Free The Reaping by M. Leighton Page B

beyond the dock, across the water, I could see a few more torches on what looked to be a small island a couple hundred feet away.
One of the cabanas seemed to be the site of most of the action.  The curtains were tied back and I could see that a table had been set up just inside.  There were bags of chips and dishes of dip, a cold meat and cheese tray, some crackers, and a punch bowl.  To the left of the table, sitting on the ground in a big barrel of ice, was a keg of beer.  Music poured from a huge portable stereo under the table and some girls were already dancing just outside the entrance. 
I had stopped in front of Stephen’s car to take in the scene, to weigh and measure it against the hundreds of fantasies I’d had about just such an event.  I found that it looked, smelled and sounded much like I’d suspected that it would. 
The one thing I hadn’t factored in, however, was nerves.  I recognized most of the people I could see.  They comprised the elite, upper crust of the school.  Unfortunately, several of the girls had made their opinion of me very clear at one point or another.  And one of the ones who hadn’t was going out of her way to make it tonight. 
Standing in the middle of the dancing girls was Brianna Clark.  The reason she was standing rather than dancing is because she’d stopped to give me the stink eye as soon as she’d seen that I was with Stephen.  She whispered to one of the girls at her side, Ciara Bentley, and then they both started laughing.  I hoped against hope that it had nothing to do with a plot to Carrie-fy me.
Stephen approached to my left and I rubbed my damp palms over my jeans.  Oblivious to the tension, he took my hand in his and tugged me forward.
“Come on.  Let’s go get a drink.”
Beverages were another thing I hadn’t included in my daydreams.  Other than once sneaking a drink of wine from the fridge of one of our neighbors in Ohio, I had never even tasted alcohol before. 
“Um, what do they have?  To drink I mean,” I asked casually.
“Beer, punch,” he said, shrugging.  “I’m sure somebody around here’s got some Jack.”
“Oh, ok,” I said noncommittally, all the while I was thinking punch, punch, punch .  I had no idea who Jack was, but I got the feeling he had something I should stay away from.
I followed Stephen into the cabana where he was greeted animatedly by all his friends.  He attempted a group introduction once, but they were all too busy placing bets on whether or not one of the guys from the wrestling team could do a thirty second tap hit, whatever that is. 
I stood quietly by Stephen’s side, taking it all in.  My senses were overwhelmed by sight and sound.  It felt a lot like being at the circus.  While you were watching the elephants, the clowns were juggling and riding bikes, the trapeze artists were doing flips overhead and someone was trying to sell you popcorn and peanuts.  Too much!
Stephen fixed me a cup of punch and handed it to me.  I took a tentative sip.  It had the pronounced tang of citrus, but with a bite of something I couldn’t identify.  It tasted good, though, and harmless enough. 
I sipped it while we watched all the circus freaks.  We made our way around from group to group.  At one point, I found myself watching two guys launch their girlfriends down the dock in shopping carts.  They reasoned that the strongest man would be able to propel his girlfriend the farthest.  I was a little afraid for the girls, convinced the activity was fraught with peril, especially since they were obviously inebriated.  But evidently I was the only one, as everyone else merely picked a spot along the path to cheer them on.
It seemed I had just started my drink when Stephen swapped it out for a full cup; turns out I’d sipped my punch right to the empty bottom.  I sipped some more as we watched round one and the girls went careening down the dock, weaving this way and that.  The second race unfolded in a