Ivy

Chapter One

Friday, June 1st

I hate parties. They're full of stupid decisions, bad drinks, loud music and slutty teenagers. Normal nineteen year old boys would do whatever it takes to be there, but I would do whatever it takes to leave.

So, as I push my way through the writhing crowds celebrating our graduation, I grumble a few insulting words. My friends are forcing me to stay, saying that this party will be worth my time. But it's a half hour into the party and I'm deeply concerned for the people in my class.

The kitchen is less crowded, thankfully. The other room was filled with an intoxicating scent of different colognes and perfumes battling for dominance. The sink is filled with ice and cans of beer, and a very small amount of sodas and water for those sticklers who don't drink. My hand hovers over a water before snatching up a beer. I figure if I'm even the slightest bit buzzed, I may have a better time at this party.

I'm sitting on the couch fifteen minutes later, beer in hand when she enters, her dark hair tied up into some sort of thing. Ivy smiles as she wraps her arms around a few of her friends and as she presses her lips against Preston, her boyfriend's, lips. I have to look away because, unfortunately, Ivy is not my girlfriend. I've never even talked to her, honestly, but I would do anything to be able to.

Moments later I let myself look up and she's disappeared. I feel a surge of disappointment when she's not anywhere in the room that I can see. I swallow a few gulps of beer in an attempt to drown out how pathetic I feel pining uselessly over a girl I've never spoken to, nor do I have a chance with.

With my beer empty, I finally let myself listen to the thrumming music. My head rests against the back of the tacky plaid couch and my eyes begin to close. I'm not familiar with the song, being more into alternative music rather than this, dubstep or techno or rap or whatever it is. I can hear the appeal, though: loud, numbing, and rhythmic.

The cushion I'm sitting on dips and my gaze immediately snaps over to look at the girl sitting beside me. She's giving me what I assume is supposed to be a sultry smile but in all honesty, it's not doing anything for her, along with her caked on make up. I think I know her from my math class during the school year. I believe her name is Leah something, but I can hardly recognize her from her drunken state to her normally sober one. The difference is astonishing, really.

"Reece," Leah purrs, resting a hand on my bicep as she leans forward.

I feel awkward as I casually shake her hand off me. As much as I enjoy attention from girls, I don't want someone to give me attention and not remember it the next morning. "Leah," I reply, wishing for the smallest of moments that my beer wasn't empty.

"What are you doing here by yourself?" she says, her words slurring together unattractively.

If I were drunk myself, I would be putting in all my best moves to bed Leah, because she's your normal hot girl. Dark hair, dark eyes, tan, and a killer smile. But she's no Ivy. So, I stand, squeezing my hand around the aluminum can as I say: "I'm getting a drink." Leaving behind Leah's stunned and bewildered expression, I head to where the kitchen is.

My progression stops immediately when I see Ivy's arms wrapped tightly around Preston's waist as he swigs from a small bottle of booze. A moment later I've gathered my wits and set my crushed can somewhere as I pull another beer from the sink. My eyes shift from Ivy to Preston to my shaking hands trying to open the beer can. I mentally curse myself, wishing that I could be the kind of person that can talk to perfection as easily as Preston O'Shea can. But I guess that's what happens when you're on the Varsity football team since Freshman year.

When my gaze moves to Ivy about a minute later, our eyes meet and she smiles at me. I'm shocked. Ivy Duncan has acknowledged I exist. Now, I don't want to sound like a teenage girl, but I'm practically dying inside. Ivy's been as unattainable as Scarlett Johansson is.