about what Betty told me about his parents, while Ajita’s ordering our cream sodas and pretzels, I nudge him on the shoulder. He’s doing anything he can not to look at me, staring up at the fake palm trees which shade us from the strong September sun currently beaming through the mall’s vast skylight.
“Hey, everything okay at home?” I say, quietly enough so the table of snooty-faced soccer moms next to us don’t hear, but loud enough that it’s not weird or conspiratorial.
Regardless of my volume policing, he immediately tenses. “Why wouldn’t it be?” He sweeps stray salt granules off the table with his hoodie sleeve, then rubs at a dried condensation ring with his thumb.
Message received. “No reason. Forget I asked.”
The plan for tonight is to get ready at Ajita’s, as her house is a stupidly beautiful mansion and also just around the corner from Baxter’s place. Her parents are super-rich neurosurgeon geniuses, and fully expect Ajita to follow in their footsteps, which is hilarious because Ajita has flunked every biology class we’ve taken over the last two years. Not because she’s dumb [she isn’t], but because Danny and I are dreadful human beings who lead her astray on a daily basis, like annoying parrots sitting on her shoulder and chirping in her ear about how much more fun it is to perform a silent film for our classmates than it is to learn about plant-cell structure.
Besides, I have it on good authority that in the real world, nobody will ever question you on the function of the mitochondria [THE POWERHOUSE OF THE CELL! See, I know things] or the vacuole [nah, I got nothing]. By good authority I obviously mean my grandma.
[Man, you really just cannot predict where my tangents are going to take you next! From fashion advice to cell biology. What a narrative rollercoaster. I really am incredibly versatile and insightful.]
Then, armed with our crates of beer [Capri-Sun], we’ll get a lift to Baxter’s empty house at like seven thirty this evening. The party starts at eight, and I know it is borderline tragic to arrive so early, but you remember how I told you I need to know everyone’s drama and business? Yeah, I have FOMO when I miss a significant portion of a social event. Ajita does too. So we just sit in a corner watching everyone and eating popcorn, like Big Brother but more intrusive.
6.24 p.m.
Writing this from Ajita’s ensuite bathroom, because DANNYYYY.
About five minutes ago, after I’d dragged a brush through my scarecrow hair and done my makeup to the best of my ability [smoky charcoal eyes and nude lipstick if you’re interested] I pulled my party attire out of my duffel bag and started to get changed in front of Ajita and Danny, as I have a hundred million times before. Seriously, they have both seen me in so many different stages of undress that they could probably do a pretty accurate life drawing of my naked body, with freckle location accuracy down to a fraction of a millimetre. Since I’m not body conscious, and because we’ve all known each other for so long, I’ve never felt weird getting changed in front of them. It just wasn’t a thing. Before tonight.
Ajita’s sitting at her vanity table, trying and failing to get fake eyelashes to stay on her face, and has accidentally glued one eye shut as a result, while Danny’s sitting on the edge of her bed and flipping through his phone. Honestly, he’s barely even paying attention to either me or Ajita. I kinda get the feeling he’d rather be playing video games with Prajesh, but Ajita’s athletics prodigy of a brother is away at some sadistic training camp in another state.
So then I whip my tee off and I’m just standing in jeans and a bra, as I have a hundred million times before, and before I can put my fancy Armani shirt on, Danny groans, covers his eyes emphatically with his hands and says, “Jesus, Iz, do you have to do that here?”
Ajita’s glued eye pings open in shock. “What are you on about, dude? You’ve seen her shirtless before. Hell, you saw me shirtless about ten seconds ago. What’s the big deal?”
He drops his hands into his lap and stares at his grubby fingernails, cheeks burning as fuchsia as Betty’s nail polish. But before he has to reply, I save his awkward ass.
“S’all right,” I say quickly. “I’ll go next door.”
He shoots me a grateful look that tells me everything I need to know.
Shit. We’re in trouble.
10.53 p.m.
Update from the front line: Danny is off chatting up one of the cheerleaders, who looks like Michelle Obama’s younger sister, but he keeps glancing over at me to make sure I’m witnessing his superb flirtatious finesse. I just nod encouragingly for lack of anything better to do, trying to ignore the fact that to the untrained eye I look like a creepy uncle lurking on the edge of the dance floor and supporting his lecherous nephew’s efforts to get laid for the first time.
Ajita and I are chilling on a lime-green sofa in the living room. The house is rammed with sweaty teenage bodies, which are completely incongruous with the immaculate decor. The lighting is low and the music is loud, and everyone’s drinking beer out of plastic cups, spilling it all over the wooden floorboards. That’s gonna stink in the morning.
My best friend, bless her heart, is completely unperturbed by the fact I’m updating my blog while at a party. At this point in our friendship she’s pretty used to me tapping furiously on my phone’s touch screen as she chugs her beer and observes the teenage drama unfolding in full flow around us.
Baxter’s house is actually super nice, probably because his mom launched this tech start-up a couple years back and it’s really taken off. They used to live in a low-income housing community like mine, with metal bars over the windows to prevent break-ins, but now they’re firmly in the fancy part of town, where every mansion has at least three cars in the driveway. One of which is usually a Range Rover, let’s be real.
Inside, the house is like something out of an interiors magazine, with bold printed wallpaper, metallic sculptures and glass coffee tables. They’ve mixed it with that industrial chic look that’s so big now, all exposed brickwork and factory-style lighting. I’ll give it to them, it looks pretty cool. And thanks to my fancy shirt I don’t feel as out of place as I usually do.
“Fancy a game of beer pong?” I ask Ajita, who’s curled into the corner of the sofa with her shoes kicked off, hugging a black-and-white chevron-print cushion. She’s pretty buzzed after just two beers, on account of her severe tinyness.
“Nah, that requires moving,” she practically yawns. She’s a sleepy drunk. We haven’t seen either Carson or Carlie yet, but it’s possible they’re in another room. Judging by my best pal’s apathy toward the concept of physical activity, I guess we shall never know.
“Good point, well made,” I concede. “In that case, can I get you another bottle?”
“Now you’re talkin’.” She winks at me like some sort of gangster. I mean, gangsters probably don’t wink at each other all that much. But you know what I mean.
Oh God, Vaughan just arrived with his oily entourage. His hair is slicked back and his Abercrombie shirt is way too tight, and he has a swastika tattooed on his exposed chest. [I made that last bit up as I have a tendency to do.]
And now he’s scanning the room, probably scoping me out like those birds that hover in the air above their prey until they’re ready to strike. I don’t really know what kind of bird this is, but I swear I saw it on some nature documentary, or in real life, or on one of the rare occasions I was paying attention in class. It’s hard to distinguish at this point. Anyway, the analogy made perfect sense when I started typing, and I’ve committed now so I’ll stick to it.
I’m a worm. Or something. A drunk little worm trying to wriggle away from its gross predator.
BRB, off to dig a hole in the dirt and stay there until he goes away.
11.48 p.m.
Yeah I slept with Vaughan.
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