The ENTOURAGE

3. s i n a t r a

Sinatra was immediately louder again, the barrier of the closing door barely blocking out Conan's pillow-muffled protest.

Most parties, in my experience, were lonely - different shades of loneliness depended on where you were in relation to the party. The way the music changed from room to room, the way people knew or didn't know you were present, the way you cared or didn't, the way you saw the night around you in slow motion because you'd seen it all before. The way in which on this particular occasion, stood alone in the hallway leading to the party, I was unknown to anyone and not any one was around, and I could hear the sound of strangers having fun. This loneliness was a pale feeling, yet there was a comfort in it; I was one with the walls.

All the other doors in the hall were closed, light streaming from underneath or pitch black.
It wasn't hard to find the door from which Sinatra was blasting. I could see the shadows moving across the light streaming from underneath as I crept along the hallway, working up courage as I went. I'm taking the risk, I told myself.

Come on, I told myself. You're a fucking Buchanan! I told myself. Act like it!

I tapped on the door. No answer.

I could hear laughter and excited cheers and chatter. Part of me suddenly really wanted to go back to bed. Curiosity killed the cat, so they say. Edith so would've punched me if I backed out at the last second.

Clad in the university sweater and sweatpants, I went to knock again.

There's a "Someone's at the door!" from the other side, and a peel of laughter and chatter from a few.

The door opened and everything was suddenly closer, the way the music and atmosphere now spilled out into the hallway. It revealed a clarity to the music, distinct words of the conversation, and a very stunning dark-brunnette young man who I realised I had seen before, just never this close. I had noticed him and his friends in more detail than anyone else on campus. Of the four, he was the one whose existence was usually brooding and dark. And who is probably a model with such envy-worthy sharp features - he was dressed hilariously matching to me, only he was wearing everything in black - his harem pants and college brand hoodie were black, unlike my grey sweats and traditional maroon and pale blue hoodie colouring.

"Oh. Hello," he smiled like the Cheshire cat. Wide and mischievous, a little mysterious.

For a second I forgot what I was going to say. I should have planned it upon approach, I realised, I should have delayed longer and put something together in my head! Cheshire watched me with his dark eyes down his sharp hooked nose as he leant against the door frame, amused. "Do my 20/20 vision eyes deceive me?"

"What do you see?" I chucked nervously.

"I lift up mine eyes unto... a Buchanan?"

I nodded, wondering vaguely if I looked as exposed as I felt. "That's me."

"Your sister here too?" He leaned against the door frame, arms folded and one leg crossed over the other, utterly at ease. I was sure he was mocking me. He knew who I was.

I shook my head, only half disappointed and half relieved at his recognition. I struggled to get a read on him besides his acknowledgement of who I was. Did he resent me for it? Did he like us? Was he disapproving and disappointed? He knew, but that's all I could tell. "She's at Harvard. She doesn't need it though, she's smart enough already."

Cheshire raised a sharp brow. "Oh dear, so what are you doing here?"

"Buying time, reading sheet music and media-psychology reports," I answered honestly.