Vegas Boys

Dad went to work that Monday and I found myself alone in his big empty house for the first time.

I slept in as long as I could--as I had on Sunday as well--to put off the boredom and loneliness that surely awaited me. At around noon, I couldn't force myself to linger in bed any longer and busied myself with chores for a while. That didn't last long, though, as my father could afford to pay a maid to come in and clean the whole house on Sundays; after making my bed and washing some of my clothes, there was nothing left to do.

I went downstairs and rummaged around in the kitchen for something to eat, but all I found was a box of very sensible-looking bran cereal, a small carton of milk, coffee, and orderly stacks of bottled water. I was startled. What did Dad eat?

Suddenly remembering that we had eaten out for every meal so far, I realized that he probably always ate out.

...How much money did my father have? Even more than I'd previously suspected, apparently.

I decided to take some money out of the drawer my father had indicated to me yesterday and walk down the gas station I'd spotted on the way back from dinner last night. It was only about a block away--surely I could walk a mile and back in broad daylight safely, even in Vegas?

I laughed a little at myself. Even in Vegas. My mother had made me paranoid. She had instilled her deep loathing of the city in me, and multiplied it tenfold with all her needless warnings: Don't go anywhere alone. Don't talk to strangers--especially not strangers your father knows. And be careful around those boys--you can't trust Vegas boys.

Mom associated Vegas with my father, and so, naturally, she was wary and resentful of the city. Actually, Dad had traumatized her so badly with their messy divorce that her distrust not only encompassed the city, but also the male population in general--Vegas boys were to be doubly loathed.

Mom hated Vegas as much as I did. But she still hadn't hesitated to dump me here.

Pushing those dangerous thoughts to the back of my mind, I grabbed ten dollars out of the drawer and stepped outside. The moment I opened the front door, the unyielding desert heat smacked me in the face like a brick; immediately, I felt like I was suffocating. I choked on the hot air for a moment and then scolded myself for being such a wimp, closing the door firmly behind me and hurrying down the front walk.

I had just reached the sidewalk and had turned to walk down the street towards the gas station when I heard a voice behind me.

"Hey!"

I paused momentarily; when I heard nothing else, I figured whoever the voice belonged to was yelling at someone else, and walked on.

I was wrong.

"Hey! Hey!"

I stopped in my tracks and spun on the spot, and immediately found myself gasping for breath--but this time the heat had nothing to do with it.

A boy about my age was standing at the edge of the next-door-neighbor's yard, panting, head cocked to the side slightly with curiosity. He was tall and thin, just growing out of that awkward gangly phase most boys go through as adolescents; but even now, his hands and feet looked too big for his body. His long, straight nose led down to prominent lips, and his thick, dark hair hung down in his eyes, which were squinting against the sun.

I frowned and looked around, sure that he was addressing someone else. But, besides us, the whole neighborhood seemed to be completely deserted.

He grinned cheekily at me when I turned back to him. "Haven't seen you around here before," said the boy conversationally.

I shook my head a little, warily--I couldn't help it, my mother had gotten to me. "No," I agreed, "I just moved here."

He raised his dark eyebrows at me, and what little I could see of them before was now completely obscured beneath his bangs. "Moved?"

"Um, just for the summer," I clarified. "I'm staying with my dad. John Matthews?"

"Oh, okay--Mr. Matthews, sure." A huge grin spread across the boys face, and I was momentarily blinded. "And you are...?"

"Oh--Kelsey. Kelsey Mathews," I replied politely, if uncomfortably.

He, on the other hand, didn't seem uncomfortable at all. He bounded across the driveway separating us and extended a long, pale hand. "Hi Kelsey, I'm Brendon," he told me cheerfully. "I'm your new next-door-neighbor."

-----

The first thing I noticed about Brendon, now that I was standing within a few feet of him and reluctantly shaking his hand, was that he was kind of, sort of, extremely attractive.

