Parties were a sore spot for Jules. He didn't have many friends at school-- plenty of the jerks thought he only got into such a prestigious university by writing some sob story essay about his lack of a left leg (completely unfounded. He hated talking about it, outside of jokes. Nobody on the admissions staff knew about it until he had to mention disabilities on his housing app, as far as he knew). He returned the favor by thinking that all of them only got into such a prestigious university because their parents were wicked rich. All food for terrible party conversations.
But Max asked him to go. And he was damn cute, fussing with his stupid puffy hair in the communal bathroom mirror, asking Jules if his sweater was stupid, or his shoes were too nice.
"If they can't survive any potential vomit, they're too nice."
Max had to pause for consideration. "I'll just avoid anyone who's really fucked up."
Julian quirked a dark eyebrow. "I thought we were there to talk to Joey Thatchlin?"
That warranted a smack from the shorter friend. "Fuck you. He's a good guy. Just wait. My good-guy-dar is infallible."
Jules didn't argue. Max's stubbornness knew no limits.
They had to walk eight blocks in the snow after getting off the T to get to the party location. At the door, they were greeted by Greta Lendebuillen, the sweet girl who'd given Max the address.
"Maxwell!" She chirped, looking incredibly fragile against the white snow with her pale blonde hair and slender frame. "You made it!"
Max gave her a thumbs up. "You bet, Grets! Thanks a billion for the invite, again, you have no clue what it means to me."
"Not a problem, Maxwell. My mother would kill me if she found out I didn't invite Harriett Dane's son to my sorority shindig."
She stepped back, allowing Max to pass, but put up a gentle hand before Julian could cross the threshold. "Sorry, but who's this?"
Julian bit the inside of his mouth to keep from saying anything rude. "Julian Kauffman? We have English together? Every Thursday for the past four months?" Her eyes showed no recognition. "Peg-leg?"
Greta's mouth fell into a little "o" shape. "Julian! Of course! May I help you?"
Yeah. If you move your fuckin' hand out of my way so I can walk inside and stop freezin' my ass off, that'd be a huge help. "I'm tryin' to join my friend there."
"Oh. You're acquaintances with Maxwell?"
Max stepped in. "Friends. Good ones, actually. Please move your hand, Greta."
"Of course!" came the quick reply. She finally backed off, now that Max had confirmed the scandalous truth of their friendship.
Jules puffed out his chest as he passed, trying not to let Greta's nonrecognition and overall rude attitude step on his confidence.
"Sorry about that." Max mumbled. "She can be a real snob."
"So you used to rub noses with that sort all the time, huh?"
"Yeah, guess so."
"No need to act all modest about it, trust fund, I know I'm a downgrade."
Max stopped in his path, too-fancy shoes squeaking as he whirled around. Jules bumped into him, startled by the sudden stop. "Woah, Max--"
"Don't fuckin' say shit like that."
Their eyes were locked. Max looked serious as a headstone.
"I mean it. Never. I wouldn't give you up for an infinite number of Greta Lendebuillens. You hear me?"
"Y-yeah, I hear you--"
Max cut him off. "Good. 'Cause you might just be the best friend I've ever had, Jules, and I'm not lettin' you undercut that shit 'cause Greta Lendebuillen only knows you as 'peg-leg.' Which I should kick her ass for, by the way. Nobody should say that shit about you. Pisses me off. You're above all of them, man. Don't forget it."
And with that declaration, he spun back towards the end of the hallway, where a mob of people were arguing over what to play on the loudspeakers.
Jules thanked the darkness of the house for the cover it provided-- his cheeks were on fire.