Scott Dimonte lived in a partially developed subdivision of generous lots. James found a place to park in front of a home in mid-construction. The concrete basement lay exposed and surrounded by frozen dirt left jagged by construction vehicle tires. James and Martha got out of the car and walked toward the collection of finished homes. They were identical save for the color. The buyers were given the choice of gray, beige, and dark beige. James guided Martha up the driveway of one of the beige units and to its door. He rang the doorbell and she braced.

The door opened to the varsity starting nose tackle wearing a Chicago Blackhawks jersey. His face lit up as he said, "Quinn!"

"Sup, Dimonte?" James replied.

"Sup, dude?" Scott noticed Martha and his expression returned to its normal, vacant state.

With the slightest hint of condescension, James explained, "This is my girlfriend, Martha. Martha, this is Scott DiMonte."

The gears turned slowly as he looked from James to Martha and back. Finally, his face swung back to eager congeniality. "Cool. Alright. That's cool. Come on in." He stepped back to allow James and Martha to enter. "Most people are in the basement." Martha could hear muffled Beastie Boys playing through the floor. "You can put your coats over there," he pointed to a coffee table covered with coats in the middle of an oddly sparse living room. "Or keep 'em on, whatever." James took Martha's coat and walked it and his own to the table. Scott motioned to her shirt. "What's 'Flood?' That a band?"

Martha wondered if she'd tempted fate, dressing to antagonize the locals. "It's an album. They Might Be Giants is the band."

"Oh, I think I heard of them." Scott nodded his head. "Cool. I'll have to check that out."

"Yeah, you should," she agreed, nodding her head with him. In a bizarre turn of events, it appeared to Martha that the 6'3", 250 pound colossus was fawning as if desperate for her favor. James returned and Scott showed them the door to the basement.

The guitar solo from "No Sleep Till Brooklyn" mixed with laughter as they descended the wooden steps. The basement was unfinished. Its walls and floor were concrete as were the support beams, spaced every ten or twelve feet. On the far end were the washer, dryer, and second refrigerator. To the left was a ping-pong table, half covered with liquor bottles and plastic cups and surrounded by members of the popular crowd. To the right were two couches skewed haphazardly, on loan from the living room.

Once at the bottom, James was greeted with shouts of 'Quinn!' or repeated 'Woof!'s in the style of Arsenio Hall's Dogpound. He grabbed Martha's hand with his right and fist bumped the kids they passed with his left. They walked around to the far side of the table where a boy, shorter and most likely younger than Martha, was pouring vodka over Hawaiian Punch and ice. He wore a black and gray striped sweater with a black turtleneck underneath.

"Derrick," James greeted.

"Yo, Jimmy. How's it goin' dude?"

"Good, man. Good. You on badges tonight?"

"Yeah," Derrick said. "You like, need one?" Derrick looked at Martha and his eyes widened. "I hearda' you. You're like... uh... Mildred, right?"

"Heh," James chuckled.

Martha gave him a scowl then turned to correct Derrick. "Martha."

"Martha, shit! That's right. Shit, like sorry."

She pitied the boy who was clearly embarrassed. "Don't worry about it." She found the exchange peculiar, however. Unbeknownst to her, she had a reputation. Jimmy Quinn's weird new girlfriend with the old lady name... Mildred or Myrtle or something...

"Cool. Thanks." Derrick's eyes darted back and forth from Martha to James. "So... uh... like which one of you..."

"Martha needs it," James said.

"Cool. What do you want it to say?"

"Your call."

"Uh... 'Badass'?"

"Hell yeah, Derrick," James praised. "That's perfect."

Derrick's face brightened. "Yeah?" It was clear Derrick was desperate for James' approval and James knew it – just as he knew Mr. Conners was a Happy Days fanatic, that Camisha secretly dreamed of being Prom Queen, and seemingly all of Martha's desires and fears. Derrick uncapped a black marker and wrote 'BADASS' on a Hello My Name Is sticker tag, unpeeled it and handed it to Martha.

"I... wear this?" she asked James.

"Yes," he answered. "And Derrick – Martha doesn't know the rules. Why don't you hook her up?"

