"She's my girlfriend!"
he shouted as a boy placed his hands over her mouth and planted a fake kiss on her. His lack of sobriety allowed real rage to fill his eyes and he tackled the kissing boy. As they began to struggle against each other on the sticky hard wood floor that was probably covered by layers of party fouls, she thought, ' he called me his girlfriend. Why would he say that?' Her best friend sitting close by said it out loud
" Oh my gosh dude, he just called you his girlfriend!"
Through this short span the boys were finishing up there tuff and he began to find his seat next to her again. Placing his arms over her shoulder she didn't mind the sweat, or the alcohol. It actually reminded her of most of their nights together. She wanted to kiss him. He was busy talking across the room to an equally as drunk buddy about who the bigger beauty was. She didn't drink. But she didn't mind it. Taking people home was pleasing, plus there was a greater chance of getting him home, with her. The party was picking up. The boys with the I-pod were getting drunk enough to start up their typical loop of songs. Being from Texas she knew that she would be dancing. She loved dancing. Even when the boys she was dancing with were drunk it was fun. Plus, he couldn’t country-dance so she got to dance with others and he was forced to watch. Dancing always reminded her of home, a small rural town in Texas where you could be a outcast and popular all at the same time. She did it all in high school. Cheerleading, sports, theater, you name it she was most likely involved. However, she felt like everyone in town, or majority disliked her. She constantly felt eyes burning on her too white to be here skin. So she left for school out of state, planning on never looking back. She did miss the dancing though. Every prom she made it a point to dance with her father, and to not sleep with her boyfriend.
Having *** on prom night was too cliché.
A boy grabbed her hand. My Maria was blaring through the speakers and it was about time she stood up anyway, the mindless getting nowhere conversation she was having with her friend was only justifying how ****** up her situation was. One of her biggest surprises in moving was that Canadian boys liked country and could dance to it. She never thought a taste of home would come from a drunken kid from Vancouver. He was a best friend with her interest but that didn’t keep him from pulling her close, so close she could tell that his last drink had just enough whiskey to float the ice cubes.
The party had reached the relaxed stage. Cute petty arguments were filling the air. He stood behind her and grabbed her hand. Surprise ran through her but she couldn’t show it. It’s suppose to happen, maybe he does like you? That was one of her favorite feelings. Brushing hands with someone, or having them grabs yours. The shock, the spark that runs from your finger tips through your stomach and out the top of your head.
Once, when she was young a boy held her hand in the movie theater, cupped, a true moment of tragedy.
Her friend saw what the drunken boy had done and began raving to her about how perfect they looked and how you can’t deny that something was there between them. She had two close friends. One who was somewhat a romantic until she got drunk and proceeded to call every guy within a ten-foot radius an *******. She came to college somewhat naive and with her heart still in a different state. A boy she had liked since high school kept here grounded. She needed to move on but she didn’t see it that way. Her story lead to a car stopping in the middle of the road letting her out to her eventually de-virgining by a, to say the least, experienced Canadian boy who wanted everything but also decided that nothing was good enough. The other friend, who was more of a realist but still wanted things to turnout a certain way was also there. She haled from California, a sunshine girl who was unbelievably ditzy but unbelievably smart. Speaking her mind was never hard for her. She did make one vital mistake. Believing a European boy when said he was different. The only thing different about him was that he spoke broken English and wore tighter pants than American boys.
She had always been in a group of three, from school to school. There is a comfort in three, even more so for them, not only because they were all above 5' 9" but also because they all wanted the same unattainable thing.
He went home.
He went home with her.
A whirlwind of emotions began to ride up in her. How could you of been so dumb to think that it would work. At least the commotion of getting everyone down the stairs safely took her mind off of the fact that no matter what, he wasn’t going to love her. In the drivers seat she could hear the name-calling and the I can’t believe its being said by everyone. But the three of them knew it didn’t matter. Her willingness to let him come running back was always going to be there.
The next day lead to greasy food and stories of the night before. The futon mattress in the living room sprawled out on the floor laid out the venue for the party talk.
She played on a futon when she was a baby. Her parents have countless pictures of it. Innocent and fragile, not much had changed other than the addition of bitterness.
Why would he say that? She thought again and parked the car in the garage and helped carry the taco bell bags upstairs. She hated taco bell, being from an area around the Mexico border spoiled her pallet. Her friends crunched down talking about how guys are all *****. By now the night before had only faded somewhat in her mind.
He woke up that morning to a girl next to him. She had been awake since eight but let him sleep because it gave her more time with him. They had a past and that made for great *** but also a girl burned in his eye that wasn’t her.
For him the night never happened.
If she could reverse her thoughts she would. She hated wondering why. She understood him being a 21 year old that wanted to get laid. But why grab her hand? Why act as if you cared for her. Oh god she thought. It’s so simple.
Its because he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.