A Midsummer's Nightmare

CHAPTER 1

Hangovers are a bitch.

I’ve known this for years, since I was, like, fourteen and went to my first kegger, but the headache I woke up with the morning after graduation was the worst I’d ever experienced. And that says a lot. I mean, it was throbbing. I felt like someone had beaten me over the head with a freaking baseball bat. And God only knew, maybe someone had. I’d been so wasted that night I probably wouldn’t have cared. I may have even found it funny at the time. Everything was funny after a few shots of tequila.

I groaned and pulled the blanket over my face, shielding my eyes from the sunlight that filtered through the window over my head. Why did it have to be so goddamn bright?

“Don’t be dramatic. I’m not that ugly,” a deep, groggy voice murmured beside me.

Shit.

Suddenly, I felt nauseous for reasons that had nothing to do with the amount of alcohol in my system.

I clenched my eyes shut, trying to remember what the hell I’d done last night. I’d danced with some people, played Quarters for a while, taken a few shots… more than a few shots. But, hey, it was a graduation party. Getting smashed was pretty much a requirement. I forced myself to think past the alcohol buzz and the thudding bass of the stereo, trying to remember where I’d been when I finally passed out.

And there it was.

At some point, after getting entirely shitfaced, I’d made out with some guy I didn’t know—I graduated with almost a thousand kids, so I partied with a lot of strangers that night—and then I dragged him into one of the house’s bedrooms. But everything after that was a blur. One thing I was sure of, though. I’d definitely had sex with him.

Goddamn it. Had I really been that drunk?

I opened my eyes and rolled onto my side. At this point, I just hoped he was cute. And he was… or he would have been if he hadn’t looked so crappy. His brown eyes, staring at me from a few inches away, had deep lines under them, and his dark hair was a mess. Or maybe that was just the way he wore it. That was the style lately, for some reason.

Then again, I was sure I didn’t look too hot at that moment, either. My hair, which had been totally awesome for graduation, was probably ratty from yesterday’s hairspray, and I was sure my eyes were bloodshot and my makeup must have been runny and gross.

Like I said, hangovers are a bitch.

“Hi,” the guy mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Um… sure.”

As if this whole situation weren’t awkward enough, he was going to talk to me. I wished he’d just pretend to be asleep so I could sneak out in peace.

I sighed and pushed the blankets off of me. The sunlight was killing my eyes. I had to squint as I stumbled around the room, gathering my clothes from the floor. I nearly fell over at least twice before I was dressed. Judging by the way everything was scattered, we’d had a pretty crazy night.

Good for me, I guess.

“Hey, um…” Christ, I couldn’t even remember the dude’s name. Had he ever told it to me? I cleared my throat and started again. “Do you think anyone will catch me if I go through the front door, or should I climb out the window? How are you leaving?”

“I’m not. This is my house.”

So I’d screwed the host. I hadn’t seen that one coming. The address was scribbled on every senior’s hand yesterday, and I’d never thought to ask who lived in the place. A party was a party. Didn’t matter who threw it.

“Or it used to be… Anyway, you won’t get caught,” he added, pushing himself up on the pillows. “Mom’s not here. She and my sister had to leave town before graduation to meet the movers. That’s why I offered to have the party here. Partly for graduation, and partly as a going-away celebration.”

“Okay, okay.” I just needed a yes or no, not his whole life story. I grabbed my purse off the dresser. “So I’ll use the front door. No big deal.”

“Hey. Hold on a sec.” He sat up straight, letting the covers fall away from his bare chest.

Yeah. He was definitely hot. Good body. I vaguely remembered telling him that, too. A tiny memory trickled into my consciousness: me giggling, poking him in the chest just after I’d pulled his shirt over his head. “Nice muscles you’ve got there, stud.” He’d laughed and kissed me. He’d been a good kisser.

That was the most I could recall at the moment, though.

“Can I get your number?” he asked, running a hand through his sloppy brown hair. “So I can, you know, give you a call sometime.”

Oh, God, was he serious?