"Yeah, sure," Derrick said eagerly. "So like, all the designated drivers wear those badges so like, everybody knows. And like, obviously they can't drink beer or whatever. But we got like, pop and we got bottled water. And, a Double D – that's what I call designated drivers – a Double D can tell any Non-Double D to get them whatever they want-"

"But..." James interjected.

"I know, I was gonna' say," Derrick promised excitedly. "They get the drink unopened, opened in front of them, or poured in a cup in front of them because you don't trust drinks that aren't made in front of you," he said as if reciting a pledge.

"Killin' it man," James commended. "What else?"

"Any Double D can make a Non do pushups if the Non pisses 'em off."

Martha turned to James, smiled and commanded, "Ten." He sighed and descended to obey.

Derrick marveled, "Dang! You're like, actually a badass."

Martha responded, "Gotta' represent the Double D's." Regrettable phrasing aside, her confident and brazen subjugation of the great Jimmy Quinn appeared only to heighten Derrick's awe.

"Whoa. You're like..."

James hopped up, punishment honored. "Which brings us to the final rule – actually an amendment to the previous rule."

"Right," Derrick enthused. "The Lombardi Amendment: No doing shit just to be a dick."

"Poetic," Martha said.

"Can't take credit for that one," James said. "About a month ago, everyone kept making Joey Lombardi," he pointed to a boy opening the refrigerator door, "...do push-ups until he threw up."

"Yeah," Derrick added. "And he had like, three chili cheese dogs earlier that night..."

James scrunched his nose and shook his head.

"Quinn!" a boy across the table hollered. "I got Jager!" He held up the green bottle.

"Oh that's... great," James faux-enthused. His eyes shifted from the boy to Martha. In them, she read his lament clearly: This is going to be disgusting.

"Think I'll leave you to that and find a place on the couch."

"Can I get you anything, Martha?" Derrick asked with the same puppy dog eagerness he had shown James.

"Sure. You have soda?"

"We got pop."

"Pop sounds great."

Derrick left for the refrigerator and Martha the couches. They were identical gray, camelback couches. On one sat two girls in animated conversation. On the other sat a third girl. All three wore badges. Martha took the open seat next to a girl named "QUEEN BITCH." As soon as she hit the cushion, Derrick was standing in front of her with an unopened Pepsi.

"Here you go." He handed her the can. "If you need anything else... They got like, chips too and other stuff. Just let me know, okay?"

"Will do," Martha said then added, "No need for push-ups... this time."

Derrick laughed. "Yeah, right. Well... see you around," he said then turned awkwardly and made his way back to the ping-pong table. Derrick was the type of boy Martha might have had a crush on in California and the type of boy who would most likely want nothing to do with her. But her relationship with James seemed to have cast a spell over their fellow students. Like he's the Emperor and I'm the clothes. No... my beauty is the clothes. I don't know, something like that.

Martha opened the can, turned to Queen Bitch and said, "Hi."

"Hi," she responded and looked away.

There was something familiar about her. She had put considerably more effort into her appearance than Martha. Her hair was styled and her makeup thorough – eye shadow, lipstick, rouge, and foundation that nearly concealed the hickey on her neck. She'd kept her jean jacket and wore it over a black crop top over what Martha assumed – considering the amount of coerced cleavage – was a wonder bra. Her gaze trained forward, away from Martha.

Martha turned her focus to the pack of boys huddled around the ping-pong table. James and five or six others threw back shots of Jagermeister in unison then exhaled shouts of "Wooooo!" or "Yeah, baby!" For his part, James yelled a sarcastic "That was delicious!"

Scott howled, "Another one!"

The group cheered in agreement but James protested, "Hold up, hold up. I got somethin' that's gonna rock your world. Help me out, Derrick. Grab ten plastic cups and make them into a triangle at the end of the table."

"I'm not friends with her anymore," the girl sitting with Martha suddenly said.

"Sorry?"

"Steph Jenkins."

With this, Martha remembered the girl – deployed by Steph at the football game to ridicule Martha's coat. Jennifer... I think. "Oh, okay... that's-"

"She's a fucking bitch," Jennifer spat then took a sip from her Dr. Pepper.

"Umm..." Martha searched for how to respond to Jennifer's blunt proclamation. "Yeah, actually. From my experience I... totally agree – a major fucking bitch."

