Page 34 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
“What are you here for?” I ask Julius. I’m too surprised to remember to sharpen my words, to hold on to my grudge from the bookstore. To do anything except stare.
He looks just as confused, as if someone else had guided him to my house. He’s certainly not dressed for a party; he’s wearing a navy blazer that brings out the darkness of his eyes, the natural red tint of his lips. But then his features wrap themselves into a perfect little scowl, and he stuffs his hands into his pockets, straightens his spine. “The same thing as everyone else,” he says. “I heard there was free liquor so I thought I’d drop by.”
I blink at him. “I didn’t know you drank. Actually, I recall you saying last year thatthe only beverages worth your time were coffee and mineral water.”
His skin flushes, though his scowl remains in place. “Perhaps I’ve changed my mind.”
“Or perhaps you’re here to make fun of me,” I guess.
“This may come as a shock, but not everything is about you, Sadie. I don’t care whose party this is; I simply didn’t have anywhere better to go,” he says, his voice bored.
“How sad. You’re not wanted in your own home? You have to come bother me in mine?”
He flinches, then rights himself again with cool poise. The twist of his mouth turns cruel. “Well, if I can make your night a little worse, why not? I’ll at least have accomplished something here.”
I lean against the doorframe, my heart speeding. Had I imagined it? Struck some invisible nerve? Was it something I said? But when I assess his face, his gaze is cold as stone; it seems impossible he could feel any human emotion at all.
“What are you waiting for?” He glances over his shoulder at my front yard, then back at me, his brows raised. “You’re blocking the entrance.”
I realize it’s true. There’s already a line forming behind him, people squeezing past one another to edge closer. I sigh and step back and they spill through the door all at once. A guy I’ve never spoken to before pauses on his way in, catches Julius’s eye, and calls out at the top of his voice so it’s audible even over the thudding music, “Cute outfit, Julius Caesar. Are you planning on heading to a job interview soon? Because with that blazer, I’msurethey’d hire you.”
Laughter bubbles up from around the house.
Julius’s face darkens. “Are you satisfied?” he hisses under his breath, the accusation stark in his gaze. “It’s all thanks to you.”
I swallow. I can’t lie, Idofeel bad. No doubt that comment was inspired by another one of my responses to his emails, which had unfortunately been addressed to our entire class. The new nickname as well. “I’ll fix it,” I tell him. “I can fix it. I’ve got it under control already.”
“Do you consider yourself a god or something? How are you planning to fix it?” he demands.
“I’m throwing the party—”
“Hang on. Isthatwhat this is about?” He shakes his head with disbelief. “See, Iknewyou had some kind of ulterior motive—”
“Don’t make it sound so sinister,” I snap.
“Don’t be so naive about this,” he retorts, just as fiercely. “You really think you can just put on some upbeat music, bring a bunch of alcohol, and everyone will havesucha wonderful time tonight they’ll forget you insulted a significant portion of the student body?”
“Well, it’s working,” I say.
At least, that’s what it seems like. People are lounging on my couch, chatting in the corridors, drinks in hands, falling over themselves laughing, their expressions open, relaxed. Happy. The air is warm with the heat of bodies and the flickering candle flames. Aside from that guy’s one remark, the emails might as well not exist in this space.
“If you truly believe that, you’re about to be very disappointed,” Julius scoffs. “And what’s the point of hosting a party if you aren’t even having fun?”
I tighten my jaw. “What do you mean? I’m havingplentyof fun.” My eyes snap to the group of boys on the other side of the room. “In fact, I’m just about to go and tell those people to stop dipping raw cabbage into the chocolate fountain.”
“Yeah, a real blast,” he mutters. But when I turn to go, he stops me. “Wait.”
“What?” I say irritably.
He hesitates. Runs a slow, self-conscious hand through his hair. “Do they . . . really look bad? My clothes, I mean.”
I’m dumbfounded—as much by the question as the fact that he’s askingme. “You look how you always look, Julius,” I manage.
His eyes are wary. “And how is that?”
“Completely pretentious,” I say. I shouldn’t elaborate any further, but something about the stiffness of his posture, the rare vulnerability in his face, makes me add: “In a nice way though.”
Then I bite down on my tongue and make a quick exit before I can say anything else I’ll regret.
