Meant to Be Page 4

  “Well, that certainly would make for a better story, now wouldn’t it?” he replies, smiling as he leans into the doorframe.

  My mind is drifting back to my bath and my book, so I’m ready to get this interaction over with. I pull my robe tighter around me in hopes he’ll realize I’m prepped for something other than a party right now. He doesn’t catch my drift. Body language much?

  “The party?” I prod.

  “Oh, right. So her parents are visiting another country, and she’s having some people over. So he invited us.”

  “Us?”

  “Well, he invited me, but you’re my buddy, so by proxy, you get an invite, too. So how about it?”

  I don’t think I’ve ever been this confused by a conversation with anyone. Ever.

  He’s asking me because I’m his buddy? When have rules ever mattered to Jason? Case in point: he’s planning on sneaking out to party. If you’re going to break one, why not break them all?

  Me? I’ll go for breaking none, thankyouverymuch.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “And I really don’t think you should be going, either.”

  “Why not?” He takes a step toward me. I take a quick step backward, unconsciously giving him room to enter. He lets the door swing shut behind him. Dammit.

  “Because I don’t think it’s a good idea to go to a house party in a foreign country hosted by the girlfriend of a guy you met in a bar while watching soccer.” As I tilt my head to meet his eyes, I’m reminded again of how freaking tall he is.

  “Football,” he says. He crosses his arms and cocks an eyebrow at me.

  “Whatever!” I exclaim. I take a giant step backward so he’s not towering over me. “You don’t even know these people. They could be drug dealers or ax murderers. They could be cult leaders trying to get you to wear a choir robe and drink Kool-Aid. But all that aside, we’re not supposed to be going out on our own.”

  “Ah, the rules,” he says, sticking his hands in his pockets and chuckling to himself. “You do love those rules.”

  “I don’t love rules,” I say, starting to get pissed. “I just acknowledge their existence! And I don’t want to get in trouble for your ridiculousness.”

  “C’mon, Julia. If it’s the rules you’re concerned about, then get dressed, because I’m pretty sure the number one rule is ‘Don’t lose your buddy.’ ”

  “I’m not so sure a house party with British strangers is the cultural experience Mrs. Tennison had in mind,” I reply.

  “Mrs. Tennison could use a party! She needs to loosen up a bit, too. Think we should invite her?”

  I don’t like the way he says “too.” I’m plenty loose. There’s a difference between preferring books to parties and preferring sixteen cats to seeing the light of day.

  “The answer is no,” I say, hoping to end the conversation. I tap my toe frantically under the robe. If he doesn’t leave soon, I’m going to have to jog to Glasgow to release this stress. “Besides, Mrs. Tennison will have my key. How do you suggest we get around that? Or were you thinking of sleeping in the lobby tonight?”

  “That’s why I have these,” Jason says with a grin as he reaches into his pocket and fans out two key cards, one clearly marked 315. My room.

  “How did you get—”

  “I make friends, Book Licker. It’s what I do best. Stick with me and maybe one day you, too, will learn how to do that.” He tries to thrust the key card into my hand, but I push it back.

  “I don’t want that!” I cry, wondering what the punishment would be if I was found with a stolen key card I’d used to break curfew so I could go to a party hosted by strangers in a foreign country.

  I think that slate of charges surpasses detention.

  “Okay, fine,” he says, dangling the key card in front of my face. “If you really want me to hang on to a key to your room …” He trails off, waggling his eyebrows at me suggestively.

  I snatch the key.

  “That’s what I thought,” he says with a smirk. Just then, he catches sight of my bathtub. “Holy crap, is that a bathtub at the foot of your bed? That’s awesome! Can I join?”

  “Hilarious.” I can feel heat flooding my face.

  “I’m not kidding. You, me, some bubbles …”

  “You’re insane,” I say. My face is so hot I feel like I’ve already submerged in scalding water.

  “It’s all part of my charm.” He tries to dodge me and grabs the bubble bath. I grab it back from him and turn around to place it in its rightful spot at the edge of the tub. But as I turn, something tugs on me. I look down and see the white rubber toe of Jason’s sneaker planted firmly on the hem of the robe.

