Chapter 11
Dead Grandmothers and Parties
Ellis
The good news was that Heath was still alive by the time we arrived at his place. The bad news was that he wasn't really in any great shape. He had thrown up twice, fallen from the seats and onto the car floor and spent the next ten minutes of the right in a disentangled, wrecked form of himself, moaning about how sick he felt.
When we pulled up, Heath's house already had strings of toilet paper flailing from the roof like a bunch of torn sewing strings from a broken dress.
"Hell yeah!" Jem pumped his fist in the air in a total delight of a two-year-old child and yanked the key out of the ignition, killing off the engine.
I trailed reluctantly behind Jem and Heath, who were greeting several people- Jem mostly; Heath just teetering off his feet, his dilated pupils hazy with that faraway, a million miles apart distinct expression- while I kept my hands to myself as several couples drunkenly and dangerously swerved towards the food table, knocking into me and spilling their beer all over my crotch.
"My Levis!" I gasped, extracting a tissue packet automatically from my pocket- which I've taken with me just in case. It was always good to be prepared for these accidents- I mean, what if you had somebody to impress? Surreptitiously, I dabbed the denim material and Jem heaved a deep, deep sigh.
"Seriously, Ellis? You're at a party."
Anything to get the hell out of here was fine by me. "I don't care what's the occasion! My jeans are ruined."
"Oh my God," he moaned, starting towards the door without me. shoving his hands into his tattered jeans pockets (which were in an abysmal state)."Who the fuck cares? Let's just go. Loosen up."
Loosen up, his words seemed to slap me across the face, sending jolts up my spine with all the appropriate weight and drama. The problem with Jem was that he refused to let me be. He was so frustrating. He refused to let it go. He refused to allow me to sink in deeper into my shell. He refused to think I was fine to not live.
In all my life, I dedicate myself to being perfect. Partying, drinking and living life as a teenager- that was not me. And frankly, looking at all their craziness and the anarchy occurring without any order intervening, I think I'm happier without it.
Finally, with my conspicuously wet pants, we've made it into the house.
Inside was, if plausible, even more, chaotic than the front porch. Streamers and toilet paper hung like Christmas tinsel from the ceilings. People were generally losing more articles of clothing by the minute, replacing them with duct tape adhered to their body. Shots were licked, drank and sucked for every inch of skin (and I'm talking every inch). Bags of weed were surreptitiously exchanged between students, passing the baggie right around for everybody to roll a joint.
The party was petrifying. There was no doubt that I was infinitely uncomfortable, not just because I felt trapped to the point of suffocation and breathing in a smoky marijuana-addled living room was not doing anything to alleviate the situation but physically too. My wet pants made me appear as if I just pissed myself.
"Ellis!" There was a tortured scream rattling my bones and I pivoted sharply on the balls of my ankles, curious as to who was calling out my name and registered two familiar blonde heads diverging out of the crowd, waving madly at me. It was Calista and Astrid. "What are... you doing here?" The excitement in her voice faded into confusion as she noticed Jem was behind me, his hands on my shoulders as he steered me to avoid a girl and a boy attempting to do a head roll, probably high on whatever's invading the room.
"Jem made me go."
"Oh?" The delight was so lucid that Astrid didn't even bother masking it.
Uncharacteristically, I nervously tugged at the silk blouse I bought from a warehouse sale ages ago and dismissed Astrid hastily, "It's not like that. We're just..." It's like there was a disconnected gap between my brain and tongue and teeth and mouth. What do I say? Friends?
I sucked in a deep breath."Carpooling."
Jem's idea of a proper rescue was not any better but it was something I could work on. "Yeah," I nodded excessively, kicking Jem in the shin to continue. He yelped and bit his lip from crying out more, shot me daggers as if to say you owe me.
"And- uh- we were working on the project...uh English...and pretty much we decided to go straight here together."
Smooth delivery there, Jem. Real freaking smooth.
Calista's icy grey eyes swivelled back and forth from Jem and me, trying to detect the lie. She chugged down her beer and crumpled the red plastic cup into her fist. "Sure," she exchanged glances with Astrid before marching away, her hair flying in a cascade of bone white blonde as she dragged away Astrid, who wiggled her fingers suggestively at me and winked at Jem.
