I laughed out loud. I couldn’t help it. “Get inside,” I said. He dutifully shut the door and watched me pull out of the driveway.
House parties weren’t my favorite, but because it was the first one of the year, I felt obligated to go. As I made my way over to Martin Lahey’s house, I wished it could be more like how it was in Jane’s time: ordering a carriage, wearing a gorgeous gown, having your name announced when you came into the room. Real dancing to real music. Some sense of decorum. In short, nobody throwing up in the bushes. Nobody fooling around. TV and movies liked to dress it up—put a pop rock sound track under it, too few people, and too much lighting—but they kept the essentials true to life: High school parties are breeding grounds for idiotic people with too much drama and not enough sense. Walking into Martin’s house (to be sure, no one announced my name), I recalled the one thing that TV and movies never mentioned, and that a summer away from this had allowed me to forget: If you’re not one of those people, these things are damn boring.
I found Cas in the kitchen, standing around with some guys from the team, most of them nursing the classic variety of red plastic kegger cups. Cas’s hands were empty, and he threw an arm around my shoulders as soon as I made my way over. He made some comment that I couldn’t hear over the music, and I got a few hellos that I could return with only a feeble wave. Had these things always been so loud?
Stanton Perkins seemed to be leading the conversation; he was a huge, square-headed kid who played on the defensive line. His kegger cup was already drained, and he was the only one I could hear clearly over the pound of the Laheys’ overtaxed sound system.
“Like I said, it was an okay game,” he started up again. “Not our best work, but like that even matters anymore.” He shot a meaningful look at Cas.
“I would’ve liked a little more play,” Cas replied.
“I feel sorry for you guys,” Stanton said, and as the music seemed to increase in volume, his voice spiked, too. “The whole offense is fucked as long as Lynley’s out there.”
One of the other guys said something about the interception Jackson got, and the fifteen yards Smith rushed for our fourth touchdown. But Stanton just waved one huge hand and said, “The only guys out there that get a hand on the ball are Wilcox and Lynley, and Wilcox only does because he’s the fucking quarterback! Anything else is just a fucking accident!” He downed the dregs of his cup and went on. “Without Lynley, we’d all be better off. Get the team going like it should be. Cas out front and not some little cast-off bitch from Shaunessy calling the shots.”
Stanton Perkins was inherently unlikable. You could tell he was one of those people who went around pulling cats’ tails and throwing rocks at cars when he was a kid.
I looked to Cas for a response. He just smiled and squeezed my shoulder, guiding me away from the group and saying something about drinks. Only when we had left the kitchen did he say in my ear, “That guy scares the shit out of me.”
I nodded. “Future mailbox bomber.” Cas laughed but didn’t get a chance to answer, because as soon as we made it to the living room, we were waved over by Jordan Hunter.
Not only was Jordan varsity and a straight-A student, but as old clichés go, he was also the coolest guy in school. And he was currently holding court on the Laheys’ overstuffed sectional, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over a baseball hat, huge mirrored sunglasses reflecting the pool of admirers around him. Under the hood lay Jordan’s signature dreadlocks, and under the glasses shone his signature eyes. That was the mark of true cool—the luxury to cover up your best features.