IN SECONDS, I'M SURROUNDED. IT'S LIKE A NIGHTMARE version of my demo at school. That time, I lapped up every drop of attention and adoration. Now I wish I could fall through the floor.
"How are you doing?"
"Are you okay?"
"I can't believe it happened right after I left."
"It sucks you had to go through that."
Out of habit I scan the crowd for Shelly, poised and regal as an Abyssinian cat, but of course she's not here. She and Hunter didn't last, shock-o-rama.
"Hey, Imo," says Hunter. "How was the movie?"
He hands me my favorite dish: vanilla-strawberry sundae without nuts, sprinkles, or cherries because I hate crunching or chewing when I eat ice cream.
"Pretty good," I say, taking the dish. "Thanks." For a moment, I let myself chill. Hunter is the reason Shelly and I aren't friends anymore, but right now he's trying really hard; this is exactly the kind of party he'd want if something bad happened to him.
I wonder if this is what Oprah means by "eating your feelings," because Dairy Delight fare is the definition of comfort food for me. The store's been in Glenview forever, getting by on little kids' birthday parties, but these days it's actually popular with everyone at school, and not even in an ironic sense.
Hunter started working here a year ago, and his social life came with him. He's turned the place into a moneymaking machine, probably quadrupled the owners' income, and so no matter how much he (a) slacks off, (b) offers "samples" the size of regular cones, and (c) takes breaks every fifteen minutes to come out from behind the counter and dance with his buddies, he'll never be fired.
Everyone's so happy in his presence. The feeling's contagious, especially when he turns the radio up on a live concert going on in Grant Park and twirls me around in the middle of the store. I laugh despite myself and flick a dollop of strawberry sauce at him. It feels good to smirk, halfway to smiling.
A few minutes later, Gretchen pulls me into a hug. Even though she crushes my ribs, I hug back. She's cut and dyed her hair since I saw her last, and I tell her I like it.
She looks sheepish. "You do? I needed a change. It's so cliché, right? My trauma cut."
"Maybe I should cut mine, too," I ponder.
"But you have such beautiful braids."
"Oh, thanks."
Awkward City, population: two.
"How are you doing?" she asks finally.
I look down, rub the toe of my shoe against the black-and-white-checkered floor.
"She's still beating herself up over it," Hunter tells Gretchen.
"Why?" Gretchen says to me. "There's nothing you could have done."
I could have nailed him with a kick or a punch before he saw it coming. Damaged his kidneys. Smashed his balls. Taken out his legs.
I could've tried.
Effing "Daryl." I'd give my life for a fair fight with him. No weapons except ourselves.
"Thank God Gretchen was in the bathroom, huh?" says some dude I vaguely recognize from our table last Friday.
"If I'd been at the table, I couldn't have risked using my cell phone. He might have heard me," Gretchen adds.
Yet another difference between us. It never occurred to me to use my cell phone. Not even once.
"I would've hid under the table, too," Gretchen insists.
Which is all fine and good for her. She wasn't trained to do anything else.
"See?" says Hunter. "No one expected you to do anything."
Here's the thing, though.
Why not?
A while later, Gretchen finds me in the bathroom. I can see now her face is a bit blotchy and she's wearing lots of makeup under her eyes to hide the bags. I really wish I'd called her back last weekend.
"My parents put me on Xanax, like, twelve hours after it happened," she confides. "I can't concentrate on anything, but I have to focus if I want to win class president. I can't fuck up my whole senior year just 'cause of this." She reminds me of Shelly, all focus, focus, focus. I guess coming to school looking perfect is her way of dealing.
"They gave me a sedative," I admit. "It helped, I guess, but mostly it just made me feel groggy."
"You should definitely consider Xanax," she says, sounding like a pharmaceutical ad. "Ask your doctor." She reapplies her lipstick, then makes her way out the door to hand out pins and flyers to everyone. She's a shoo-in for prez; she'll get the sympathy vote and the hero vote.
She's spent a good portion of the night at my brother's side, but Hunter never returns to ground he's already fed from, and she's like eight girlfriends ago. Nearly every girl at the Dump tonight is an ex- or a pre-girlfriend. The Hunterettes.
"Stop looking at Hannah," I murmur at him when I emerge from the bathroom.
"What? Why?"
"You know why."
"First of all, I'm not looking at Hannah. And second of all, I think it'd be cool if you dated one of my friends. We could go on doubles." He takes a gulp of his frothy-looking purple soda. The only reason he has a job is so he can take out girls. He even gets paid in cash, so whatever he makes on Friday he can spend on Saturday without having to miss a beat and stop at the bank.
"I don't need you to pimp me out," I groan. We shouldn't be doing this here.
"It's not like that," he protests. "Jeez, go to a dark place much? I'll set you up with whoever. Someone nice."
"Forget it," I mumble, turning on my heel and marching toward the Love Experiment. "Deej, your dad's gonna flip his shit if you don't get home by eleven thirty."
My friends and I don't usually say words like shit out loud, but for some reason with the seniors standing around I feel compelled to pretend it's standard usage.
Hunter has to clean the place, restock the ice cream, and lock up, so it's pretty much time for everyone to go anyway.
We all head out the door, and Gretchen hugs me again. Just before she hops in her car, I realize she might be able to help me. I jog over and she rolls down her window.
"Hey, do you know who that other guy at the diner was?" I ask. "He was across from me, under a different table."
She thinks for a moment. "I didn't catch his name. I don't think he goes to Glenview."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
Figures.
