Starry Eyed

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

A teenage boy died and so people are drinking.

Flutes of champagne sparkle along the tables, glistening in the hall lights. They mirror smiles and laughter in a depressing fashion, though I think it's only depressing to me. I've never seen teachers drunk. Nearly all of the teachers are swaying and smiling, glasses in their hands. I see Principal Huntley giggling- literally giggling- with Harlem's mother, and I wonder how he can have the right to punish kids for smuggling drinks into school, but then start swinging around at his student's funeral. Hipocrisy is endless. It is the core of our world.

"You look less drunk than usual."

A warm hand on my shoulder spins me around, and I see Finn's- surprisingly sober- face. He is smiling weakly, but there's much more misery in his eyes.

"Than usual?" I ask, and he laughs. It's a painfully hollow laugh that makes him sound paper-thin.

"Yeah. You're always a little tipsy," Finn shrugs. "I mean, God. You got all drunk and then blamed it on me."

My cheeks start to burn, and the flame spreads all over my face. The churning feeling in my gut increases by ten thousand.

"Look, I feel really shit about that. I hate myself for it. I should have taken the fall, I mean, we were just starting to get along-"

"Get along?" Finn, ridiculously enough, laughs. "We were far from that, man. But we still could have, of course, had you not pulled that dick move. Never mind. No hard feelings, Luca. You don't want me to hold a grudge against you, trust me, and I think you've got enough on your hands dealing with the Ice Queen."

Still glowing red, I raise my eyebrows. "The Ice Queen?"

"Yeah," he snaps. "Jesus, stop repeating everything I say. Anyway, Star's pissed, pretty much. Real upset, so she's even moodier than usual. She's barely spoken two words to Harlem since last year, and yet she's acting like she just read some crappy romance novel where the hot boy dies."

Finn seems so much more pleasant that I don't dare point out Star has reasoning. The fact he's not bawling his eyes out over his roommate or tearing at my throat with his claws because of my betrayal means he's in a relatively good mood. Would it hurt to leave it undisturbed?

"Bet you've never seen the teachers drunk before," I point out, changing the subject smoothly. He runs a hand through his ruffled hair and laughs.

"Man, I've never been sober enough to see anyone drunk."

"Are funerals not a good enough reason for champagne?"

"Champagne is the worst alcohol there is," Finn says grimly. "It just tastes like fizzy, and it doesn't even do anything to you."

Typical of him. All he wants from liquor is something bitter, painful and strong enough to knock him out. He literally begs for a hangover.

"Why do you even drink? Not to be brutal or anything, but, uh, this is a funeral."

"I noticed."

I wince at his sharp words. How can someone change so much in the space of a day? This morning Finn was crying his eyes out, broken like a shattered window, and now he is happy and unfazed by the prospect of death. To me, death is always there. Harlem only made it more real, made me feel. But the effect has worn off Finn.

"It must have been awful for you," I say quietly. Every word makes me feel guiltier, but I can't think of another way to fill the space lingering in the air. "I mean, God. You must have so many questions, I can't... I'm sorry, man."