Over the next while, Brent and I started to meet up whenever we could find the time. We hung out at parks, sandwich shops, libraries, street corners. His presence was soothing, like an anchor in the continuous blur of school, friends, and home. We could sit in absolute silence together without worrying about awkward or forced conversation--it's like we were almost becoming friends. Almost. Still, I wasn't prepared to have my phone ring at half past midnight while in the middle of a Buffy the Vampire Slayer rerun I had found while channel surfing.
"Cordelia, he's invisible. No wonder people hate you!" I yelled at my television, chucking a handful of popcorn at the screen.
It was times like these where I was grateful to have the house to myself. My parents were out on a date night with some colleagues, most likely downing chardonnays and making small talk at that very moment. Cornelius, however, was with friends, probably egging cars far more expensive than their own and raiding gas station mini-marts.
And then there was me. My hair was unwashed and greasy, swept up into a bun high atop my head. I had taken my contacts out and replaced them with glasses. I had on a pair of my dad's sleep pants and an oversized t-shirt I should have thrown away years ago. You could say I was a perfect example of 'hot mess chic.' I pulled out my phone from the folds of my blanket and pulled it to my ear, clearing my throat.
"Hello?"
"Hey." The voice was unmistakably slurred.
I paused. "No way," I said.
"What?" the voice replied.
"You are. You're drunk dialing me."
"Yeah, well, I need you to...to get me."
I scoffed. "Uh, no."
"Come on--it'll be quick. I'll meet you at the corner of sixth."
"I'm sorry to break it to you, Brent, but I'm not your designated driver. We don't even know each other that well--"
"Please?" he cut in. "All my friends are hammered and I can't take the bus. It's too confusing."
In the background I heard a loud 'Shot, bitches!' And the deep, throaty sound of Brent's laugh. I heard him swallow, the sound crackling through the line.
"Did you just take a shot?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Seriously?"
"I can drink as much as I want if you're picking me up."
"Can't argue with that logic," I said, hoping he'd pick up on my sarcasm. He didn't. "What's the address?"
"I told you. Sixth."
"Sixth what? Street? Avenue? Boulevard? Sixth sense?"
"Uh...street. Yeah. Street."
"Alright. But I'm taking my sweet, sweet time."
I tugged on some jeans and a sweatshirt before gathering my keys and heading out to my car, barefooted. The snow that blanketed the ground numbed the bottoms of my feet, sending chills up my legs. I got into the driver's seat, started the car, and cranked the heat up as high as it would go before pulling out into the deserted street.
I eventually found myself on the east outskirts of town, cruising through one of of the city's worst neighborhoods. I finally rolled up next to a beat-up street sign that had half its letters missing--it either said "Sixth Street" or "Sick Feet"--and began scanning the sidewalk for Brent. At the far end of the block, standing below a dim streetlamp, was a tall, wiry figure that swayed gently from side to side, unsteady on its feet. I pulled up next to it and rolled down my window halfway.
YOU ARE READING
Tourmaline
Teen Fiction"Some people are just simply and utterly unlovable." He fell silent. His breathing was rhythmic and manual, as if he had accidentally fallen asleep. I took a moment to listen to the soft whistle of his exhales, the sound of his fingers tapping a fas...
