𝓹𝓱𝓸𝓽𝓸𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓹𝓱「𝐠. 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐫」

iii

"first you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you" -f scott fitzgerald

・・・

Some people ended up walking home, but most people hung out on the lawn. Someone, probably Jason and Clark, found a bunch of beers, so people were drinking. I stood off to the side with Becca and Sam.

"Do you really think they left without us?" signed Becca.

"I don't think my parents would do that unless it was an emergency. Even then, I feel like they'd call," I said.

"My parents wouldn't leave us, either," said Sam. "Campbell probably would."

I cracked a smile and Becca left. "Definitely," she said.

"Hey!" yelled someone, I think it was Jason. "The fucking church is open!"

Everyone began to cheer and ran for the open door. Sam grabbed Becca and me to avoid being trampled by the onslaught of people running toward us. Once the crowd dispersed, we followed.

Becca was separated from Sam and me somewhere in the crowd, so we sat down at one of the church pews, while the other high schoolers danced and drank. I sipped the beer I was drinking. It tasted disgusting, but my parents weren't around to reprimand me for it.

"Doesn't it feel a little weird to have a party in a church?" I asked, setting the bottle down so I could sign with both hands.

"There are no adults here, so they'll never know," said Sam. He grabbed the bottle I was just drinking from and took a swig.

"Hey!" I said. "Get your own, dumbass."

"Is it loud?" he asked.

"Is what loud?" I asked.

"The party," he said.

"Very. You probably wouldn't like it," I said.

I spotted Becca at the edge of the scene, filming with her phone. That was one of the reasons she and I got along so well. We shared a love of cameras, and while I enjoyed photography, Becca preferred video media.

"What are you doing?" Sam signed to her.

"I can't sign and shoot," she replied.

"Why don't you ever join in?" he asked.

Becca put her phone down and walked away.

"Is she okay?" I asked Sam.

"Beats me, we should give her some space," he suggested.

"Good idea."

Before Sam could say something else, something cold poured over our heads, soaking my shirt.

"Shit, that's cold!" I exclaimed, looking up.

On the second row, some idiots were pouring beer onto the teenagers below. I looked at Sam, who shook his head.

"Here, take my jacket," he said, unzipping it and handing it to me.

"Why?" I asked. "It's soaked."

He pointed to my shirt. "You're wearing white."

"Shit. Thank you," I said, putting on the sweatshirt. "You are a lifesaver."

"You can't get all the guys to stare at you, leave some for me," signed Sam.

"Shut up," I said, kicking him in the shin.

"Speaking of guys," he signed. "Hot football player, 2 o'clock."

I turned and groaned. I pinched the bridge of my nose.

"Are you okay?" asked Sam, putting a hand on my knee.

"No, I'm not. I have this headache that comes and goes." Once Grizz was in earshot, I continued. "Oh look, there it is again."

"Nice one," said Sam, giving me a high five.

"Oh, ha ha," said Grizz sarcastically.

"What do you want?" I asked, no longer in a good mood.

"I wanted to talk to you about something," he said.

"No." I turned away from him.

"Please," he said.

"Fine," I said. "Go ahead."

"I was kind of hoping we could talk in private?" He said it as if it were a question.

"Okay," I grumbled, getting up. "I'll be back," I signed to Sam.

I followed Grizz out through a door that led to one of the staircases to the upper level of the sanctuary. He sat down on the stairs, a few steps up so we were closer to eye level. One thing about Grizz- he was infuriatingly taller than me- and he knew I hated it.

"Spill," I said. "What was so important you had to drag me out here to talk about?"

He took a deep breath before he spoke. "I want us to be friends again."

My eyes widened. "You what?"

"We should be friends again," he repeated.

"I've had too much to drink, there's no way you just said that," I said.

"I did just say that," he confirmed. "I think things will be better off if we got along."

"Why?" I demanded, crossing my arms. "Convince me."

He leaned his elbows on his knees. "It's been six years, and we haven't had a real conversation since then, and I never thought I'd say this, but I miss talking to you."

"I'm not sure whether to feel flattered or nauseous," I said.

"Come on, our fight was so stupid anyway. You and Luke aren't even together anymore. We're both over him, why can't we get over our differences?"

Maybe it was the alcohol thinking for me, but he had a valid point. He was always the rational one. "I think I'm too drunk to object."

"Lightweight," he said.

"Just because I agreed to make up doesn't mean you get to make fun of me," I complained.

"Says you," he said. "There's this poem I read that I think you'd like. Dorothy Parker. It goes: I like to have a martini, Two at the very most. After three I'm under the table, after four I'm under my host."

"Let me guess, I'm the speaker," I said.

"Yep."

"Course I am," I muttered, "Who's the host?"

"Me," he said matter-a-factly.

"What?"

"What?"

"I'm going to ignore that you just said that," I said.

"Yeah, I have no idea why I said that," he admitted.

"Drunk words are sober thoughts," I said.

"You know what? I'm just going to head out before I say something I'll regret," he said, standing up and walking back into the main sanctuary.

"You haven't yet?" I asked, subtly referring to the innuendo in the poem he had recited.

"Nope," he called over his shoulder.

It was then that I did something I didn't expect. I smiled. I smiled, because, for the first time in six years, Grizz Visser and I had a conversation without ending up at each other's throats.