Free Epic Fail by Claire LaZebnik

room.
    We emerged from the dance room into a back hallway that was quieter but even darker. “This way,” Derek said, and steered me toward the top of a stairway. He suddenly pulled me against his side, and it took me a moment to realize he had once again saved me—this time from falling over the extended legs of a kid who was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, a girl curled up on his lap, her lips plastered against his, his hands snaking down her jeans. I felt a jolt of embarrassment as we crept around them and headed down the stairs—for them because they were doing stuff in public no one should do in public, and also for us because we could see them doing it. Not that they noticed us.
    Derek released my hand without a word as we entered the most enormous room I’d ever seen in a private home. Only the words airplane hangar could do it justice. It was carpeted and lined with floor-to-ceiling velvet curtains, probably to muffle the noise currently being generated by the use of a pool table, a Ping-Pong table, and, at the far end of the room, a wall-sized entertainment console containing a gigantic flat-screen TV and several video game systems.
    This was clearly where all the guys who didn’t have dates had ended up—and, given how many of them were passionately watching or playing video games, I don’t think there was any huge mystery to their stag status.
    Derek headed toward the Ping-Pong table, which two guys were already using.
    All Derek said was, “When you’re done, let us know,” and instantly one player, who was skinny and had zit-scarred cheeks, offered up his paddle, saying, “It’s all yours.” He turned. “Let’s go, Jay,” he called to his short and slightly chubby opponent, who obediently surrendered his paddle to Derek in turn. Grinning and nodding, the first kid led his friend over toward the TV. As they moved off, I could hear him whisper, “You know who that is, right?”
    “Does that always happen to you?” I asked Derek as he handed me a paddle.
    “What?” He moved around to the other end of the table.
    “Do people always let you have whatever you want when you want it?”
    “What do you mean?”
    I rolled my eyes at him. “You know. Because your parents are famous. Those guys wouldn’t have stopped playing for anyone else.”
    “Whatever,” he said. “I didn’t ask them to. I can’t control what other people do.” He tossed the ball in the air and caught it. “Are we going to play or not?”
    “I’m really bad at this,” I said. “I’m not sure I was clear enough about that earlier.”
    He cocked his head at me. “Why do I have the feeling I’m being hustled?”
    “Don’t be silly,” I said. Then, “Of course, if you want to put a little wager on it . . .”
    “Loser has to sit next to Chelsea on the way home,” he said, and served.
    We played for the next half hour. Derek was much better than me, so it was a totally uneven game, but he didn’t seem to mind. He even came around the table at one point to show me how to hit the ball backhand—I had a bad habit of shifting so I could always use my forehand.
    “Like this,” he said and got behind me and put his arm around mine so he could guide me through the motion. I glanced up at him as he gently glided my hand back and forth. His face was close to mine, and I quickly looked back down again. It was the proximity, I told myself. I wasn’t used to being that close to any guy. The catch in my throat had nothing to do with him specifically.
    But when he went back to the other side and waited for me to serve, my fingers were suddenly clumsy. I dropped the ball and had to squat down ungracefully to grab it from under the table.
    At least I hadn’t worn a miniskirt.
    It got harder and harder to remember that Derek was this screwed-up celebrity brat as our game went on. He was livelier and more relaxed than I’d ever seen him before. He even flashed a real smile now and then, not just the