Excerpt: Cadenza

(From Chapter 6)

I sit down on the ottoman, turned away from the guy, so I don't notice when he sits up. Thus, when he taps me on the shoulder, I jump, and fall off the foot rest. He laughs--it's a nice, relaxed, easy laugh, one of those contagious ones that make you want to smile--and I climb back up onto the seat, embarrassed out of my mind.

"Alright, then?" he asks (more like yells), and lounges back again, not really looking in my direction. I nod, glad for the darkness. He can't see my blush.

"Yeah," I say, wondering why he tapped my shoulder if he wasn't even going to look at me. Why the fuck talk to me then? I follow his gaze where it settles on the bum of another fairly good looking girl, and wonder if the only thing on his mind is sex. I wouldn't doubt it. Such is the case with most teenage and college aged boys.

He looks over at me then, and his eyes go wide. "Coffee guy!" he yells, pointing a finger dramatically as if I was Satan incarnate. I blink, confused, before I connect the dots.

"Pizza parlour guy," I say back casually, smiling a bit. "Never thought I'd run into you here." He laughs a bit, pulling his hat off.

"Yeah, yeah, same. I mean, I knew you went to NYU, you told me so--" I can't help but make a surprised expression when he says this, considering I doubted he'd remember me past 'coffee guy', and even THAT surprised me, "--but I didn't think you'd show up at a place like this. You seem a bit... Well..."

"Stuffy? Introverted? Anti-social?" I prompt, and he looks sheepish. Looks like I hit the nail on the head.

"Well, yeah," he says, pulling off his hat and scratching the back of his neck. Fringe falls in front of his eyes and he sweeps it back nonchalantly. The hat comes to a rest in his lap. "You did. Do. Whatever." I smile again.

"That's because I am," I say, and he looks a bit confused. "Friend dragged me here." My throat already hurts from yelling, but he barely seems to register the noise. I can tell he's the type of guy who's always energetic, no matter the situation or the time of night, just from the way he's sitting on the couch: right at the edge, as if this is a crucial moment in his life. It's funny.

"Ah," he says sagely, and strokes a fake beard. "Designated driver, I assume. Understandable. You seem like the responsible type."

I roll my eyes--Lyla's rubbing off on me--but laugh a bit. "That obvious? I can't help it. It's part of my nature." I scratch my arm, and he follows my hand. It's a bit uncomfortable. Part of me wants to run away. Social situations make me uneasy, and the way he's following my every move is definitely making me uneasy.

"At least you're cute. You make up for it that way," he says, putting on his most charming smile. It throws me for a loop. I realize, belatedly, that that was probably why he tapped my shoulder. Thought I was gay. Thought I'd make for a good romp in the sack or something. It makes something in my stomach knot and I frown.

"Fuck you," I say simply, and stand up, forcing my way through the crowd to where I can only assume the exit it. I'm right, apparently: after searching for quite a while I finally make it to the entrance, even if I was the cause of a few spilled drinks, stepped on toes, and interrupted dances. I don't really care right now. I just have to get away from that guy, whose name I don't even know. He was flirting. With me. That's just fucked up. I don't want a guy to flirt with me.

The door provides a quick escape and fresh air. It's a welcome change from inside the house with was stifling and hot. I hated it, and the random flirting only managed to make the night even worse.

I walk away from the house as fast as humanly possible. In the walkway, about five kids--maybe more--stumble around, completely wasted. It's both disgusting and hilarious. I avoid them all as best as I can, but it proves more than a little difficult when I'm this frantic. I know I'll have to return to the house later, just to make sure Lyla gets home alright, or isn't passed out and dying or something, but for now I can just try and get away. I'm trying so hard to get away, in fact, that I'm running now. I'm running down the side walk, as fast as I can while avoiding the party-goers who are coming and going.

I run past the cars, past the subway station Lyla and I got off at only a half hour ago, and don't stop until my lungs feel like they're about to burst. By that point I've reached a side street. It's somewhat empty, but there are a few restaurants and a bit of life. On the other side of the street there's a band of street performers, playing some kind of music that I can only assume is latin american. I sit down on the sidewalk against a building, not caring how dirty it is. I need relief, the relief that comes from sitting down and catching one's breath, and even though I know I'm getting my new clothes dirty I can't seem to care.

Then I hear him. It's distant, and at first I don't really notice, but when I look up I can see that guy in the distance, and slowly gaining. I'm too tired to run away anymore, but it's all I want to do, really. He's less than half a block away now, cheeks flushed and looking nervous and upset. Possibly a bit annoyed. It's hard to tell. When he finally reaches me he's not calling anymore, completely out of breath. He leans over, hands on his knees, trying to do what I'm trying to do. He, however, seems to be in much better shape than I am, because he catches his breath around the same time I finally do, which means it took him much less time. That small victory annoys me.