Cuddle Application

20 - "Hey, Jude, Don't Make it Bad"

It was the night after the winter dance. I'd just turned sixteen, Molly was in the hospital with my parents, and no one would notice if I didn't wake up in my own bed the next morning. Park had been drunk at the dance, swaying dizzily from one end of the dance floor to the other, grabbing at girls and joking with his friends. I'd been sipping on my spiked lemonade when he'd spotted me from across the room.

"Sky," he'd hiccuped, stumbling towards me. "Skylar — hey!"

"Hey, Park," I'd laughed back. We were friends at the time, but no where near as close as we were now. Park had yelled something about dancing and pulled me to the middle of the floor. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, but the way his eyes lit up when we swayed to the beat had made me want to stay in his arms.

"I like you," he'd yelled over the music.

"I like you, too," I'd yelled back.

It was the first happy moment I'd lived since the Cancer card dropped.

We'd ended up at a party. The music there was even louder than at the dance. It was my first real high school party, and my first act of rebellion was to down every shot Park presented me with. They'd come right back up hours later when I'd finally stumbled home, but that didn't matter. I finally felt alive.

"This one tastes like nail polish remover," I'd screamed after downing a shot of vodka.

"Don't you love it?" Park yelled back.

As the night came to a close and my legs refused to support my weight any longer, Park and I had cashed on a sofa upstairs. The thrum of music and voices wafted up from the main floor, but the alcohol swimming through my system made my eyes droopy.

"You're not as lightweight as you look," Park had remarked. I'd smirked and punched him in the chest. Then three boys had scampered up the steps and down the hall to where we were. They hadn't seen us, but one was snickering and showing off his phone to the others.

"Dude, look at this," he'd said, jaw practically on the floor.

"What a slut," another had commented.

They all laughed as the third one spoke, "I knew she wasn't smart enough for those A's. Now we know how she got them."

My brain clawed at their sentences, slowly picking at the words but failing to comprehend.

"What I wouldn't do to get in that," one of the boys said. Their faces fell when they noticed Park and I. "Uh — shit, oh, uh — hey Park," they said.

Parks face was a portrait of shadows.

"Let me see the phone," he said.

"You don't want to see it."

"Give me the phone."

"Park, hey, wait—"

It was Cora. Several pictures of my best friend were plastered on the screen. She was pictured with her algebra teacher. My algebra teacher. Her clothes were in his hands in one picture. Her clothes were on the floor in another.

Park punched one of the boys in the nose.

The next Monday, Park took a baseball bat and shattered every window of the teacher's car. He spent a night in jail, the case was investigated, I had a new algebra teacher by Tuesday, and all of Park's charges were dropped.

Park remains cold for the rest of the phone call. I give him directions to the station and he hangs up without a goodbye.

"How'd it go?" Oliver asks as I walk back over.