I walk into the kitchen, where some guys from the track team are pouring bottles of Everclear and fruit juice into a big plastic tub. They call the mixture "Jungle juice".

I'm offered a red plastic cup full of the "paint peeling" concoction.

I raise my hands in surrender and give a laughing, "Oh hell no. Any sodas?"

Someone motions toward a cooler on the floor.

I grab a can of Sprite and fill a red cup, quickly chucking the soda can in the garage. Now I can walk around, cup in hand, looking like everyone else getting shit faced at the party.

I get tired of answering the same questions each time someone notices that I'm empty-handed at a party.

No, I'm not drinking to insult you, or because I think I'm better than you, or because of some religion. When I'm out with friends, I usually answer that I'm the designated driver. Which is not a lie, since I'm usually the only nondrinker in the group, and I happily take on that role whenever we go out.

But tonight I've come to the party by myself, to apparently stand alone in a corner watching my classmates laugh, drink, flirt, and dance the night away.

"How long does it take to shave those legs?" It's not the first time Walter has asked that question. He finds it amusing to make comments about my height. Especially ones that should make me uncomfortable, but don't.

I grew up playing basketball with all the boys on my block. Males and their raunchy form of communication are not a mystery to me. Usually, I would be saying something smart-ass back, but I'm not in the mood to get into a verbal judo match with Walter. Especially since I know his one goal since freshman year has been to get into my pants, which means he usually hits on me a couple of times each semester.

I don't bother to answer, which doesn't stop him from ogling my legs. Look, I get it, I'm an Amazon, six feet tall barefooted, currently wearing a red mini skirt, which means compared to my shorter counterparts, there's a lot of leg to ogle.

I know Walter, who has a reputation as a "lady's man", has moved on from the girls' volleyball team and now is doing his best to make it down his "girls' basketball fuck list" before summer vacay officially starts.

I've heard he's charmed his way so far into five of my teammates' hearts and vajayjays. I guess he's going down the list alphabetically and, yippee, I'm next.

"Let's go camping," he says, inching closer. Which automatically has me taking a step back. I don't like folks in my personal space. I'm not afraid of Walter trying to cop a feel. I have a bit of a reputation for losing my temper, a considerable temper, thanks to my Scottish heritage, and I've been known to throw an elbow or fist when some male touches me without my permission.

"Did you seriously just ask me to go camping?" Do these lines really work on other girls? Street gossip says the dude has great skills in bed and a real fondness for foreplay, so I think he scores more often than he's shot down.

"You and me in the woods. I've got a tent in my car. I know a great place far enough from the city lights that you can see every star in the sky. Come on, imagine you and me under a blanket in front of a fire, looking up into that night sky." Walter's voice is also a serious asset. It's deep and sexy and, I have to admit, even I'm not totally immune to it.

Something that would sound very cheesy coming from another guy, in that voice, when he really lets it go deep and rumbly slides over you like honey and makes you take another look.

Walter is standing in front of me, with a wide grin on his face. He's dressed in a blue polo shirt and gray slacks. Seriously, overdressed compared to the other guys in the house, who are mostly sporting jeans and t-shirts.

Walter Payton comes from money, that old established came over on the Mayflower boat type of money, which means he lives in a big house in the exclusive part of town and drives a Porsche. His father is a Senator.

Walter is standing there looking so earnest, asking me to go camping. I barely know this dude. Why on earth would I go camping with him? I can't help but burst out laughing.

"Seriously, move down the list. Just cross my name off and move on to Morrison. She's single, just broke up with her boyfriend a few weeks ago. I think you have a real shot going after Morrison."

He doesn't look embarrassed that I seem to know about the fuck list, doesn't try to deny his true intentions about taking me out in the woods; instead, he gives me an Alice in Wonderland Cheshire cat smile and walks away. 

***