Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

I Should Have Known Better Part Two

Violet

On Friday evening I tutor until nine-thirty. Is it riveting for my social life? Nope. But it’s great for my bank account. One of my fellow tutorees drives me back to Miller’s house when our sessions are over. Miller isn’t home when I get there, but that’s not a surprise. He has hockey practice and then a game tomorrow morning, so I don’t expect to see much of him this weekend.

The house has an alarm and cameras outside and stuff, and it’s in a classy neighborhood, so I feel okay about being in it by myself. I tutor at eight-thirty Saturday morning with a kid who hates math more than I hate the moops, so I get ready for bed and call it a night early.

When I wake up the next morning Miller’s already gone for hockey and I take the bus to the tutoring center.

I’m lulled into a false sense of security by the peacefulness of Friday night, but when I return to the Butterson residence late Saturday evening—I went to Toby’s after tutoring for an impromptu Mathlete’s meeting. We have a competition next week and it’s against the first-place team. Toby and Michael are both freaking out—it’s a completely different story. Music blasts through the outdoor stereo system, along with a girl-shrieking accompaniment.

I let myself into the house and find the living room full of high school couples in various stages of making out. The backyard seems equally full of rowdy teens. I scan the room for my future-stepbrother, but I don’t see his fuzzy aura anywhere. Which is a problem.

I decide to check my temporary bedroom and am disgusted to find a couple boning on the bed I no longer plan to sleep in later.

Nothing of value is in the room, so I leave them to their grunting and groaning and continue my search for Miller. His bedroom door is locked. I knock but get no answer. I scope out the house, but it’s strangers, strangers, and more strangers.

When I finally find Miller, it’s clear he’s been drinking. A lot. He stumbles over to me, doing some weird wave thing with his whole body. It reminds me of the inflatable balloon guy, except he pairs it with gun fingers and the contents of his red plastic cup slosh all over his hands. “Vi! Hey! You’re here! I invited a few friends over. I hope you don’t mind. Don’t tell my dad.”

“You’re friends with the entire population of your high school?” I ask.

He slings one meaty arm around my shoulder. His damp armpit rests on my unfortunately exposed skin. “I’m a social blubberfly,” he slurs.

“Kick ass party, Buck. Who’s your friend?” A dude-bro swagger weaves over and leers at my tank top covered chest.

“This is Vi, she’s gonna be my stepsister. Vi, this is Jeff, I mean Jordy,” Miller squints at his friend. “He’s my good buddy.”

I wave. Then turn back to my drunk future stepbrother. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Yeah. Of course. Anyfing for you.” He does a thumbs up dance for his friend. “We’ll be back.”

I duck out from under his arm. Miller’s ability to walk in a straight line is highly compromised, so I take his elbow and lead him to the pool house.

No less than six people call him Buck on the way.

It’s moderately quieter in the pool house and there are no bodies fornicating, which is a relief. “Why is everyone calling you Buck?”

“It’s what all my friends call me. You should call me that, too, actually. Only my dad calls me Miller.”

“But why?” The only connection I can make is to a bucking bronco. Which might fit.

He pulls on his front teeth and suddenly they’re in his hand and his mouth is sporting a black gap where they used to be.

“What in the actual fuck?”

“I got a puck to the face last year. Best thing that ever happened to me. Knocked out my front teeth, so now I have these fakies until I can get implants.”

“I still don’t get the nickname.”

“It’s a joke. Everyone knows me as Buck around here. Just roll with it.”

I rub the back of my neck. “Uh, okay then, Buck. You realize there are people making out all over your house, right?”

He looks confused. “I thought I locked the screen door.”

“There are people fucking in my bed.”

“Oh shit. Really? I’ll get them out.”

I grab his wrist before he bolts for the door. He’s way stronger than I am, though, so he drags me along for a few steps. “Wait!”

He comes to an abrupt halt, and I slam into him. His eyes are wide and mostly vacant. He’s so wasted. This is not good.

“How many of these people do you know?”

He shrugs. “Most of them are from my school or my hockey team.”

“And the rest of them?”

He shrugs.

“Not to be a total downer, but you realize we have to clean up this mess tomorrow, right?” And based on his inability to focus on my face for more than two seconds, I’ll be doing the lion’s share of the work involved. Unless I throw him under the bus. That’s looking more appealing the longer I watch him do a weeble wobble impression.

“It’s cool. I’ll take care of it.” He blinks repeatedly. “Let’s get those fuckers out of your room.”

I have little confidence in his ability to put one foot in front of the other, let alone get people to stop banging in my temporary room, but I follow him across the patio, anyway.

He falls into the pool on the way. Which is not a surprise. It helps sober him up a little. He’s accosted by no fewer than four girls in the pool. He strips down to his boxer briefs. Unfortunately, they’re white, so I’m treated to the very clear outline of his peen when he drags himself out of the water.

