Lo
Incredibly, I make it through the rest of the week without any dramatic run-ins with "the shithead three," as Jill has keenly nicknamed them. Between school, cross-country, homework, and long, lazy evenings spent with Jill and Spencer, I find myself too busy to ruminate over the too-hot-for-his-own-good jerk sleeping beside me in MacMillan 202 (mostly).
I've also found some solace for my continued angst over Sam through, incredibly, tennis. Spencer has decided to share some of his genius with me, taking me down to the school's courts after dinner, hitting balls at me and letting me wallop them back in his direction. I suck and Spencer's on track to go pro, but he's patient. Besides, I like the opportunity to smack the shit out of something at the end of the day. I may not have had a blowup with my least favorite people on the planet since Monday, but I'm tense as hell knowing I'm surrounded by them on all sides. Which is exactly why I'm not going to Remington's Welcome Party tonight.
Two hours after returning from the first cross-country meet of the season, I say this for the hundredth time while lying on Jill's floor with my feet kicked up onto her bed.
"Come on, Lo-Lo," Spence wheedles. "It's tradition!"
"It really is, Lo." Jill eyes me from where she blows on a set of freshly painted nails, perched on her desk chair. "Your first Saturday as a Remington student is incomplete without the annual shit-show that is the Welcome Party."
"Beth Armstrong danced up on a fourth form last year and got him so riled up he jizzed his pants," Spencer chirps.
"Ew! I don't need to be there for that!"
Jill cackles, swiping the brush over her toenails now. "It was hilarious. Poor kid."
"We'll protect you from the really rowdy stuff, Lo-Lo, promise. But you have to come."
"And if I run into Brandon? Or Sam?"
"You kick him—or both of them—in the balls and keep dancing," Spencer shrugs at the same time Jill says, "Quit being such a brat. You're coming."
"Hey! I haven't been hiding out here at all hours for nothing this week."
"No kidding. But I've noticed you haven't taken any steps to transfer into Sullivan, so I have to assume you're just trying to prove to 'shithead two' that you're serious about that apology he owes you."
My jaw drops, but Spencer grunts a laugh. Traitor. "First off, it's 'shithead one,' you know that. Second..." But what can I say? She's right. I've clocked as many hours as possible with Jill and Spence, trying to forget the feel of Sam's lip ring against my skin and reminding myself that he's a jerk in the hopes that I'll eventually believe it. But the butterflies currently taking refuge in my stomach at the mere idea of him are only multiplying.
Jill grins down at me. "I'm not saying he doesn't owe you an apology, Lo; he owes you that, plus a hell of a lot of proving it. But your pretending you're unaffected by him—while appearing pretty damn affected—clearly isn't working. Also, it's getting to be a real drag."
"Jill!" I'm stung. Sure, she's probably right that I haven't been my best self the past few days, but my life does seem to be going from bad to worse to...Sam.
"I know, I'm being a dick now too. But I'm doing it with love, because I think you need a kick in the ass to bring back the Lo that's been my best friend since middle school."
I sigh, draping a forearm over my eyes. I don't want to let Jill off the hook so easily, but she's right: a little tough love is exactly what I need.
"The first step to bringing that girl back is going to the Welcome Party?" I mutter from the ground.
"Fuck yeah it is!" Jill says at the same time Spencer lets out a whoop and begins to happy-dance. A muffled, "Jillian Ross! Language!" comes from the hallway, and we all pause for a second, glancing at each other, before bursting into uncontrollable laughter.
I'm taken off guard by the Welcome Party. Based off the posters around campus, I'd expected more "ice cream social" than "sex-fueled music video" but the lights are low, the dance floor is crowded, and the faculty chaperones seem to be more or less doing their own thing. I probably should have taken Jill more seriously when she told me I'd be sweating my balls off in a pair of jeans and a tank top, but I couldn't stomach the dress she'd tried to force on me. I'm regretting that now, as my neck prickles with heat.
"See what I mean?" Jill crows, grinning cheerily at the crowd. "Tradition."
"I think I'm melting," I tell her.
She eyes me sadly. "You have much to learn, young grasshopper. First and foremost: always listen to your guru."