The second thing I noticed was that he was also kind of, sort of, extremely obnoxious.

His blinding smile was both enticing and intimidating at the same time; it was too wide, too eager, too full of friendliness I neither wanted nor deserved. The way he held my hand for a moment longer than was necessary, the way he took a step towards me even as I took a step back, the way he kept casting subtle glances down at the rest of my body, away from my face, made me uncomfortable. He was coming on way too strong.

"It's nice to meet you." He was still beaming at me. "I think my mom mentioned you before, now that I think about it."

"Oh--yeah, maybe," I said awkwardly, struggling to smile back. Yeah, right, his mom had mentioned me--as if there was nothing better to gossip about in Las Vegas, of all places.

"She didn't tell me how pretty you are, though," added Brendon slyly.

I couldn't help it--I blushed violently at that. I didn't know what to say, so I just smiled uncomfortably down at my feet and tried to think of a polite way to escape him.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Brendon suddenly, his handsome--if boyish--face contracting briefly with pained understanding. "I didn't mean to--I mean... You don't have a boyfriend or anything, do you?"

I tried to think fast, but he made me nervous. "Um, yeah," I lied quickly. "Actually, I do."

I thought I'd been pretty convincing, but the remorse in Brendon's face evaporated immediately, and then he was smirking ever so slightly. "Oh...really? What's his name?"

His voice sounded polite enough, but, nonetheless, I detected the air of a challenge. He didn't believe me.

"Er--John," I stammered uncertainly, wanting to smack myself upside the head for giving myself away so easily.

"What's his last name? Smith?" He was blatantly smirking with self-satisfaction now.

"No," I snapped. "It's--Johnson."

"Oh, okay," laughed Brendon. "John Johnson."

I blushed even more. John Johnson, I thought angrily to myself. Good job, idiot. Remind me never to lie again.

"I have to go," I muttered irritably, turning and stalking away towards the house.

"No, wait!" said Brendon, lunging forward and grabbing my arm to stop me.

I whirled around and slapped his hand away. In the next instant, the amusement in his face vanished, and he looked suddenly apologetic--for a moment, I felt bad for the way I'd treated him, without even really knowing him.

But a second later, the impish grin was back. He put his hand on my arm again, to keep me from leaving. "So, this John Johnson kid--does he live around here? 'Cause I've never heard of him before."

"Actually, he doesn't," I growled, yanking my arm away from him resentfully.

"I didn't think so." He looked to be holding back laughter. "So where does he live, then? Narnia? Oz? Never-Neverland?"

I seriously considered slapping him in the face; then, struggling to restrain myself, I turned and walked away purposefully.

He ran to catch up with me, and walked alongside me all the way up to my front porch. "No, seriously, I'd like to meet him," he was saying, and though I refused to look at him, I could feel him watching my face closely for a reaction. "Do you think you could introduce us sometime? Or can I actually see him too? Is this one of those imaginary friend kind of deals?"

"Fuck you."

"That's your job."

I spun around again as I reached the front door, with every intention of hitting him; but then--sensing what was coming, I guess--he flinched, and I setted on snickering at him instead.

"Oooh, big tough guy, huh?" I said mockingly. "Even my imaginary boyfriend could kick your bony ass."

This funny self-satisfied expression came over his face, and I felt uneasy for the few seconds that passed before he said coolly, "You like my bony ass."

That time, I did slap him.

He blinked once, stunned. We stood there staring at each other--I with disgust and hatred, he with shock and wonder--for what must have been several minutes.

Then, as he recovered from his surprise, Brendon started to say something, but I cut him off.

"Take a hint, asshole," I snarled, and turned and went inside, slamming the door in his face and leaving him standing out on the front porch touching the sore spot on his cheek.

It wasn't until I was sure he had left and I was sprawled out on the couch, fuming, that my stomach growled and I realized that I still had nothing to eat. I groaned angrily, wishing I'd done more to hurt Brendon than just slapping him.