"I'm so sorry for my friends," I apologised, scratching the back of my prickling neck.
"It's okay," he replied, amused to a certain extent. "They're kind of entertaining. And it's funny for people to assume we're dating because-" he looped his arm around my shoulder, shattering all sense of control I manage to retain. I shoved him off but I couldn't stop a grudging smile from cracking apart the stoic hostility- "we were written in the stars anyway."
I scrunched up my nose in mild disgust. "You wish, Leighton."
"You're right," he nodded, seeming serious for a while. But I knew he was kidding: "I'll settle for higher."
"Oh please!"
"That's what I'll have you screaming by the end of tonight," he winked. I felt the heat rising to my cheeks, splurging a deep crimson glow on my skin for reasons unbeknownst to me. I was relieved Jem didn't notice.
I punched him in the arm good-naturedly and he rubbed it, massaging his sore area, as I retorted: "I've heard more impressive from you, Leighton. Sharpen your wits. It appears you become dull."
"I'm sorry I couldn't hear you over your incessant blabbering-"
"I do not blabber, you-"
"You two again!" Caleb called out, swaggering his way over, surprisingly and unnervingly drunk. He had about five beers cradled under his arms and he was pretty much swinging down the burning amber liquid down his throat. "Hey, Ellis! You look pretty." He giggled in a very un-Caleb manner.
It was extraordinary to see Caleb caught up, bubbling like a little kid with a childish aura so infectious I can't help but shake my head, beam and heave out a soft sigh but let a grudging smile escape me anyways. Sometimes, talking to a drunk person made you appreciate whatever brain cells you had left.
"Thanks, Caleb."
Almost every time, Jem, Caleb and Heath would greet a guy or a girl, either giving them fist-bumps or 'accidentally' look down their low-cut tops. They would liven up amiably at the sight of their halfway drunk classmates who were gushing down effervescing cocktails like it was an addictive drug while I stood back awkwardly, not entirely sure how to socially interact. It was so weird because Jem seemed to know practically...everybody. Everyone whom he said 'hi' too, said it back as equally enthusiastically as he did- though it could've been the alcohol talking. It was once again I was struck by how freaking popular he was amongst the school's hierarchy. For several brief moments, I thought of ditching Jem, Caleb and Heath to find Calista and Astrid. It was visible that I was no longer needed. Jem had his own circle. I had mine.
I spotted Astrid's caramel mane entangled in the hands of some boy from the varsity junior lacrosse team. She was sitting on his lap, laughing shrilly to every one of his jokes, obviously intoxicated because the boy she was spending time with was Ryder Harrison- a boy she couldn't at all tolerate while sober, considering Astrid's constant rants about being one-uped by Ryder in Debate class. My gaze flitted over to the kitchen where a large group of screaming teenagers huddled together to watch the body shots take place, possibly poisoning their own bodies with alcohol as they drink it off the girl's bodies, laughing and rowdily cheering as one slurped a whole shot in one go from a brunette's breast. Ew. I suppressed a shudder. What are we, animals?
Calista was by the beer pong corner, celebrating her sixth win over this stoned football player who had been smoking out of a bong constructed out of a reed pipe and a glass vase. She was shouting excitedly at the top of her lungs and since she was in such a jocular mood, she felt the need to make out with a girl passing her by. Their bodies were too close for my comfort, their lips were consuming each other's and it was obvious that I was not going to get much 'socialising' with either of my friends.
Oh well.
Then Brooklyn, one of the upperclassmen of seniors and a fellow member of Jem's camaraderie of testosterone-ruled , wandered over and gave Jem one of those complicated, too-hard-to-remember handshakes, yelling way too loud, trying to beat the ear-splitting music and reminiscing about other times they got pissed drunk, incidentally resulting in poor decisions, something about Jem running down the neighbourhood pant-less, bellowing about how Santa was Hitler. Almost every conversation with everybody we've come across literally started with 'Did you remember that time we _____?' The only difference was that he noticed me.
"Ellis?" He appeared to be sober than all of the other guests Jem, Caleb and Heath seemed well-acquainted with; what with the fact he can pronounce the two syllables of my names without confusing with some exotic Korean dish (Long story). "Whoa, what are you doing here? You never come for parties."
