Dizzy

Chapter 1

With laughter rolling off me at Paul and his lame sayings, I almost forget what today is. Forget Dad's off doing God knows what, forget to wonder what my increasingly MIA brother's up to. All I want to do tonight is have a good time.

***

Music is pumping through the speakers, vibrating my heart and probably the walls of my house, too. It's The Black Keys, and I can practically feel every beat as it thumps through Paul's cousin's sound system. He's nineteen, I think, and wants to be a DJ. All I know is he's the guy we always go to when we need someone to man the music. There's not a lot of people I would trust with that job because the last thing I want when I'm drinking is music that makes me feel like I'm going to puke. Jeremy knows his shit when it comes to good tunes.

I down the rest of the beer in my cup. I'm short two vital things for making this night kick the kind of ass I need it to kick—my drink and a girl. It's time I find them both. Stat.

"Hey, Dylan. What's up?"

"Awesome party, D."

"Dude, your parties kick ass," people toss at me.

As I weave my way through what I know has to be ninety-nine percent of our senior class, half the rest of the school, and probably public-school kids, too, I yell my responses. "Nothing. Thanks and thanks." I have that happy-buzz, tingling feeling coursing through my body.

There's a fine art to drinking that a lot of people don't understand. I don't want to make it sound like I'm a lush or anything. Sure, I party every once in a while, but who doesn't? I just happen to be one of the smarter ones who knows what I'm doing. I don't want to end up drinking so much I'm even more depressed than I was going into the night--or praying to the porcelain god.

Once I get my happy buzz, I slow down. Not enough to lose said buzz but enough that I don't turn into a drunk, teenage girl. Have you seen drunk girls? They always start with a girly argument. Then they shift to crying, then hugging, and then to the bizzaro-world of confessions of BFF love.

Yeah, I don't claim to understand girls, but I like them. A lot. Even if I don't trust them. Which leaves me with the tough job of hopefully finding one who, like me, only does the happy-buzz thing.

Pushing through the kitchen doors, I hear, "D! Come 'ear."

Come ear? Oh, here. Paul's still learning how to keep the happy buzz. He's in the corner of my kitchen. Becky's sitting on our expensive-ass table, and Paul's standing between her legs. Bingo. Chastity is next to them, a pair of pants painted onto her long legs and a shirt that shows her belly-button ring. Damn. That's new. And hot. I definitely would have known about the piercing sooner if it wasn't a recent addition.

Her blonde hair is all curly today, like she did something different to it, and she's got tons of makeup on. I fight a groan. I'm not really into the whole makeup thing. Makes girls look too fake, but how do you say that without sounding like a dick?

"Hey, Dylan," Chastity says as I walk up to her. "You look good."

Now, this is the part where I know I'm going to come off sounding too cocky, but I know I look good. I'm wearing my favorite jeans, my new shoes and a black button up shirt left open. Underneath is a nice, white shirt that on its own wouldn't do the trick. Simple, but effective.

"Thanks. You, too." I step up beside her, showing I want to be close to her, but waiting for her to give me some kind of clue she wants the same thing. Even though according to Paul she's here for me, he's been known to get his lines crossed from time to time, and I don't want to assume anything.

Chastity steps closer, nudging my arm with hers. Her mouth is next to my ear, so close I feel her breath. "Thanks for inviting me. It's good to see you."

Paul did not cross his lines tonight. He had it dead on. Before I know it, my cup is full again, and I have my arm draped over Chastity's shoulder. Paul's doing what he does best, which is perform, making fun of this dance he saw, and we're all laughing at him. All the thoughts from earlier are so gone from my head now. I've let them all find their way to the back of my brain to think about another day.

All of a sudden, Paul slips mid-dance in some beer on the floor. My head drops back, and I bust up when he almost falls. When my eyes are forward again, I see her. I'm going to blame it fully on the alcohol, because what else can it be—but I suddenly get a little dizzy. My breath speeds up. She has long, blonde hair. Not super blonde, kind of a dark blonde, and big green eyes. She's curvy, and I can't help but stare. I don't know who this girl is, but she's freaking gorgeous in a totally natural way.

She takes a step and then another one, heading our way. And she's scowling at me. Maybe not at me in particular, but at the whole scene. She's mastered what I like to call The Look. It's when girls crinkle their nose, tighten their mouths and raise their eyebrows in a holier than thou way. I'm not even sure they know they do it, but every. Single. Girl. I've ever met has The Look in her arsenal.

It shouldn't look good on her, but even through the scowl she's hot. She keeps walking forward, and soon she's standing in front of us, arms crossed and giving me The Look face to face.

Forget that I'm standing next to the beer. Forget that the door to outside is right next to us. For some reason, I feel like she came over here for me. And according to "the look," she hates me. I will some witty comment to come out of my mouth. I'm usually good in a clinch. I can pull a comeback or a sarcastic comment out of thin air. Right now, I have nothing.

All I can say is, "What?"