Not that I had a whole lot of experience with one-night stands—I didn’t, really; I mean, I could count the number of boys I’d slept with on one hand. But I had fooled around with a lot of guys while drunk, and most of them had the good sense not to try to keep in touch after. It was better for both of us if we just went on with our lives, pretending like the whole thing had never happened.

Apparently this dude—why couldn’t I remember his name?—didn’t feel the same way.

“Listen,” I said, looking away from him as I pulled out the condom wrapper that had managed to get tangled inside my shirt. “We just graduated, and after this summer we’re off to college. So what’s the point of staying in contact, really?” Ugh. Poor guy. I couldn’t even let him down easy. This hangover was so bad. I met his eyes again, knowing I needed to get this over with so I could get out of there. “I think we should leave things where they are and, you know, never ever see each other again.”

“So… you don’t want to give me your number?”

“Not really. No.”

He blew air out of his mouth in a rush. “Ouch. That’s kind of harsh.”

Maybe, but he was better off. It wasn’t as if someone like me would have made a good girlfriend anyway. I was just some drunken hookup. That’s all I’d ever been.

“Look, you’re moving, right? I’m sure tons of girls in your new town will totally go for the slouchy pretty-boy thing you’ve got going on. You won’t even remember last night in a week…. I barely remember already.” I shrugged and slung my purse over my shoulder, one hand against the wall to keep me stable. “So, nice party. I had a good time. I, um, won’t see you around.”

“Whitley?” he called after me.

But I was already out of the bedroom and weaving unsteadily down the hall. I needed to get out of there. Fast. Not only was I ready to get away from Mr. Clingy, but I also really had to get home. Mom was waiting for me, and I had a shitload of packing to do before Dad showed up in his SUV the next day.

I reached the end of the hall and found the living room completely trashed. Beer cans and half-empty bags of chips had been tossed all over the floor. A recliner and an end table, the only pieces of furniture (I guess the rest had already been sent to his new place), were overturned. A couple stragglers remained passed out on the floor. I felt a little bad for whatshisname. He had a real mess to clean up. I was so glad not to be him.

That’s what he got for volunteering to host a graduation bash, though.

I tripped over the garbage on my way to the front door, wincing when the light hit my eyes. My head hurt like hell, but at least I wasn’t puking. After four years of going to high school keggers—and crashing the occasional frat party—I’d learned to hold my alcohol pretty well. Better than a lot of girls my age, anyway. Most of the girls I saw at parties were kissing the toilet after a couple bottles of Smirnoff Ice, then had to be carried out by their football player boyfriends. Babies.

With a sigh, I dug my cell phone out of my purse and dialed the number to the cab company. I seriously hoped I wouldn’t get a chatty driver. If he said more than five words to me, I wasn’t going to tip.

Mom was sitting at the kitchen table when I got home, eating frozen waffles in her housecoat and watching Good Morning America. She looked up when I walked through the door, the syrup bottle in her hand.

“Hey, Whitley,” she said. “How was the rest of your night?”

“Good,” I mumbled, going straight for the fridge. My mouth was unbelievably dry. “Sorry I didn’t call.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I figured you were staying over at Nola’s.”

I grabbed a bottle of Gatorade, not bothering to inform my mother that Nola and I hadn’t spoken since ninth grade. For a second, I wondered whether she’d notice if I did a line of coke on the table right in front of her. I doubted it.

“Trace sent you something,” she said as I sat down in the chair beside her, clutching some Saltines for good measure and positioning myself to see the TV, which was on the counter across from us. She doused her waffles in syrup and pushed the bottle to the side. “I put it on your bed.”

“Thanks.”

We sat in silence for a long moment before Mom finally asked, “So, are you excited about graduating?”

She kept staring at the TV, watching as the national weather guy moved on from our part of the country and pointed at Florida, informing us that it was sunny—no shit, Sherlock. I got the feeling Mom didn’t really give a damn about the answer. It was just one of those questions you ask because it makes you a crappy parent if you don’t.

“Not really,” I said, twisting the cap on the Gatorade and taking a big gulp. “Graduating isn’t a big deal. It’ll be nice to start college, though. Dad loved UK. Hopefully he can help me pick a goddamn major.”

