John Burley - The Absence of Mercy

She laughed. Her right hand, which had self-consciously abandoned its subtle but strategic caress of Bret’s upper arm when Thomas arrived, now returned to its previous position. “I’ll keep an eye on him, Thomas.”

“Then he’s in good hands and I’ll tell the grandmother she can stand down for the evening.”

“Screw you, Stevenson,” Bret said with an exaggerated bow, holding his arm out to gesture Thomas through the open front door.

Thomas smiled and squeezed past a small congregation of six or seven freshmen standing in the front hall. Dave Kendricks spotted his entrance and motioned to him from across the living room, where he stood with Eileen Dickenson, Monica Dressler, Lynn Montague, and Kent Savage.

“The man of the hour has arrived,” Dave announced, handing Thomas a beer. “Ladies, please wait for him to remove his jacket before ravaging him in your usual manner.”

All three of the females in the group colored slightly and glanced away. At six foot one and 145 pounds, Thomas was lean but well muscled, the confident, agile movements of his body an amalgamation of power and grace. His brown hair, cropped short in anticipation of summer, was just a few shades lighter than the deep tan of his skin, and his green eyes had a calming, almost mesmerizing effect that made them hard to look away from once they’d set themselves upon you. In a way, he was almost too good-looking, and he actually dated far less than some of his physically flawed counterparts, as if prospective girlfriends judged themselves more harshly in his presence, and had not yet developed the self-confidence to push on nonetheless.

“Eileen here was just telling me that she didn’t think you’d make it,” Dave advised him. “Seems the general consensus is that you’re too good for the rest of us lowly peasants.”

“I didn’t say that,” Eileen protested. She dared a quick glance up at Thomas, then looked away, fiddling with the cup in her hand. “I didn’t say that,” she repeated.

“Well, it was something of the sort.” Dave frowned, his brow wrinkling in concentration. “I mean, I don’t remember your exact words…”

“I do,” Kent Savage piped in. “She said, ‘You think Thomas’ll show up? I can’t wait to get him drunk and jump his bones.’”

Eileen blushed a deep crimson. “I definitely didn’t say that.” She shook her head in irritation and embarrassment. “I’m out of here,” she told them, and walked off toward the kitchen.

Lynn Montague headed after her, turning back quickly to admonish the two boys. “You two are such assholes. Do you know that? Like, grow up.”

“ What? What did I say? ” Dave asked, pursuing the girls with a slightly unsteady gait. Kent looked at the two remaining individuals, considering them seriously for a moment. Then his face brightened into a broad smile, the decision made. “More drinks!” he announced, arms raised triumphantly to either side, and he marched off through the crowd like a man on a mission.

Thomas and Monica watched him go. They were quiet for a moment within their own corner of the room as the din from the party continued unabated.

“I don’t think more drinks are the answer,” Thomas commented, placing his own beverage on the fireplace mantel.

Monica stared down into the recesses of her plastic cup. “She didn’t say any of that,” she told him quietly. “Just so you know.”

“Oh, I make it a practice never to believe anything either one of those intellectual midgets tells me,” Thomas assured her.

Monica nodded, her eyes still focused on her drink.

“So, how’s it going in Tulley’s class?” Thomas asked. “Is AP Chemistry as hard as people say?”

“It’s not that bad. Mostly balancing equations and knowing how things react with one another.”

“Sounds intimidating to me. My dad wants me to take it next year, but I don’t know.”

She looked up at him. “You’re smart. You could do it, no problem.”

“I’m smart enough to get by,” he said, “but I have to work at my classes. You’re brilliant in a way that I’ll never be. There’s a big difference.”

He smiled down at her, and she reflexively smiled back, then shifted her stance as she tried to think of something self-deprecating to say. Such compliments often made her uncomfortable—especially coming from one of her classmates. Since the first grade, she’d never gotten anything less than an A in her classes. The mere fact that she was now studying college-level material as a sophomore in high school was unlikely to put a dent in that perfect record. She was destined to become valedictorian without even breaking a sweat. But instead of being proud of her abilities, she often imagined them as an algae-covered chain around her neck, holding her at the bottom of the ocean while on the surface her peers enjoyed the ease and social camaraderie of normality. She wondered whether Thomas, with his natural athleticism and broad popularity, ever felt the same. Somehow, she doubted it.

“I’m a good test taker,” she finally replied. “It’s no big deal.”

“No, you’re smart. Very smart,” he told her. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

When she shook her head he placed a hand on her shoulder to emphasize his point. The touch made her feel a little dizzy, and she had to make a deliberate effort to steady her breathing.

“Don’t shake your head like what I’m telling you isn’t true, Dressler,” he said. “And never apologize for what you are. The only sane choice is to embrace it.”

She looked up at him, thinking that perhaps he was just making fun of her, but his face was solemn and earnest. “Is that what you do?” she asked.

He studied her for a moment. “I don’t have what you have. But if I did— hell yes, I’d embrace it. I mean”—he turned his head to either side to indicate the people milling around them—“look at these morons. We all envy you.”

“Hmmm,” she responded, grinning.

Thomas removed his hand from her shoulder, and she did her best not to ask him to put it back. “Listen,” he said, “I’ve got to go find the man of the house, lest he think I didn’t show up to his lame-ass party.”

She nodded, raising the cup to her lips.

“I’ll catch you later,” Thomas told her. He turned and maneuvered his way slowly through the crowd in the direction of the kitchen, figuring he’d probably find Devon tending bar or replenishing supplies of ice, beverages, and plastic cups for the masses. But when he got there and scanned the room there was no sign of him—although there should’ve been. People were making an absolute mess of the place. Someone had decided, in fact, to start cooking fajitas. The house reeked of booze, Tabasco sauce, and freshly chopped onions.

Thomas moved down the hall and checked Devon’s room. The bed was mounded with jackets, but the room was otherwise empty. The door to the adjacent bathroom was shut, and he rapped lightly with his knuckles. “Yo, Devon. You in there, dude?”

“Room’s occupied!” a female voice called back. In a quieter, more soothing tone the same voice was telling someone, “It’s okay, honey. I’ve got your hair. Go ahead and throw up if you need to.”

Oh, man, Thomas thought, turning around and heading for the kitchen once again. In the hallway, he saw Ernie Samper.

“Hey, Ernie,” he said. “You seen Devon?”

“What?” Ernie looked a little stoned.

“Devon. You seen him?”

“No, I don’ know, man. You seen him?”

“If I’d seen him, I wouldn’t be asking you now, would I?”

“Oh, that’s a good point, man.” It was a small miracle the guy was still standing. Thomas started to move past him down the hall, but Ernie called after him. “Hey, Thomas. You know, I think he might be out back. I saw him smacking some golf balls or something out there.”