He continues across the backyard, undeterred, apparently. Again, he’s stopped several times by girls who are very excited by his wet boxers. Eventually, by some miracle, we make it to the house. He drips all over the floor as we pass through the kitchen. He nabs an open bag of chips on the way and shoves his giant mitt in the bag, cramming a handful of chips into his face, half of which end up on the floor. When we reach the living room, there are three couples going at it on various pieces of furniture.

I don’t know what kind of high school he goes to, or whether I’m just extraordinarily sheltered, because I’ve never seen so many exhibitionist teenagers in my entire life. Although I am a Mathlete, and I did accidentally teach one of my teammates how to French kiss without using too much tongue. Because he and Abby are still dating, and I’ve heard rumors about his exceptional kissing skills, I feel justified in taking some credit for that, even if the whole situation was cringey and awkward.

“Hold this for me.” Miller, or Buck, or whatever I’m supposed to call him, hands me the bag of chips.

He cups his hands around his mouth. “Hey! No fucking on my living room furniture! Take it to the backyard.” Chips fly out of his mouth and land on the floor. He wipes his hands on his chest, smearing wet chip crumbs all over his abs and his blond fuzz.

He’s living up to the jock stereotype in spectacular fashion.

He’s a decent guy. But when all these dude-bros get together, their combined testosterone levels reduce their brain function to ten percent.

The couples break apart and hands duck out of tops and bottoms. I don’t want to contemplate too closely the bodily fluids that are currently being wiped on Sidney’s sofa. All the horny teens vacate the living room.

Buck-Miller takes the bag of chips from me, and I follow him upstairs. When we get to my temporary bedroom, he throws open the door. I’ll never be able to unsee the tangle of limbs, or the frankly disturbing act taking place on my bed.

“Is she eating his a—”

Miller-Buck’s hand comes up to cover my eyes. I’m semi-grateful, because I couldn’t look away and I honestly didn’t want to see any more of that, but my eyeballs refused to close.

“Get the fuck out!” he bellows.

There’s a flurry of motion, which I don’t see because Buck-Miller’s giant mitt blocks my view.

“Sorry, Buck,” the guy mutters as they pass, still both naked and carrying their clothes.

Buck drops his hand once they’re gone. The room smells like butt.

“I feel like just standing here will give me pinkeye.”

“You can stay in my room tonight and I’ll sleep in here,” Buck offers.

“The sheets need to be changed.” I don’t want to touch them.

“I’ll sleep in my dad’s room,” he amends. “Come on.”

I follow him down the hall. He unlocks his door. His room is a typical teenage guy mess. Clothes hang over his computer chair and litter the floor around his bed and by his dresser and closet. A box of tissue and a giant bottle of lotion sit on his nightstand. The garbage can beside his bed is full of used tissue.

“I don’t know if your bed is any better than the one in my room,” I observe.

“I changed my sheets this morning.”

I side-eye him.

“Swear on my mom’s grave.” He makes the sign of the cross.

My heart twinges at that. My mom told me he lost his mom to a rare brain tumor when he was just three.

“My friends think you're cute,” he blurts. “They like the whole nerdy vibe you got going on.” He makes a circle motion to my face.

“They probably think I’m all inexperienced and virginal. And I’m close to fun-sized with a rack.” I motion unnecessarily to my boobs. “All plusses for the cisgender straight or bi identifying XYs.”

“Are you inexperienced?” Buck’s voice cracks.

“Teenage boys are idiots. My mom is pro-self-exploration.”

“Whoa. Wait. What?” His eyes are comically wide. “You masturbate?” He sounds like he’s regressed a few years and puberty has reclaimed him.

I roll my eyes and stalk across his room, pointing to his nightstand where exhibits A through C are located.

“Yeah, but I’m a dude. All dudes choke the chicken.”

“So because I’m a girl, I’m not supposed to take care of my own needs?”

His unfocused gaze moves over me. “If you become my stepsister, you’re forbidden. My teammates think that’s cool.”

I hold up both hands. “Stop right there. Whatever you’re thinking about saying, keep it in your word hole. That path is closed. Never to be walked down. Ever. There are enough romance books out there about it, and that’s where it should stay, in fiction.”

“It’d be weird if we hooked up,” he mutters.

“Our parents are dating and based on how things are going, there is a solid chance they’ll get engaged, which means they’ll get married, and then we’ll be stepsiblings. The only things we have in common is that our parents are hot for each other and we’re both in high school. From a statistical standpoint, the chances that we would work out in the long term are exceptionally low. Especially since you’re heading for a career in professional hockey and a ridiculous number of girls have flirted with your exceptionally drunk ass since I got here tonight. And you seem to be a huge fan of the attention, which is understandable since you’re a walking hormone. Based on these factors alone, it would be an extremely bad idea to hook up.” I’m also not into the fuzzy blond jock type, but I leave that part unsaid.

“That’s not. I didn’t mean—” He turns around, grips the door jamb, and hurls all over the floor.

At least it’s the hallway, and it’s hardwood.