Jennifer smiled, putting her hand up to cover her braces.

At the table, James instructed Derrick who was pouring beer in the plastic cups. "No, not all the way... Right, just like that." He held up a ping-pong ball. "Okay, dickheads." He waited for the guffaws to die down. "I'm going to try to bounce this into one of his cups. And if I do..."

"So you and Jimmy Quinn are like, boyfriend-girlfriend?" Jennifer asked with skepticism.

"Mm-hmm," Martha answered, nodding.

The ping-pong table erupted. James took the ball out of his cup and tossed it in a bucket of water on the side of the table. He raised the cup to Derrick in tribute and downed it in one gulp. Martha saw him grimace.

"She hates you, like a lot," Jennifer said.

"Who? Oh – you mean Steph Jenkins?" Martha asked.

"Oh yeah." Jennifer's eyes went wide and she took another drink of her Dr. Pepper.

"Do you know... uh..." Martha didn't want to care what Steph thought about her and was embarrassed to ask. But here was someone from her inner circle – a disgruntled ex ready to dish. "Can I ask you why-"

"Jimmy. She's been in love with him since like, forever. But he's always rejected her. He's always rejected everyone and we kinda figured he was gay, but then you came along... But... I don't know. You seem cool and she's a fucking bitch, so good for him, I guess."

Martha smiled and said, "Thanks." Something about the compliment resonated more than she thought it should.

"What's this shit called, Quinn?" Scott shouted. "What? Like... 'Beer Ball?'"

"Nah, man," James said with a scrunched face. "The alliteration is like, literally lame."

"'Beer Bounce?'" a boy next to Scott offered.

James squinted his eyes. "Did you not hear what I..." He tilted his head to make eye contact with Martha and register the inanity, then returned to the boys. "Sure. Great. 'Beer Bounce' it is."

"Jimmy's great," Jennifer said. "He's like, cool without being like, an asshole."

"Yeah," Martha said. She was about to ask Jennifer if she had a boyfriend when Joey Lombardi crashed in the limited space between Jennifer and the edge of the couch causing her to spill her drink on her jeans.

"Shit, Joey!" she protested.

"Oh, poor baby spill her drinky?" he joked, clearly intoxicated. He wore a backwards White Sox baseball hat and a No Fear t-shirt over a red long sleeved shirt. His hand on Jennifer's stomach slid up to her chest forcing her cleavage to a near breaking point.

"Stop," she whispered, glancing at Martha out of the corner of her eye.

"Damnit, Birdy! Don't tell me yer done!" James called from the table. He approached and continued, speech overtly slurred, "You gonna let me out drink yer ass?"

"Fuck you, Quinn!" Joey barked as he stood up.

"Aiight, then. Come pound one with me!" James enthused. He looked at Martha and broke character for a flash. She stifled a laugh. He put his arm around Joey and began to walk him away from the couches. "We'll pound a water, then we'll pound a beer."

"Dude, water's gay!" Joey protested.

James stopped their progress and stared at him a moment, head slightly cocked as if scolding a child. "Joey."

"Shit, man. I forgot. Ummmm... Water's for pussies!"

"Try again."

"Water... sucks ass?"

James shrugged his shoulders in concession. "Good enough." He slapped Joey on the back and they continued on to the water.

Jennifer sat with her jean jacket closed and her head down, clearly dismayed by her boyfriend's interruption. Martha didn't know what to say, but saying nothing was painfully awkward. She felt guilty, like she was swing dancing next to a paraplegic.

"It's not," Jennifer sputtered then bit her lip. "He's... he's not that bad when he's like, sober."

Martha searched for supportive, inspirational, articulate advice, but came up with, "Oh... that's cool." She wanted to help Jennifer. Her intuition told her she was a kind and decent person. Martha had struggled with her own insecurities, but couldn't imagine being held captive by people like Joey or Steph. "Have you thought of... um... breaking up with him?"

Jennifer scoffed. "Well, that's easy for you to say. There aren't boys like Jimmy, like... like what am I supposed to do like..." She rolled her eyes away from Martha. "Whatever."

Martha pressed, "But couldn't you, you know, not have a boyfriend?"