“Language, Whitley,” she warned. “And, honey, be careful about taking your father’s advice on this stuff. He can’t even make smart life choices for himself, let alone help you make yours.”

I scowled at her before taking another drink. Six years after the divorce, and she still slammed Dad at every opportunity. You’d think she’d be over it by now.

“I don’t see anything wrong with how Dad lives,” I told her.

“Please.” She laughed bitterly. “In that trashy condo? Jumping from girlfriend to girlfriend? Forty-eight years old and still hasn’t grown up at all. He can’t even make enough time to see his own daughter more than once a year.”

That’s your fault, I thought. I stood up and tossed my Gatorade bottle in the trash, mumbling, “I’m going to lie down. Headache.”

“All right, honey.” Mom speared a bite of waffle with her fork. “I hope you get to feeling better. And don’t forget to pack. Your father will be here to pick you up at noon tomorrow…. But you know how punctual he is.” I didn’t listen closely to the rest of her tirade.

I was halfway inside my bedroom before she finally shut up. When it came to Dad, my mother never knew when to just leave it alone. Everything about him annoyed her now: the way he dressed, the way he drove; she even said that the sound of his laugh made her cringe. She couldn’t see how alike my father and I were, totally oblivious to the fact that some of the traits she loathed in him were part of me, too.

The worst part, though, was that Dad never said a bad word about her. She didn’t know it, or she was too bitter to see, but Dad still cared about her feelings. That was the reason he’d said no when I’d asked to live with him four years ago—he said it would break Mom’s heart if I moved out.

I never told Mom I’d asked Dad that. But over the years that followed, I became more and more certain that he was wrong. She wouldn’t have even noticed if I left. She could bitch to a houseplant just as well as she could to me.

With my head hurting even worse, I yanked the curtains closed to block out any trace of sunlight and fell onto my bed, burying my face in the pillow with a groan.

I felt something stiff and crinkly under my stomach and sighed. The room had finally stopped spinning now that I was lying down, and sitting up seemed like a bad idea. Moving as little as possible, I reached beneath me and pulled out the offending object, holding it up to examine it. It was the thing Trace had sent me. A blue envelope with my name written across it with a pretty pink gel pen. Emily’s doing, for sure. My brother’s penmanship was shit.

With slow, unsteady movements, I opened the envelope and pulled out the card inside. you’ve come a long way, the cover said. What a cliché. Inside, though, my brother had crossed out all the cheesy poem crap and written his own message. Of course, since Trace wrote it himself in his sloppy boy handwriting, it took me a few minutes to decipher.

hey kid—

so proud of you. so is emily. we wish we could have been there, but here’s a fat check to make up for it but dont go spending it all on booze. call you soon.

Love, the best big brother ever

and Emily and Marie, too

I smiled. It was a mark of how much I loved my big brother that I found his lack of punctuation and proper grammar endearing.

Emily and Trace had been married for about two years. They met when Trace got his job as the assistant to some talent agent out in Los Angeles. Emily was an actress—which means she was a waitress—who was originally sleeping with Trace’s boss, trying to get parts. But then she met Trace, and he claims it was love at first sight.

Normally, if someone told me that, I’d gag, but I bought Trace’s story. After they met, Emily dumped agent-man (she wasn’t getting any gigs anyway) and started dating my brother. I figured that would be a conflict of interest with Trace’s job or something, but I guess that kind of crazy stuff happens all the time in Hollywood because he’s still working for the guy. He even got promoted after that. And Emily had Marie, their first daughter, just last month.

That’s why Trace hadn’t made it to my graduation. Marie is too little to fly, and Trace didn’t want to leave Emily at home with the baby by herself.

I didn’t blame him. He had a lot going on. And picking up and flying all the way out here for just one night would have been stupid. I mean, Dad hadn’t even been able to make it because of work, and he lived within driving distance. It was no big deal. The ceremony was dumb anyway.

But it would have been nice to see Trace.

Next year, I thought, putting away the card and check he’d sent before curling up on my side and closing my eyes to fight off the headache. Dad and I will fly out to California together during his vacation. No work, no Mom driving us crazy. It’ll be great. Next year…

And with that thought, I drifted off to sleep.