Guyaholic Read Online Free PDF Page B

seat, my hands tucked under my thighs, staring out the window. Sam is gripping the wheel, bouncing one of his knees up and down, and occasionally glancing in my direction.
    As he flicks the blinker and turns onto Route 19, he says, “You told me the thing with your mom was no big deal.”
    I refuse to look at him.
    “Just so you know,” Sam says a few minutes later, “I actually
did
want to go to the prom.”
    I refuse to speak to him.
    “What’s going on?” Rachel asks from the backseat. “We’re totally picking up on some tension.”
    When neither of us respond, she adds, “What’s up with that hockey puck? It’s staring right at me.”
    When we still don’t respond, Rachel snorts. “I can see you two are going to have a blast at this party.”
    I continue staring out my window. Sam continues gripping the steering wheel.

As soon as we arrive, I head straight for the alcohol. Sam doesn’t even come into the house with me. He cuts around to the back porch because some of his friends said they’d be there, most likely getting high. Generally that’s where I’d be, too, except, first of all, I’m so mad I don’t want to be anywhere near Sam and, second of all, weed makes me giggly. Since the last thing I want at this point is to giggle, I go in search of vodka.
    Not that I’m this pothead alcoholic or anything. When I first got to Brockport, I smoked cigarettes and even stashed some weed in my room. My grandparents didn’t know about the weed, but they jumped down my throat about the cigarettes. For the most part, I gave them up. By spring of junior year, I was so busy with a play and driver’s ed and an SAT class, it was actually hard to find time to chill out.
    But then, toward the end of last year, Aimee broke up with her surfer boyfriend and moved to Florida without telling me. I was really upset, and I smoked up with this drug-dealer guy at school and got suspended for the rest of the year. Naturally, my grandparents freaked out. We finally agreed that I’d give up the weed and they’d stop threatening to send me to rehab.
    I haven’t exactly told them I still smoke and drink at parties. The problem with my grandparents is they only see things in black and perfect, pristine white. Ever since my plane touched down last January, they’ve been on this mission to convert me to the perfect side of things. What they don’t understand is that, first of all, they can do all the converting they want, but I’m still the same person deep down, and, second of all, you can be a good person and still have fun now and then.
    Okay, I really need vodka.
    Rachel and Janine disappear into the living room, where hip-hop is playing and girls are grinding and boys are drinking beer on the couch.
    “Have you seen Chastity and Trinity?” I shout to some guy in the hallway.
    “Who?”
    “Identical twins.”
    “You mean Drunk and Drunker?” He waves his hand to the left. “They’re in the kitchen.”
    As I’m heading down the hall, I pass these sliding doors that open into the backyard. Sure enough, there’s Sam and some other kids, sprawled in lawn chairs, smoking cigarettes and passing around what looks like a fat joint. I don’t linger long enough to tell whether or not Sam is smoking because I don’t want anyone to invite me out. I’m too mad to even
consider
talking to Sam right now. I understand he was angry, but he didn’t have to corner me like that. And I can’t believe what he said about my mom.
    “V!” Trinity squeals. “What’re you drinking?”
    “Nothing yet,” I say.
    I glance around the kitchen table, where it looks like everyone used to be playing beer pong but now they’re so drunk they’re just sloshing balls into one another’s cups. Trinity and Chastity are at one end, along with two guys I’ve never seen before. At the other end, there’s the goalie that Rachel used to go out with, some red-haired girl, and Amos Harrington, who I’ve barely talked to since he brought me