The Dollhouse

Chapter 31

At least it cleansed my palette.

"I really dig your dress," the girl nodded admirably. She was immensely drunk. "Vintage. How old are you?"

"Fifteen. And looking for my friends, actually. They were talking about coming here."

Someone tampered with an old radio, and rock n' roll cut through the gloom. The speakers vibrated and static patches interrupted the movement. The concoction of booze and stress made my face flame. What if my poor self was left to perform this social etiquette for the whole night?

A boy was dragged over, an instant camera swinging from his neck. He had attractive qualities going for him; baby blues, shoulder length waves and a toned body underneath his khaki outfit.

"She's a sophomore," the girl spoke earnestly. With a jolt, it sunk in she was referring to me. "Isn't she nice? You said there aren't any decent gals ..."

"Cheryl," the boy hissed, bashful.

Great. I needed to make an excuse to slip away.

Thank the lord for Lorna Vasquez. I hadn't noticed her head bobbing between the antics - but she made a beeline for me, eyebrows painted on artfully and her thick, dark hair held back in a braid. She looked distinctly taken aback.

"I thought you weren't coming tonight!" Her voice seemed softer than her usual velvety, film-star husk. "You look freezing - here, have my scarf." She removed a thick, woolen shawl from around her shoulders and draped it around my feckless form.

Man, perhaps it was the light-headed liquor but I couldn't stop staring at Lorna. It was weird to think back to the conversation Betsy had had with us in strict confidence; how she had shaken and broken talking about the girl before me. I love her.

Lorna had feared I knew. That's why she had been so stand-offish with me that night in the aisles of the grocery store. 

My new acquaintances stared her up and down with petulance.

"Look who it is!"

"Ay, puta, I thought Hispanic girls were meant to be fun."

She whisked me away just as Cheryl poured me a second drink.

"That's Robb Blair, the one I told you about," she spoke through gritted teeth, shepherding me along. "He seems lovely, but trust me. He'll flip on you."

"What? I thought you were-"

"Gay? Well, everything isn't always so black and white. Some people aren't just one or the other, Lyds. I used to like Robb once. He even took me to a Shakespearean play last year. He knows I love theater."

"Oh." Now I was thoroughly confused.

The second drink went down and washed out my stomach contents like bleach. Lorna brought me to a cloistered corner where I saw Sam and Nick kicking a soccer ball back and forth. Betsy was sitting on the brick wall of the garden, a cigarette ignited between two fingers. Ivy dripping from the concrete gave the group an almost Arcadian vibe.

"Whoa, fancy seeing you here!" Sam shouted, abandoning the match. "I bet Roger MacDonald five dollars he couldn't kick the football on to the roof, and he was so smashed he nearly split his skull on the concrete. See?" He waved a greenback bill energetically.

"We played a drinking game and we all picked him to down nearly half a bottle of gin," Betsy whispered with a chuckle, as we jumped up on the wall beside. I spilled some alcohol of my swinging legs.

"And then he got real defensive because the cool kids," - Nick used air-quotation marks - "said we were all a bunch of virgins."

Grateful and glad to see them, I stayed for a good half an hour on that wall sharing the burning cigarette. Violet would be concerned - but it was her undesirable whims that had lead me to this party. Screw her!