Normal Things (Tate Langdon FanFiction)

Chapter One:

                  

The cigarette smoke hung in a heavy cloud, heavy enough it could have dripped off the chandelier in the dining room like moss. People were dancing in the living room, having sex in the upstairs bedrooms and the hallway closets, and drinking the alcohol in the kitchen, just to throw it up in the sink moments later.

            The room was heavy with heat, and my body was uncomfortable with sweat, my black leggings stuck to me in odd places with my deep purple dress pasted with sweat on top of that. I moved my feet inside my Converse, could feel the sweat between my toes.

            Laughter filled the room, barely audible over the music pumping from the tiny speakers of the sound system; girls and boys gyrated on the makeshift dance floor, their hands pumping over their head, the cups held in their palms spilling alcohol over them like rain. Someone was jockeying music around at the front of the room, their portable sound board and scratch table set up in front of the fireplace. She pumped her fist in the air, her headphones cockeyed over her hair, her other hand working the scratch table, creating incredulous sounds.

            I pulled at my dress, trying to let the air flow.

            "Wanna dance!" someone screamed in my ear. I turned just in time to see the boy closest to me get hit in the nose and yanked into the throng of dancing teenagers by the sleeve of his polo. I pushed my hair back, feeling sweat slick my temples, and looked around, hoping to see an exit to outside. From my vantage, there were none.

            I could feel my lungs burning, the smoke from the cigarettes clogging my pores, slugging through my veins, stealing my breath. I tried to make my way past kissing couples and drunken loners, puffing stoners and humanoid hyenas that were sprawled over the entire love seat, plastic cups gripped firmly in their hands, some way past the point of breaking.

            A few people called out my name, a few of them actually throwing up all over the floor after uttering a sound, but I just ignored them and tried to shimmy past.

            I stuck my hands in the pockets of my dress, feeling the familiar warmth of my phone, my headphones and the stiffness of my almost-entirely-full gum package. My keys were gone, taken at the beginning of the party by a warmly buzzed Trent Jabots, who then locked them in a lockbox in his parents' bedroom. Everyone got their keys back, of course, but not until they stayed the night sleeping on the floor or harking into the toilet or sliding beneath the covers of a guest bed. The next morning, everyone would wake up, each groggy-eyed and hung over, trying to scrape together breakfast before Carl Grummet woke up and raided the fridge and pantry.

            I was by the doorway to the kitchen now, listening as a handful of my classmates, plus some new faces, yelled and hollered over Beer Pong. Someone had just made it. When I turned to see who, I saw a very drunk Abby Roads making out with an only-slightly-less-drunk Peter Hoite. She had her hands on either side of his face, holding his mouth to hers, his glasses crooked on his nose, and he was just standing there, his hands held out like he was going to hold her to him. Suddenly, he seemed sober.

            I moved past the kitchen, making it to the staircase that led to the upstairs rooms and the lockbox. A few stoners were laying on the stairs halfway up, passing around a blunt. I watched them for a moment until one of them looked me in the eye and I moved on, finally in front of the sliding glass doors that led to the outside. No one was out there, all too busy doing something illegal or mind-numbing or stupid in the house behind me.

            I slid the door open a smidge, just enough to squeeze through, and slipped outside. Cool night air chilled the sweat on my skin. The moon was out, painting the backyard in vivid grays and blunt whites, creating a dreamscape that calmed the anxiety warring in my stomach. Trent's parents—who perfectly planned a trip to the Bahamas the same week their son decided to throw the biggest party since Harold Fommes' party the year before—had casual pool furniture, just a few sunbathing chairs and a tiny patio table usually meant to hold drinks.