Even though, the whole fish prank occurred almost a month ago I was still slightly embarrassed. "What are you talking about?" I asked.
"Really?"
"Didn't...Heath...tell you anything?"
"Yeah, but I thought it was a joke."
"Why would you think it's a joke?"
Apologetically, he smiled sheepishly. "Well, no offence Ellis but you don't seem like the girl who spends her nights here."
"Well, you're right." For some reason, I felt annoyed that he was presuming things about me. Maybe because he automatically assumed being a 'smart' person meant that I frowned upon teenage parties and underage drinking. I mean, I do but can you imagine how damaging and demeaning that can be to a girl who did those things? A girl who partied had as much opportunity and chance of being qualified and views as 'smart'. Sure, I didn't approve of partying and activities like that but it doesn't mean the girls who did live out their high school careers weren't worthy of academic value. "But first time for everything, right?"
"I guess," he smiled tightly and I wanted to roll my eyes. I didn't understand where this annoyance was coming from. I used to like him. He seemed like a guy. Until he came off as a pretentious asshole, of course. I didn't notice how presumptuous he was- even more so than Jem. Jem never ever assumes that just because I spent most of the time studying doesn't mean I didn't 'belong' to a party or assume that girls who did go to parties didn't study at all.
"Right," reiterated Jem, dripping in saccharine sarcasm and adopting the behaviour of inspecting his nails insouciantly. "Well, anyway. I'm bored. Aren't you looking to get your hands inside Cynthia's pants or whatever?"
"Uh...yeah...well, I guess..." was utterly trapped by Jem's words like a deer in the headlights, which were no doubt intended for malice. Shortly, he embraced my hands by squeezing my fingers before making a break towards the other room.
I turned sharply to Jem, who was leaning lazily on the wall. It was covered in stains from God knows what- and I didn't intend on finding out. "Did you have to be so mean?"
"He was hitting on you," whined Jem, "His skills are horrifically subpar. He's trying too hard, what with the sympathetic oh-you're-a-smart-girl-and-you're-different-that's-why-I-like-you bullshit. Please. No girl should be stupid enough to entertain the thought, much less you. He's basically devaluing a whole section of girls who aren't that into studying. I'm doing you a favour by turning away this judgemental asshole."
"You don't have to save me from anything," I begin heatedly. He had crossed the line. "Unlike your traditionally chivalrous and ostensibly sexist way of functioning mentally, I don't need you to save my honour with Brooklyn again." I growled at the reminder, "Just because I don't waste my time in this social wasteland, doesn't mean I have no information about how the etiquette here works."
"Then why didn't you put him in his place?" demanded Jem.
"Because" I dropped my voice to a whisper. The shame was caustic in my throat, toxic as the words travelled out of me, "I want a guy to talk to me without the subject being about binomial equations for once."
"Oh," he mumbled, blinking as if I just smacked him between the eyes. "I'm- I'm sorry."
"It's fine." There was an awkward pause, stifling and complicated. Heath had wandered off to God knows where and these were one of those times when I wished more than anything he could make an appearance so we would have something to talk about, even if the subject was comparing my name to an exotic Korean dish.
"There are some more drinks off at the kitchen," offered Jem.
"No thanks," I declined politely.
"Bullshit," scoffed Jem, studying me carefully, tapping his finger on his chin and stroking his non-existent beard. "You look like you need a shot."
"Jem, it's not-"
"Come on, I'll show you to the cooler." Once again, he reached for my wrist, grabbed it and pulled whereas I flinched at the physical contact, wringing my limp hand out of his clutches. "Touchy, eh?"
I wanted to push up my headband or say something that reeked of superiority just to pissed him off but then I remembered I wasn't wearing any headbands. "It's worse that my friends are assuming we're dating by arriving together at this pathetic excuse for a party but what happens when they see us holding hands?"
He scanned over the crowd and saw how Calista was practically stuffing her hands inside her acquaintance's pants, doing questionable acts with her (but let's face it: I was only going to confront that after four or five more drinks to properly forget the memories). He guffawed at Astrid unconscious over a potted cactus, "I think they're kind of too busy to notice."