"I don't think that's the—"
"Shall we?" She cuts me off, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the pack of students. The music is loud, a heady, sensual R&B song I've never heard before making it almost impossible to do anything but dance along. As we cross into the sweating center of the floor though, a new song starts. Jill squeals, "Ohmigod, I love this!" before throwing her head back and dancing with abandon. Before I can move, a boy I don't know comes up behind her and takes hold of her hips. Jill lets him, moving with him to the beat. Within moments her hand is slung over the back of his neck with her throat exposed. He brings his lips to it. I watch, a little fascinated, before snapping out of it and deciding I might be best off the dance floor for the moment.
I edge to the sidelines, watching my classmates and starting up a silent game, trying to put names to the faces I recognize. It's embarrassingly difficult. It also doesn't distract me from what I'm really doing: scanning the crowd in search of my roommate. My stomach clenches when I catch sight of Jared, high fiving another cross-country kid over the girl with whom he's dancing. She looks up in annoyance at the same time I realize Sam's nowhere in the vicinity, and that—combined with the knowledge that I'm not the only one who finds Jared obnoxious—manifests in a snort of laughter.
"What's so funny?" The voice in my ear is low and teasing, and smells like liquor. All the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Of course. If he wasn't right in front of me, he'd be directly behind.
"None of your business."
Sam cocks a brow and I watch the half-light of the room catch it in my periphery. I refuse to face him straight on.
"Oh come on, roomie. Humor me."
I set my gaze steady on the group of kids dancing in front of me, telling my stomach it doesn't matter that the rings are back in; he's still a dick. My body is incredibly, infuriatingly, immune to this. "Don't call me that," I snap. "If you recall correctly, I shouldn't even be at Remington, except I blew you. Right?"
Sam lets out a long breath. He's standing too close, his body swaying just slightly, enough to brush against me. The warmth of his chest against my shoulder isn't making me as mad as it should, and that knowledge does. I take a step away, but Sam catches my hand.
"I should have told Ott to fuck off," he mutters.
"Yeah, you should have." I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of giving in. I'm not.
"I don't know what the hell I'm doing, Somers."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Sam's answer is cut off by Spencer slamming into me from behind, glancing between us in surprise.
"Hope you're apologizing, Sam. But Lo and I are going dancing."
Spencer, too, is just that side of drunk and he smells it. "Come on," he whines when neither of us budge. "To the dancefloor!"
I duck out from under his arm. "I'll dance with you, but you need to lay off the hair. I worked hard for this beauty."
Spencer gazes at me, bleary-eyed and skeptical.
"Fine. Jill worked hard for this beauty."
His face splits into a grin. "Like it," he announces. "Le'z go, Lo-Lo."
I don't look to see if Sam's followed Spencer and me to the only spot on the crowded floor that will accommodate us. It's much warmer here, and as we start to move, sweat beads on my neck and chest. I lift my hair, running a hand over my throat.
"Don't look now," Spencer shouts over the music, "But Sam's watching you like he wants to eat you. Or tear your clothes off. Or both." He squints at something over my shoulder. "Hard to tell."
A shot of electricity courses through my body and I turn to tell Spencer to cool it when he takes my hips, pulling me toward him so that his thigh grinds between my legs. He wraps a hand tight across my lower back, the other finding the nape of my neck and drawing me to him.
"Loosen up, Lo-Lo. Get into it."
I give him a look.
"Come on," he says, his face breaking into a grin. "Dear Samuel won't know what hit him. Jealousy's always been something of a weakness of his."
"Jealousy. That's rich," I snort.
"Au contraire. Now dance, Monkey."
Spencer dips and grinds to the song, and I follow his lead, leaning away from him, tossing my hair. I close my eyes against the performance I'm putting on. I tell myself it's because I don't want to catch sight of Sam and lose my cool, but I also can't help pretending Spencer is Sam, that the hand at my back is his.
As the song ends, Spencer spins me and I turn back to the crowd, realizing with a start that Sam's nowhere to be found. Dammit. I turn to Spencer, about to ask when Sam disappeared, but he's grabbed another girl now—a cute blonde I recognize from Psychology (not the seat-kicker)—and he's spinning, dipping, and twisting her like a swing dancer. I roll my eyes and step away from the both of them, thinking I might find the edge of the dance floor again. Or perhaps I can get my hands on Jill and make an early break to the after party I keep hearing about. Everyone here seems to be drinking, and while my mother's relationship with booze has gifted me with little interest in the stuff, tonight might be the night I try it out.