  I’m moving, but the robe isn’t. As the information makes its way from my eyeballs to my brain, I feel the robe slip off my shoulder.

  “Hey!” I shout, and shove Jason backward. He pitches back onto the bed but grabs hold of the front of my robe. Before this can turn into a major wardrobe malfunction, I twist away from him, clenching the robe closed, but manage to get my feet tangled in the hem as it falls down toward the floor. Instinctively, I reach out to break my fall. Without my hands holding it shut, my robe flies open and billows out behind me. With my back to him, Jason can’t have seen a thing, but my terrified scream pretty much serves as a high alert. He sits up in time to see me crash to the ground in a naked tangle of arms, legs, and terry cloth. As soon as I can discern my bare butt from my elbow, I pull myself into the fetal position and yank the robe over my head like a blanket.

  It feels like an eternity before Jason stops laughing. He finally slows enough to choke out, “Are you going to stay huddled under that robe all night?”

  “Go away!” I yell through the fabric.

  “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you,” he says, still chuckling. “Why don’t I turn around, and you can crawl out from under there? Then we can discuss this party situation further.”

  “How do I know you’re going to turn around?”

  “Well, you could trust me.”

  “Yeah right,” I mumble.

  “Or you could stay under there all night long,” he replies. I think about that prospect for a moment, but the wood floor is not comfortable on my knees. Thinking quickly, I decide to feel my way around to the other side of the bed, where I’ll be able to slightly shield myself from Jason’s view. I army crawl across the floor, trying to keep the robe draped over me. Underneath yards of white terry cloth, I must look like some kind of turtle ghost.

  When I make it around the bed, I peek my head out to see that Jason, true to his word, is facing the opposite direction. I let out a huge breath, adjust my robe, and scramble back to my feet.

  “You good?” he calls over his shoulder.

  “I wouldn’t go straight to ‘good,’ ” I say.

  “Great.” He spins on his heel, the soles of his sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. “Now hurry up and get ready. Let’s party!” He grabs my purse off the dresser. I’d already packed it for tomorrow’s excursion to the Tate. He tosses the bag to me. Faced with the prospect of releasing the robe to catch the purse, I decide to just let it whack me in the face, then bounce onto the bed. I’ve been naked enough for one day, thankyouverymuch.

  “Now get dressed. We’re going out.”

  “I said—” I say, stamping my foot like a little girl.

  “I heard what you said. I choose not to believe you,” he says. His mischievous grin quickly dissolves into something resembling seriousness. “Look, stay in with your books, or come out and get a life. It’s your call. Personally, I think a little adventure would do you good. I’ll be in the lobby. You’ve got ten minutes, then I’m out, at which point you will have officially lost your buddy.”

  The door slams, and I’m standing alone in the room, fuming. Get a life? A life! I have a life. A damn good one, too. I have friends, I play sports, I have fun, I have—oh crap, I only have ten minutes. With Phoebe’s voice echoing in my ear—“It’s London! Adventure happens.”—I realiz
e I need to do this. I need some adventure. Because my name is Julia. Not Book Licker. I’m Julia Lichtenstein, and even though I alphabetize my bookshelf and have, from time to time, quoted Dante at swim team dinners, I can have fun! I am fun. And if this is what it takes to prove it to Jason Lippincott—prove it to myself—then this is what I’ll do.

  And if I’m going to break the rules for perhaps the first time in my life, I’m going to look good doing it. I grab the only skirt I brought to London, an airy yellow number that hits just above the knee. It pairs nicely with my white polo and my black Converse high-tops, but as I look in the mirror, all I can see is Book Licker staring back at me. I’m dressed for a hayride, not a London house party. I look like a fifth grader on a field trip.

