by Mary E. Strand
As clouds churned overhead and a bright, creepy moon peeked through, my stomach curdled. I’d blown my entire summer’s pay, two hundred bucks, on a couple kegs and enough Doritos to satisfy even Mary Jane Simmons.
“Is it gonna rain?”
“I don’t know, MJ. You keep asking me stuff I don’t know.” She never asks me what I do know, like whether I’d like to get laid. Like, with MJ.
“Rain would wreck my hair.”
I started humming as I tapped the first keg, trying not to think about MJ’s long blond hair or various body parts, even though her boobs were straining at the tiny pink leash she’d strapped on them tonight. MJ was hot. Dumb as a rock and whinier than I remembered from last summer, but hot. And we didn’t have to talk.
As I bent to fiddle with the keg’s nozzle, the first fat raindrop splattered the back of my neck. Damn. More drops hit, like a spray of bullets, and I glanced around at a couple dozen friends, hoping they somehow didn’t notice. Praying MJ didn’t notice. A few people held their palms skyward. A few more headed toward cars.
MJ just stared at me, her eyelashes thick with black goop, her lower lip thrust out almost as much as her boobs. “It’s not gonna happen, is it?”
Not tonight, even though I’d planned and saved and waited forever. For this party. For MJ.
Hell. Being fifteen sucked.