. You’re not coming,” I said.

He cocked his head and looked at me quizzically. I opened the door behind me and slowly backed out.

“Stay,” I said, blocking the way out with my foot. “Good boy. Go to sleep.”

The last thing I saw before shutting the door was Seamus’s baby-deer eyes gazing up at me sadly. As soon as the latch clicked, I turned around with my back to the door, facing our transformed condo.

It was like standing in the mouth of a cave. The place was cramped and dark, lit only by some strategically placed lamps Christine had draped with colored scarves, and a row of Christmas lights along the bar.

“Whoa, Katie.” Lyle seemed to appear out of thin air. “You look . . .” He shook his head. “Whoa.”

“Yeah,” said Kinky, who was standing farther down the corridor, his bushy hair bobbing up and down. “You do.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t quite understand what they were saying, but I liked it. “How come you guys aren’t playing?”

“We’ll start up in an hour or so,” Lyle explained. “Now’s our chance to mingle.”

“Plus we need to find an extension cord,” Kinky added. “That one outlet keeps giving off sparks.”

Great. Now I had to worry about a freak fire as well.

“Come on. Let’s go check the van,” Lyle said. The two of them loped off toward the front door.

Here goes nothing.
I smoothed my skirt and ventured out into the living room. An odd, hyperaware feeling came over me—like the nightmares I’ve had of walking through school naked. I’d never gone to a party by myself before. I’d always been with Chuck. Before him, on the rare occasions Mom allowed me to go to a party, I at least had a couple of friends in tow. But not now.

Christine and Robot were nowhere to be seen. And except for Lyle and Kinky, who were heading out the door, I didn’t know a single person. The others looked like irregular versions of Christine and Robot. All were dressed in dark, trashy-hip clothes, which disappeared in the dim light, making their pale faces look like floating, disembodied heads. Almost everyone wore heavy black eye makeup—the guys too—and had obviously dyed hair that was either ironed straight or stylishly messy. They even had matching expressions: apathy with a touch of cynicism.

The parties I’d gone to with Chuck were all jock keggers, but this one seemed to follow the same dynamic. People stood in small clusters, sipping beers or puffing on cigarettes, talking in low, bored tones. When someone else spoke, they’d nod along while scanning the rest of the room, taking careful mental notes of who had arrived and who was with whom. As I walked through the room, a few pairs of eyes passed over me. Some seemed momentarily interested, as if trying to figure out who I was. But no one spoke or otherwise made contact.

I wended my way through the crowd, trying to look as if I had a purpose, while secretly hoping a conversation or other opportunity to mix would present itself along the way. Eventually I reached the patio doors, which had been propped open with cinder-blocks.

There were twice as many people on the balcony, all hovering around the keg as if it were a watering hole in the middle of the Serengeti. Robot was manning the pump, and Christine stood against the balcony railing—the queen surveying her royal ball.

She saw me and waved me over.

“Look at you,” she said as I approached. “I bet the guys are leaving little slobber trails on the carpet.”

“Just Seamus,” I said. “And maybe Lyle and Kinky. But don’t they always?”

“Right, huh,” she said, laughing. Suddenly she grabbed my elbow and pulled me closer. “See that guy next to Robot?” she muttered in my ear. “You should totally go after him. He just broke up with his girlfriend. Total hag—couldn’t stand her. But don’t you think he’s cute?”