Hick - Andrea Portes [52]
One by one, they look up at me, unconscious, stopping their game. There’s no way to play this off. They’re staring at me and I’m staring at them, plain and simple. Seems like the rest of the world just dropped off the face of the earth.
“Hi,” I squeak out, sounding more like a lizard than a real live girl, with dreams and a newfound body to get them with.
The boys look at each other, silent, deciding who’s gonna talk first or if they should even bother to answer at all. Nothing.
I give up, chalking it up to them being rich and me being some country-fried lowlife from the sticks. I spot the ice machine over in the vending area on the other side of the pool and give it a go, wishing I didn’t have to walk past their perfect-life stares.
One of the boys gets out of the pool and walks towards me. He’s dripping wet and coming closer.
I’m too shy to look at him, so I put all my attention into the ice machine, burying my head deep inside, pretending to use all my concentration to scoop out the ice with the scooper.
“Careful. That thing might swallow you up.”
“Ha ha, funny,” I say, before I can stop myself. Being a smart-aleck is second nature.
He unhooks the little swinging door above me, threatening to drop it on my head.
“Tell me your name or you’ll be sorry.”
He smiles down at me, holding the chrome door so it teeters perilous over my head. Looking up at him for the first time, I notice that he is about sixteen and much too good-looking to be talking to me. He’s spoiled-looking and handsome, with green eyes and light-brown hair, the color of ashes. He has that confidence you get from never having to worry what you’re gonna eat for dinner or if there’s even anything coming at all, like he’s entitled to a fun life and every moment is just a part of the ongoing heaven of pleasant surprises and bouncy youth. His skin has this undertone glow of olive, like he never ate a Twinkie his whole life. He smiles at me with perfect teeth and I regret that I was ever born.
“C’mon, then, what’s your name . . . you better tell me or you’re gonna get it.”
“Luli.” Again, like a lizard.
“Come again?”
“Luli. My name’s Luli.”
I finish scooping the ice and stand straight, owning up. He closes the chrome door.
“Well, that’s a weird name.”
“Yeah, wull, it was nice meeting you.”
I start to walk off, awkward. I don’t fit in and never will. I’m too lowborn for them, might as well just face facts.
“Hey! Excuse me? Aren’t you gonna ask my name?”
I stop in my tracks, turning slightly. I’ve got my feet pointed forward but my top twisted back, like a contorted pretzel trying to play it cool.
“No.”
“Well, why not?”
“Because I don’t care.”
I start walking.
He stops and then lets out a laugh, collapsing everything back into good fun and high times. He’s not gonna let this world turn bad on him, no sir.
“Okay. Well, then, I’ll tell you anyway. My name’s Clement.”
“Oh, and you say my name’s weird?”
“it’s a family name.”
“Oh.”
The two of us stand there, sizing each other up, trying to pretend we’re not. His two friends make believe they’re not watching from the pool.
“You ever hear of the category game?”
“The what?”
“The category game. it’s this game we like to play with cards, just face cards.”
“Why’s it called the category game?”
“Well, cause, if you turn over a Jack you have to think of a category.”
“What kind of a category?”
“Oh, I don’t know, could be anything. Like . . . things you would find in a hardware store . . . or fake rock bands, in alphabetical order. So, then, if you went first, you would say something like . . . Acid Head. And then the second person would say something like . . . Black Serpent. Or something like that. And then you just go around and around until someone can’t think of anything or someone repeats . . . and then they have to drink.”
“Sounds stupid.”
He laughs again and looks at his friends,