Jennifer swung her head back to her and said, "Don't be so stupid." Her eyes, filled with malice, turned soft. She dropped her head. Martha faced forward and regretted her candor. "Sorry," Jennifer said. She looked away from Martha then took a compact out of her purse to check her face. "Shit," she said under her breath. She dabbed the sides of her eyes with a makeup sponge. "Whatever. Not like he'll notice."

Though Martha had no experience with a boyfriend like Jennifer's, she knew her fear and helplessness by heart. "No. I'm sorry. It's none of my business."

Jennifer shrugged her shoulders and put away the compact. She stared at Martha a moment then said, "How late do you think you're staying tonight?"

Martha looked at the ping pong table. James held up a ball and closed one eye to steady his vision. He swayed back and forth then bounced the ball off the table so hard it ricocheted off the ceiling. The onlookers howled at the performance of which Dudley Moore would have been proud. Martha turned to Jennifer. "Not much longer, I think."

"Oh," Jennifer said, clearly disappointed.

James stumbled to a stop a foot in front of Martha.

"Martha. Marrrrrtha," he slurred. "Such a pretty girl. Such a pretty..." He caressed the side of her face. She flinched and giggled. "Jenny?" he continued. "Isn't Martha pretty? Martha? Isn't Jenny pretty? Both such pitty, pitty girrrls."

By now, both girls were laughing. Martha composed herself enough to say, "Jimmy Quinn, I think you've had enough. I should get you home."

"Whaaat? Nooooooo!" he hammed. Suddenly, he brought his hand up to his mouth and blew out his cheeks slightly.

Scott, Joey, and others who had gathered began to hoot. "Oh shit. Quinn's gonna' hurl!" Scott cackled.

James pinched his eyes shut, then opened them wide; swayed left, then right. He took a deep breath, then dropped his hand and said with a sudden composure, "I'm okay."

"Awwww!" Scott moaned with the rest of the boys.

"I thought he was actually gonna do it!" someone in the back cried.

James looked at Martha and crossed his eyes. She stood and he said, "She's right, she's right. My drunk ass gotz ta go!"

"Lightweight!" someone shouted.

Martha said to Jennifer, "See you Monday?" Jennifer smiled and nodded.

James took Martha's hand and led her to the stairs. Though his gait was erratic and his words garbled, his hand was steady and safe.

They found their coats and made for the door. Five or six from the basement had followed them up and were either teasing James or thanking him for coming. Finally outside, Martha inhaled the cold, fresh air with relief. James gave her his keys and she unlocked the car.

Once inside, James opened the glove compartment and pulled out a bottle of Listerine. He took a swig, rinsed and gargled then opened the door and pretended to vomit on the curb. Cheers rang from Scott's front door from those who'd stayed to watch him stumble to the car.

"Oh no, I totally hurled!" James shouted. "I'm gonna go drink a bunch of water, so I don't have a hangover tomorrow! And when I lie down to pass out, I'm gonna do it on my side, not my back! Peace out!"

"Peace out!!" they parroted.

He closed the door and shuddered, then turned to Martha and said, "See, it wasn't so bad."

"No, it wasn't so bad."

"Thank you, anyway. I know this wouldn't have been your first choice. But we still have some time, correct?"

Martha nodded.

"Hungry?"

She nodded again.

"Then take me somewhere nice."

Martha pulled her seat closer to the steering wheel. "Nice? Ugh, you're so high-maintenance."

"No, I'm classy."

She started the car and put it in first. "Right, because pretending to puke out the side of the car is all class."

"I... have no retort."

"Nice! Fast food it is." Martha pulled off the curb and away from Scott DiMonte's neighborhood.

Author's note:

It's easy to criticize most high-schooler's as sheep, but adolescence is f'ing tough - yesterday, today, and tomorrow.  If someone with complete and genuine confidence tells you this is cool, this is attractive, this is how you should act... it's hard to not just go with it to take some of the edge off.

Like, totally 90's detail: I love the Beastie Boys, but didn't when I was in high school.  That was mostly because I was a hip hop fan in general and resented that they were the only hip hop group that got played on the radio.  Oh, but then, about ten years later, they let Eminem on the radio too.  Hmmm... whatever could the common denominator be?