“Grab the LV knock-off from the back,” I tell Dee now, pointing to the glossy crimson purse when she struggles to fit her phone and wallet into her skin-tight jeans. “The chain strap will look fantastic with your hair.”
It does. Better than it’s ever looked on me. Perhaps I should gift it to her but before that thought can fully form, she lets out a shriek and I go to her rescue as her heels sink into the long grass of the berm.
“You’re meant to end the night not walking straight, not begin that way,” I tell her and bite on the inside of my cheek as an echo of Devon’s words on Monday recur.
At least the little bitch has had the good sense to stay out of my way, since. Still, the aftereffects of the confrontation have lingered. The sands of high school, once so sturdy beneath my feet, are shifting, sinking, trapping me in place while the rest of the year surges ahead.
It reminds me of intermediate school, when it seemed every week a new girl got her period while mine took its own sweet time to turn up. Something I wish now I’d taken the time to appreciate, but back then had felt like I was out of kilter with everyone, falling farther and farther behind.
The same thing with lessons. My dyslexia bad enough to make sure I struggled but too mild for me to qualify for assistance. Other students got time with the teacher’s aide, and I got told to concentrate harder.
The lingering sense of unfairness still rankles.
I take a deep breath, centering myself in the moment. There’ll be time later to wallow in all my life regrets. Tonight is about having fun.
Nate’s house is the largest on his street, in the bend of a cul-de-sac where every twitch-curtains neighbour has a clear view of proceedings. Luckily, the street frontage is tiny and as we stagger along the narrow pathway leading through to the back, the real expanse of the property opens.
A narrow creek fences off the rear, large weeping willows standing sentry along the banks, festooned with fairy lights for the occasion.
There’s a paved outdoor area turned into an entertainment station for the night. Kerosene burners mark the edges, kids huddling around them for warmth. A keg sits beside a table piled high with disposable cups, another one behind it, so far untapped. There’s a door connecting to the actual kitchen, just as cramped with another keg on the go but with the added attraction of a fridge.
Inside, out of the freezing night, there are clumps of partygoers, already settling into their different cliques. A table is set with bowls of cheap snacks, the chips, nuts, crackers, and dips already cross-contaminating each other and certain to continue their run to inedible as the night progresses.
Plastic is laid down on the major thoroughfare through the house, stiff enough to crackle under our feet as we walk.
The start time is already an hour in the past, but the party hasn’t really got going when we arrive. I pour a drink but whoever tapped the keg didn’t do a great job at getting the air out of it, so my cup is mostly foam.
I snag the last of a bottle of vodka and pour that in to beef up the kick. When Dee sees, she pulls such a face that I add more just to wind her up. Taking a sip, I have to work my acting muscles to keep a straight face. “Mm.” I smack my lips together. “Nice.”
“Ugh. You’re disgusting.” She twists the labels around on a few bottles, but I can already tell her what she’ll find. Vodka. Gin. Some unholy brown coloured liquid that might read bourbon or whiskey but isn’t really either. More like vodka with a tannin kicker than an actual dark spirit.
No, thanks. I can still taste the last time I tried that. The hangover meant the unholy flavour lingered long after it should have dissipated. Even now, I turn green around the collar at the thought.
Clear spirits for the win. Even mixed with beer I can’t imagine they’ll do half that much damage.
“Dee!” a girl calls out from the far side of the room while another beside her waves.
“They’re from netball,” she explains, waving back. “You good here for a few minutes?”
“Knock yourself out.”
As she moves across to the group, their volume increases into such shrill territory that I leave the room. It’s been years since I played netball. Back when we first learned, I was okay, but since I’m still practically the same height as I was back in standard two, my form steadily degraded.
A cluster of boys stand near the garage, shielded from the road by the overhanging vines on a pergola. The puffs of smoke draw my interest but when I get a sniff, I turn away.
Cigarettes. Yuck. Who the hell smokes those any longer?
“Hey, Em,” a male voice calls and I turn in time to be enveloped in broad arms and a cloud of Lynx Africa. “Got a new boyfriend yet?”
“Sure, Trent. I replace them daily. Why? You thinking of applying?”
“Not me. I got a girl.”
He taps his phone and I shake my head, flicking my hair out of my eyes. Trent’s so well put together he should have girls hanging off him, but he’s even worse than Zach when it comes to a no-hands-on policy.
He’d rather spend five minutes gazing at a surreptitious recording of an amateur couple than an entire evening with a real live girl, ecstatic at the opportunity to let him do whatever he wants.
“You keep knocking them out that way, your right hand will get disproportionate.”
