Worth Telling

At the party Foster introduced me as ‘my neighbor: Indiana.’ He greeted multiple girls with kisses on the cheek and boys with swift pats to the back. I didn’t know any of the kids because Foster went to private school, where the students wore ties and the teachers were all nuns and I went public school, where the students wore jeans that didn’t fit and the teachers were all wishing they were somewhere else.

I ended up sitting alone for two hours on the edge of the party, watching Foster socialize. He was like the king of the castle. His subjects flittering around, presenting him with shiny red cups and phone numbers and begging for dances. They cheered when he presented the weed.

“Are you sober?” I approached him, in the middle of a game of beer pong, when I was just about bored to death. “Because I want to go home.”

“You’re not having fun?” he asked as he launched a ball toward the pyramid of plastic cups.

“No, I am not,” I told him bluntly.

Without hesitation, Foster yelled, “Somebody find Jones and tell him I’m leaving!” he tugged on the bill of his hat. “He’s got ten minutes.”

Then he slung his arm around my shoulder and led me out the door like we were best friends.

As we sat in the car, waiting for Jones to make his way out, I fidgeted with the hem of the skirt that my sisters had forced me to wear. Foster drummed on the steering wheel. Bada bum bada bum bada bum.

“What is this?” I asked Foster out of the blue.

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Like why did you invite me?”

“I dunno. You seem nice.”

“I am not nice,” I said because it was the truth.

Forest shrugged.

“Do you…think I’m pretty?” I questioned, after a few moments.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because Marley and Luna are cute and The Baby is sexy and all anyone ever tells me is that I have an attitude.”

“Yeah,” he paused his drumming and stared me down. He had the kind of eyes that you could just swim in. “You're pretty.”

What happened next was really rushed and kind of crazy. One second I was sitting in the passenger seat, looking around for his little brother, and the next I was in his lap. We were just a sloppy mess of long limbs and lips and saliva. I didn’t really know how to kiss. In fact, later Foster would recall that first kiss and laugh at how I didn’t know what to do with my tongue. His brother interrupted before any clothes were shed.