My jaw clenches. Shitbag Ricky knows we’re going out! I force a smile to fight back the anger.
I guess he figured that if Karina could like someone like me, she would like him even more. You know, since in his mind he’s much cooler and better looking than the dork he named Fuckstick.
My brain goes to the dark place of wanting to inflict pain—nonstop punches, kicks, and body slams.
“As if that were a smooth line,” Karina says. “Who talks like that?”
“Then what?” I ask.
“I told him that I had a boyfriend, and even if I didn’t I wouldn’t give him the time of day.”
“Cool,” Miguel says.
Janelle says, “You forgot the part about him calling you a bitch.”
“Oh yeah.” Karina shrugs, without looking at me. “There was that.”
It all makes sense now. She didn’t tell me before because there was nothing I, her weakass boyfriend, could have done. And Ricky, who got shot down, punched me because he wanted to take his hurt out on somebody.
Miguel leans closer to me. “If you have a hater, you must be doing something right.”
That actually makes sense, to my surprise. It hurt Ricky to learn he wasn’t above my level. So I forget all about Ricky, who’s old news anyway.
All of a sudden, one of my favorite songs comes on. “Uptown Funk” will never get old. It’s one of Karina’s favorites too.
When Karina’s eyes catch mine, she breaks into a smile.
She stands up and calls out to everybody at the table, “Give us some toast, bitches.”
I stand up and add, “Because this is our jam!”
I take Karina by the hand as her friends try to get their guys to join us. I wind through the tables and standing bodies in the yard until Karina and I are on the reddish tiled patio.
Over a dozen people are dancing, more girls than boys, Karina the sexiest of them all.
Okay, maybe I’m biased. But she’s stunning tonight, and dances really good. She flashes me a smile, liking how I move too.
I’m not James Brown or anything, but rhythm does run on both sides of my family. Dancing is an obligation at family celebrations, whether it’s a baptism, quinceañera, or a wedding, and I’ve been doing it ever since I could stand on two feet.
To my left Enzo is giving the minimum effort, shifting with the music just enough to qualify as dancing. Janelle in front of him doesn’t notice, with how into the song she is, eyes closed as she sings along to the hook.
Miguel can’t dance—something I learned at his older sister’s quinceañera three years ago. But what he lacks in ability he makes up in energy. He’s all smiles and sort of hopping up and down, like he’s the mascot at a school pep rally. Liliana, both embarrassed and entertained by this, sways with slightly less energy.
Karina takes her phone from my front pocket to snap group selfies. Tries to get all six of our moving bodies in the shot.
By the time the next song drops the crowded patio has me turned around. I’m facing the backyard again.
The too-many-bracelets girl from Language Arts is pointing me out to a friend. When they look away, I check my shirt and zipper. Everything seems fine.
Maybe she’s shocked that stickboy can dance.
Seconds later a guy over by the snack table points to me with a Dorito as his two friends gawk at me.
I glance around to make sure—yep, at me.
My heart drops and I freeze up. Why didn’t Karina tell me I looked ridiculous?
“What’s wrong?” she asks me now, oblivious that I’ve become entertainment.
“Nothing,” I tell her. “I’m getting something to drink.”
I’m thirstier than ever and now the inside of the house seems like the right place to be. At least nobody in there witnessed me making an ass of myself on the dance floor.
I leave Karina dancing with her friends and head over to the patio door, feeling eyes on me every inch of the way.
As soon as I slide the glass door open, the smell of weed hits me hard.
A smoke cloud is dissipating above the coffee table. A bunch of cool kids are gathered under the smoke, on the furniture and floor, passing around a joint. They’re cracking up at something on the TV. I can’t see it from where I’m standing, but I bet it’s a big screen, top of the line, just like everything else in this swanky place.
The kitchen to my right is so crowded, like it’s a second party. That’s where my cold drink awaits. I can already feel it in my hand. I slide the door shut behind me. It dulls the music out there and amplifies the laughter in here.
“That’s not funny,” a girl in cat-eye glasses says.
“No, it’s not funny,” a girl sitting on the rug says, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “It’s hilarious. Play it again, Jared.”
Jared Ross, as douchey as he is popular, sits facing the TV. I move toward the kitchen.
“It’s David!” somebody shouts—a voice I don’t recognize.
“Holy shit!” That’s Jared’s voice for sure. “David, wait, is that you?”
I stop and turn around. His pink eyes have gone round.
Jaws hang open and silent. A second later there are surprised comments like “No way” and “Oh my God!” partly drowned out by loud laughter. Aimed at me this time. Real laughter, not that kind bullies force to make you madder. If it’s possible to literally laugh one’s head off, heads will be dropping to the floor soon.
What’s going on? How do these popular people know my name? And how am I funnier than whatever they were watching before?
The sarcastic girl sitting cross-legged on the rug catches her breath to say, “Come here, David.”
The nervous jitters hit me all over. Especially in the stomach—a steady tingling in there telling me something bad is going to happen.
I’ve picked up some keys to survival over the years. For instance, you avoid eye contact when entering a room or walking down the hall.
But I haven’t yet mastered the whole “walking-away” thing, though it should be easy. Why do I go up to bullies when they ask me to? I’m hopeful, I guess. As if being a good sport might make them like me better. All I do is prolong the bullying.
“You gotta see this,” Jared tells me, wiping happy tears from his face with the back of his hand. He slumps back into the couch, exhausted.
“I’m tripping hard.” This is from Stacy Rivers, who’s wedged between two cheerleaders on the loveseat. “I can’t believe David actually walked in just now.”
Others shout at me to “Come on” and “For a second,” but I know that trick. Being nice is a trap they set so they can be mean.
Or maybe this time it’s not a trick? Everybody is in total chill-out mode, eyes bloodshot from weed, totally harmless. Just having fun, and I wanna know what the joke is so I can laugh too.
I fix a smile on my face and walk over. “What’s up?”
That’s when the large TV comes into view. I see what’s paused on the screen—me.
When I realize I’m on YouTube, panic clenches my stomach and my heart pounds in my throat. That’s me wearing a PE uniform and about to open my locker. Am I really that skinny? My next question—What the hell is happening?—is answered a millisecond later when I remember the punch. Someone else was there to capture it on video.