"Whatever," I replied primly, pinning my stare on the toilet papers and red cups on the littered floor, studying the messy patterns of the packaging of condoms strewn all over the place. A splurge of sympathy leaked into my chest for whoever stuck cleaning this mess up.
"It's a party, Porcey." Goddamn it. Jem Leighton was something that refuse to be part of the background, part of the backdrop. "Have a drink."
He was pouting, eyebrows scrunched up together, creating wrinkle lines across his undiminished, faultlessly smooth tan skin and I realised he had a small scar running down the side of his temple, faint and feeble, almost easily missed within the tufts of blond hair. It became apparent in the darker light, despite the dark night. And I thought his scar was kind of cool.
"Fine," I surrendered, my balloon deflating. "Let me be peer pressured by you."
"You consider me a peer?" he gasped, obviously very exaggerated and comically, lips curving into a crooked smile as every bit crooked as his gait and heart. That crooked smile, with a half slightly upturned corner and a mischievous gleam in his eyes, which meant he was going to mess up the safe and secure world sent my throat feeling itchy and my stomach tying itself into a knot so intricate I would probably need a very large pair of shears to cut through it.
But I wouldn't let myself crumble because not falling for Jem Leighton was one of the things I was proud of and I couldn't risk losing any more shreds of my dignity. So I raised my nose in the air. "Don't get used to it."
He led me over to the kitchen where they were resuming the tradition of doing body shots on the countertop. Jem was bobbing his head to the offensive, novelty rap song as he hollered out encouragement to one of his many, many friends who was licking a random girl's navel. It was strange to see Jem enjoying the bass-pounding music because it sounded like the type of song he hated. Over by the sink, Calista was retching up copious amounts of vodka and whisky into the toilet, howling curses about she were never touching alcohol for as long as she lived.
Well, that was a promise that wasn't going to last very long.
He poured amber, gold-ish liquid into a small glass. "Your very first shot," he announced it grandly, mimicking the deep voice of the stereotypical commercial narrator, "A moment to appreciate in history."
"First and last." And I was actually planning to stick to that promise.
"You're an alcoholic virgin." The way how he said virgin was enough to make the girls fan their faces. "You've no idea what you're talking about. It certainly won't be your last, Porcey."
Rolling my eyes, I finally sipped a small gulp of tequila and it tasted like horse piss with an aftertaste of some kind of burned vegetable. It seared my throat on the way down and left my mouth feeling the warmth. I nearly spat it out onto Jem's feet.
He was hysterically clutching his stomach as I made a face like I had drunk bleach, coughing and spluttering as I struggle to swallow the alcoholic content of the beverage. Jem guzzled down a considerably copious amount, straight from the bottle, having no trouble whatsoever and finished it with a slightly manly flourish.
"Asshole," I muttered, sticking my tongue out.
"Not my fault you can't handle it," he poured himself another shot and downed it even faster than the first one. "Finish it."
"No," I winced, grimacing in disdain at the half-empty shot glass. "Ew. It was gross."
"That's the point. You're supposed to just swallow. Like every other girl after a guy finishes."
"You lewd bastard, that analogy does not in any way improve my mental imagery of a tequila shot nor does it actually makes me want to finish it."
"You smart people with your smart words," he reached over for my half-finished shot and expertly gulped it down in a single swallow. "Don't you know they're wasted on anybody who spends fourteen hours a day watching abysmal reality television?"
"Jem Leighton watches reality television?"
Solemnly, he cleared his throat and pitched his tone higher into a falsetto as well as a faux-British accent: " Oh absolutely! I must stay on everything. Did you know that this week on Keeping Up With The Kardashians: Kim has a dilemma? She cannot decide between the facelift or the anal bleaching. How will she ever contribute to society?" he cried out in mock anguish.
"Are you drunk?" I regarded him cautiously, inspecting his dishevelled state. His shoulders weren't tensed, his motor senses weren't as precise or alert, his actions were sloppier.
"Takes me more than a few shots to get me drunk, Porcey."
Abruptly, a guy screamed for Jem at the end of the room, cutting through the chatter and music:
"Jem," the boy called out, frantic, "Heath needs your help!"
The music was shut off immediately as the atmosphere turned sour. Heath was practically on the floor as the crowd parted, gasping. And Heath's forehead was bleeding.
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