  With mere minutes left before I lose my chance (or my nerve), I roll the skirt at the waist, transforming it into some approximation of a mini, and switch out my polo and Chucks for a strappy tank I brought to sleep in and Phoebe’s heels. At least now I’ve got a little height, so I feel less like a gremlin. My hair is hopeless, so I leave it in the ponytail, hoping I can rock the bedhead look (with actual bedhead). I smear some eye shadow on my eyes and attempt to create some kind of smoky effect, but with such a limited time frame, it’s looking more like I’ve been sleeping next to a coal furnace. Then I dash out the door (as fast as I can in four-inch leather gladiator heels), sliding my key under Mrs. Tennison’s door on my way to the elevator. I’m half hoping I’ve missed him, half hoping I haven’t, fully wondering why it’s me he’s even waiting for and not, say, Evie or someone like that.

  The elevator is moving at a glacial pace, and I’m starting to have second thoughts. This is a bad idea. Very bad. I’m sneaking out to go to a party hosted by strangers in a foreign country. I’m putting my GPA and my permanent record (however mythical it may be) in jeopardy. To go to a party with Jason Lippincott. What am I doing?

  If this doesn’t constitute an emergency, I don’t know what does. I pull out my assigned cell phone and dash off a quick note to Phoebe that ends up being the text-speak equivalent of “Going to a party with Jason Lippincott. Am I flap-my-arms-and-fly-away, speaking-in-tongues, barking mad?” How much can one little text cost, after all?

  As the elevator doors slide open, I am once again face to face with Jason.

  “Ready for this?” he asks, a wide grin spreading across his face.

  In my hand, my phone vibrates.

  Do it! And report back. Better be wearing the shoes! —P

  “Ready,” I say, dropping my phone back into my bag next to my pocket Shakespeare. “Let’s go.”

  Omg—Mark news! Must discuss.

  Why aren’t you picking up? —P

  A half hour and a very expensive cab ride later, I’m standing in the living room of an opulently decorated town house, wearing a skirt that is turning out to be entirely too short. Everyone around me looks like they stepped off the pages of Vanity Fair. I feel like I need to find the kids’ table.

  An amateur MC is rockin’ the mic (or attempting to, anyway) in the corner. Flanked on both sides by speakers, the deejay looks completely out of place surrounded by heavily ornamented and brocaded antiques. The furniture can best be described as “stately,” an adjective that does not compute with the punky, flashy teenagers currently draped around it, glasses and bottles of various shapes and colors in their hands.

  “So this is cool, right?” Jason asks.

  “Oh, definitely. The coolest!” I reply, with entirely too much enthusiasm. I feel like such a dork, and the embarrassment coursing through my body causes me to teeter on my too-high shoes. Jason just rolls his eyes.

  “Let’s get some drinks,” he says.

  Oh yes! Let’s! Because sneaking out isn’t bad enough, so let’s get drunk, too! Jason’s already moving through the crowd, about to disappear behind a girl who looks like a praying mantis in leather pants. I hurry after him, because my desire not to be alone is overshadowing my desire to be on good behavior. I guess I’ve already screwed up the “good behavior” thing, anyway.

  We make our way across the front room and into the kitchen. From a cabinet Jason procures two glasses, each of which looks like it cost more than my plane ticket. The marble-topped island in the kitchen is covered with various bottles and mixers. Jason splashes liquid from a few different bottles into the glasses, then hands one to me. As soon as the glass is in my hand, I tip it back and take a big gulp. I don’t even ever drink alcohol, but it’s as though my hand works automatically, bringing the glass to my mouth before my mind has time to be like, What are you doing? Coach Haas would kill me if he knew I was drinking during swim season.

  Instantly, I feel like someone threw a match down my throat. As much as I want to be cool right now, my body takes over.

  “Ugh,” I grunt, my face contorting into a tight pinch from the shock.

  “Uh, cheers,” he says, laughing. “Too strong?”

  “No, it’s fine,” I say, taking another (more careful) sip, wondering if the expression “when in Rome” applies to London, too. This sip burns less, but it still tastes like lighter fluid, despite Jason’s having mixed in a good amount of lemonade. I’m sure he can tell from all the wincing that I’m in virgin territory here. What can I say? My mom is of the classic suburban-protective variety, and as I’ve made abundantly clear, I’m not much for rule breaking. But now that I’m at a party—a London party—full of strangers, it’s like there’s a whole new handbook of rules. I wonder if I can get a copy.

  “First drink, Book Licker?”

