Famous Last Words Read Online Free PDF

“You gotta check out the hot tub.”
    As he pulls Shelby toward the pool area, she glances over her shoulder with a smile, like she can’t help being dragged away.
    “Sam, come with us,” she says.
    “I’ll wait here for you,” I call after her.
    “Sure?”
    “I’m sure.”
    I smell my beer and take a tentative sip. Yuck. The taste hasn’t grown on me, but at least I can carry my cup around and make it look like I’m drinking. For a few more seconds, I stand where Shelby left me, not sure where to look or who to talk to. It’s like being left alone in an unfamiliar subway station as the train pulls away. Time to look for the bathroom. I’ll reapply my lip gloss and buy some time before I look for Shelby.
    Keeping my head down, I squish through the crowd and try to get beyond the herd as fast as possible. I make it to the concrete patio, where some guys are taking turns drinking beer through a funnel while cheering each other on. I don’t get drinking games. I don’t get drinking. Maybe because I don’t like beer. Wine has always been offered freely at my house, and even though I like it, getting drunk isn’t an option. It would trigger two of my biggest fears: puking and losing control.
    I step through the patio door and into the kitchen, which smells like a mixture of beer, sweat, and various colognes. A group of guys and girls are gathered around the granite breakfast bar playing Quarters with what appear to be different types of hard alcohol.
    “Hey, girl!” shouts one of the guys. I’ve seen him with Rob. Josh something.
    I shift my eyes left and right, trying to figure out if he’s talking to me.
    “Yeah, you. Cute girl in the reddish shirt. Don’t look so angry,” he says. “Come play with us.”
    So this is my life story. A decent-enough-looking guy starts off calling me cute and then, because I don’t exude the appropriate amount of excitement (I have no idea how to flirt—I fully admit this), it quickly turns bad and I become Angry Girl. Angry? Do I look angry? People are always doing that to me—telling me to smile, asking me what’s wrong, when I’m perfectly content. I just have a pouty-shaped mouth, that’s all.
    “Uh, I’m just looking for the bathroom,” I say. “Maybe later.”
    I even smile with some teeth.
    “Whatever. Be that way,” he says.
    Another gift. I’m always pissing people off without trying. Typical me. I walk down the hall and into the foyer, looking for a bathroom. When I find the half bath near the front door, the stench of vomit is so strong, I almost get sick myself. I decide to try upstairs. Maybe there’s a bathroom in the master bedroom.
    When I arrive on the upstairs landing, all the bedroom doors are closed. I open the first one, and I’m greeted by the site of a bare ass on top of a seminude girl. I quickly snap the door shut as someone says, “Who the hell was that?” Quickly, I abort my bathroom search and dash down the stairs and out the front door. It’s not like I really had to go, anyway.
    I circle back into the yard again. Should I bother to look for Shelby or just find some space where I can avoid butts in the buff and angry Quarters players? As I wander through the crowd, I’m trying so hard to avoid making eye contact—or any other kind of contact, for that matter—that I don’t see the rather large guy, who must be a linebacker, stumbling toward me. He slams into my side and launches me into another guy, who, when he turns around, I recognize as Rob McGinty. He looks angry for a split second, then tilts his head and gives me an odd half smile.
    “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I was pushed.”
    I’m about to break free when Rob grabs my elbow. “Sam D’Angelo? Are you okay? You don’t look so good.” Super. Just the words I want to hear from our star quarterback and class president. The cliché of being Rob borders on ridiculous.
    “I’m fine,” I say. “It must be the beer.”
    Rob grins. “A lightweight,