Like To Be You ✓

three

We're at the party Miranda so nicely invited us to right now, and I'm not feeling too good. Zayne got the address from one of the students at school and somehow managed to convince me to go along. I'd finished all my homework, so I said yes. I mean, hey, there's alcohol, so why not?

Yeah. Why not.

I have so many reasons to counter that stupid why not I'd convinced myself with, and the first and foremost is that Tyler Beckett is here.

Of course he is. Obnoxious Group is like a virus in our school; it's everywhere. Under the sink? Yes. Behind the shower curtain? Definitely. In the closet? Well, one of them certainly is.

I observe him from behind the kitchen counter I'm leaning against. This boy has the capability of ruining my mood in a flash, and it's a talent I grudgingly applaud him for.

I down another bottle of beer and go for the tequila.

"Shots?" I look over at Zayne. He's already drunk; his feet are tapping to the beat of the typical party music that reverberates everywhere and he looks ready to burst into a dance. Note: Zayne never dances. Shit's getting serious over here.

He nods and grins. 

"Drink up." Zayne slides two shot glasses towards me, and I down them both before he can count to three.

A groundbreaking shiver rattles through my body, and I'm certain it makes me resemble the girl with the untamed hair in The Grudge as I vigorously shake my head. When I look back up and my vision clears, Tyler is watching me from across the room, a soft, puzzled frown upon his forehead. He gives me a once-over, and in those two heavy seconds, I freeze. He meets my eyes once again before turning away. I'm still glaring at him, cursing him out in my head for everything he did, and everything he didn't do, and God, I've never hated a person so much.

My heart is beating faster now, as if compensating for those two seconds I didn't dare to fill my lungs with air. My body is traitorous. It's letting him know how much I hate him without my permission, how much I despise him but still like when his eyes are on me. When we're in class and competitively scribbling numbers on paper, and he looks up and smiles in challenge, and I narrow my eyes, accepting it. When I say the answer just a moment before he does, and he sets his jaw tightly while I proudly smirk. Or when he answers before I can, and he grins so wide his whole face transforms into—

"Who you lookin' at?" I nearly fling my phone in Miranda's face before I take hold of my nerves and steel them. Control yourself.

She resembles a raccoon more today than she did yesterday. It's not because she's wearing more liner and kohl, but because her eyes are droopy as she squints at me. Then her mouth opens and smoke escapes, clouding around us. I cough and wave my hands around, backing away from her.

"Get that shit away from me." I grind my teeth in annoyance.

"Yo, chill." Her hand appears through the wisps of smoke that are fading away. She brings the cigarette held between her fingers to her black-tainted lips and takes a long drag.

"Dude, what the actual fu-" Zayne hiccups on the word and then continues "-ck happened to your face?"

It's like the windshield-wipers in my eyes finally wipe away the fog in front of them and a bulb brightly glows in my head. "Did you get a spray tan?" I finally say, wincing at the sight of her unnaturally orangish-brown skin.

"Holy shit, dude." Zayne is bent over, howling silently. His mouth is open and weird hic-hics are squeaking from the back of his throat.

I rotate around back to Miranda. She looks confused, but mostly freaked out by Zayne's laughter.

"You look like a garbanzo bean." I inform her.

Zayne's squeaks of laughter only increase.

I'm already stumbling up to where, hopefully, the washrooms are by the time Miranda realises what I called her and takes offence. I really need to take a piss, and with all the alcohol I've just consumed, it's going to be hard to hold it in.

The hallway is like that of a hotel, with doors on either side, all the way down. Thankfully, the host is smart enough to paste signs indicating which doors lead to the washrooms.

I go down the hall, trying all the knobs which are frustratingly locked. I recoil back when I hear feet shuffling around behind a bathroom door, and before I can move away, it bursts open. I nearly shriek.

Then Tyler jumps out, miraculously steady on his feet. He's sweaty and his shirt is damp. He turns back to look at the empty washroom, and then me before he sheepishly smiles.

"The flush wasn't working." He rubs the back of his neck. It almost sounds like a justification for the way he has sweat running down the sides of his face and arms. I can imagine him battling with the commode and handle, and the picture nearly brings a smile to my face.

I fight to keep my voice as bland as a tissue. "I literally don't care."

Okay, let's rewind a bit. Remember the part where I said that Tyler kissed me and blah-blah and then never spoke to me again?

Well, I exaggerated, because I like doing so, however unhealthy it may be.

Tyler spoke to me after that oh-so-fateful night, and then the next day and the next and so on. But after 1068 days of being best-friends, all the memories we'd shared turned to bitter hate in my head.

"Okay." He does this weird okay-it's-cool shrug-type thing.

"Just move." I shake my head in disappointment and go around him. My heart is clawing up my throat at this point. I hate my body for reacting to the dimple that appears on his right cheek when he awkwardly smiles, his cologne— the same one he'd bought for himself after collecting all his birthday money: Davidoff- Cool Water — and when his shirt fabric grazes my knuckles.

I silently shuffle into the bathroom. When I gather enough courage to level my gaze to his, he's simply looking at me, his body still.

I slam the door shut.

o-o-o