  “It’s Julia,” I reply, “and no.” It’s not a total lie. Gramma Lichtenstein always gives me a sip of her syrupy-sweet port at Christmas. That counts, right?

  “Whatever you say,” he says, shaking his head and taking a sip from his own glass. “Listen, I mixed that drink light, but you still need to go easy.” I’d like to pretend he’s genuinely trying to protect me from alcoholic embarrassment and/or danger, but I suspect he’s making fun of me.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I say, but Jason’s already walking away. I guess those were his parting words of wisdom, because five seconds later I spot him in the corner of the kitchen, already chatting up a gorgeous Brit girl who manages to make her punky neon-pink highlights look glamorous. Great. Now I’m at a party, surrounded by strangers, in a skirt that’s too short, and I’m all by myself. I’m like a walking after-school special. I pull my glass closer to my chest to shield it from wandering roofies and date rapists.

  “Well, hello there,” says a high-pitched, distinctly American voice, and as I turn toward the figure that has sidled up next to me, I come face to chest with a very tall guy. A quick look up reveals perhaps the gawkiest of gawky boys, hair gelled within an inch of its life, wire-rimmed glasses perched atop an acne-covered nose. (I’m not mean! I’m descriptive!)

  “Um, hi,” I reply, already scanning the room to plot an escape.

  “Lame party, huh?” he asks, resting an elbow on the counter and leaning into my personal space. “I’ve been to way better at the embassy.”

  “The embassy?” I ask, instantly regretting my curiosity, as I have now entered this conversation as a willing participant.

  “A fellow American!” he says when he hears my accent. “Yeah, my dad’s a diplomat. I’ve met basically everyone—everyone who matters, I mean. And I’ve lived all over the place.”

  Oh God, unattractive and pompous. A winning combination. My inner control panel is screaming ABORT! ABORT!

  “That’s really great,” I say, continuing to formulate my escape route.

  “It totally is,” he says, oblivious to my desperation. He actually thinks I’m charmed by his ridiculous boasting. “I mean, I’m only sixteen and I’ve got three senators willing to write me recommendations to Harvard. Or Yale—I’m not sure which I’m going to choose yet. We’ll see who offers me the sweetest package.”

  “Wow. That’s … wow,” I reply, choking back what I’m really thinking, which includes the phrases �
��shove it” and “butt munch.” I toss back my glass and manage to mask my disgust for the drink and the company in one fell swoop.

  “Can I get you another drink?” he asks.

  “Oh absolutely,” I reply, thrusting my glass into his hand. As he turns to fill it with who knows what, I dash through the nearest exit and down the hall. I duck into an open door, hoping it’s a bathroom, but instead find myself in what appears to be a study. The walls are lined with leather-bound books and partygoers. A giant mahogany desk dominates the center of the room. If it weren’t for the thudding bass and all the raging hormones in the air, I’d feel right at home. I plop down on an overstuffed, shiny leather couch and find myself sitting next to another male partygoer. He’s wearing a rumpled oxford shirt and an even more wrinkled blazer. A gold crest on the lapel gives him away as a prep school boy. He’s nursing a cut glass tumbler of some kind of brown liquor, which gives him away as a drunken prep school boy. His drink smells so strong I fear it will singe my nose hairs, and the smell gets stronger as he drapes his heavy, drunken arm over my shoulder and turns his face to mine.

  “Whatcha thinkin’ about?” he slurs.

  What I am thinking about is the weight of the tiny book in my purse, and how I should be immersed in a hot bath right now, thumbing through its well-worn, highlighted pages. Not even one day as Jason’s buddy, and already my worst fears have come true. Instead of a bath, I find myself in some kind of live-action video game nightmare, where the object is to shoot down as many drunk, irritating teen boys as possible. Is this what all parties are like? Because if so, I obviously haven’t been missing out on much. The book is just pulsing there in my bag, taunting me for my stupid decision to come here.

  “As You Like It,” I blurt out, instantly regretting the words.

  “What?”

  I can feel the splotches of anxiety creeping onto my face. “Um, yeah, it’s a play. And there’s this girl, Rosalind,” I start, going with it, as if this guy is in any mood for a literature lecture.