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If there was one thing you were always weirdly proud of, it was the fact that you’d never sunk as low as those around you and gone to a high school party. You hated the scene, you hated the alcohol and the drugs circulating the people there, and you pretty much hated having to be squashed into a small house packed full of sweaty intoxicated bodies. It was a complete waste of time, you had other shit to do that didn’t involve the party scene. Of course, how would you even know that was what actually happened? Dave has in fact told you enough about them for you to paint your own picture, and an unsightly picture it was – like a Bosch painting of hell itself. What kind of lunatic would want that?
Apparently everyone but you, and you were the measly minority. What a shame. Roxy had skipped out on a few parties for your sake, but that was only because you politely advised her to – one, because she’s a recovering alcoholic and as proud of her as you are so far on her journey, you know there will be someone somewhere who will take advantage of that, and two, because things can get lonely by yourself.
In all honesty, though, you hated going to parties because you were terrified of putting yourself out there; the judgement people have given you in the past and will most likely give you in the future is a pretty scary thing to think about. ‘Dirky no likey people’ as Roxy had cleverly put it once. You did in fact like people, but only the idea of them.
But it was your last year, and so it would also be your last chance to go to a house party. You never wanted to, and you wish you could turn around and say no, then pull a giant huff in your room, but you were already on your way there. You’d asked Roxy to come with you for emotional, and physical support – in case you have another panic attack and pass out again – but she politely declined and opted to stay at home with Jane instead. Which left you with Dave. Obviously not your first choice, but he was literally the only other person you could have asked for the favour, aside from some of your not-so-close-to-you-really school friends. But to be honest, you weren’t close enough to have one-on-one plans with them, and they were sort of unapproachable in the way that terrified you more than the prospect of going to the fucking shin-dig in the first place. Plus, you were basically a nerd, and nerds don’t typically get invited to things. No, you needed someone who could actually get invited to a house party. And asking your younger brother to take you to one was degrading enough, you just wanted to get it over and done with - It was your last opportunity, but that didn’t mean you were going to enjoy it.
Dave was exactly a year younger than you, so while he was 17 and you were 18, there was a significant mental age gap. While he acted his age, you acted like a pretentious 36 year old with social anxiety. All you wanted to do was get on with your hobbies and live your life, you didn’t have time for all of this nonsense. Or the crippling panic when you entered a social situation. Messy.
Pretending like you were a social butterfly rather than hiding from your what-ifs forever was a tactic you hadn’t tried yet, so now seemed like a really great opportunity. Be obnoxiously outgoing, and you just might fit in to societal norms.
The bumping of the car as Dave drove you both to the destination did nothing but make your nerves stand on end, like each one had been personally shocked into a permanent state of terror. Needless to say, you were calm on the outside. At least, you hoped - but Dave could tell that you weren’t exactly excited to finally be a normally functioning teenager, living with you for 17 years and sharing a room for exactly 13 of those blew your cover of being completely stone-cold emotionless. He gave you a quick glance – quick enough that you wouldn’t scold him for not looking at the road.
“Dude, it won’t be that bad. I said I’d stay with you as long as possible, you got nothin’ to worry about. Probably.”
As nice as it was, you were literally shitting yourself. The shit was shooting out of your ass and all over your beautiful car, the mess so bad even heavy-duty bleach could not fix the damage seeping into your plush seating. The absolutely fantastic image of that filled your head, and you guess it eased your nervousness? But no amount of poop jokes could erase the anxiety you were feeling right now – what if Dave eventually leaves you alone in the midst of the party, and someone tries to pick a fight with you, or you’re pressured into taking a drink and it’s spiked. God forbid any of that happens, you think you’ll become a full-time 24/7 recluse instead of the 23/7 recluse you usually are. You start to feel a little bit light-headed.
You realize now, amidst the terrifying thoughts that people are mean, and would be to you, that you may have picked the worst party to go to; you can already hear the boom of music, and you haven’t even driven into the estate yet. The amount of cars parked everywhere, too, kind of sealed the thought that this was definitely going to be something to worry about. How fucking big was this house?
“Okay...we’ll park here and walk to the party. It’s pretty big, so don’t faint when you see it. Fef is shit-rich for no reason.”
Ah, great. You loved shit-rich for no reason people with big houses.
Dave smoothly works the car in behind an expensive-looking range rover, stepping out at the same time you did. He’d already started walking forward, clearly entranced by the bass music thrumming throughout the streets, but you being the annoyingly observant brother you are had to absently notice that someone had clearly defiled the beautiful black car with spray paint. The familiar, and typical, slur of ‘faggot’ was plastered along the side of it, you haven’t heard that being used since middle school, it was such a weak insult, but and knew you would if you went in to that party there’d be some seriously intoxicated ‘phobics. But for the sake of staying level-headed you focused on the point at hand. You could tell that it was fresh; the paint was still dripping emerald down onto the front wheels. That, and you’d accidentally knocked into it when you’d stared too long and tripped on a clip on the sidewalk. Your hand was very nicely covered and dripping with green paint, cold and stiff where it was already drying in places. Nice. You swiftly brushed your hand on the ground to rid of most of the dampness before Dave could notice, if he’d seen the words on there, he’d for sure stuff you back into the car and drive you home. For...both of your sake’s, really.
You recovered almost completely with a bright green hand and slight loss of dignity of your slip-up, readjusting your glasses before finally following Dave into the depths of Bosch: Live and in-action.
So okay, nobody had died yet. You don’t know why you were so worked up, everything was chill enough. Dave, as he’d said, stayed with you for a good portion of your time there. He introduced you to people too, telling them about you while you stood awkwardly and nodded at the right intervals. Fef, it turned out, was the sweetest fucking girl you could have ever met; she was short and chubby, her dark skin peppered with a thousand little freckles that to you, pretty much looked like the stars had nestled a new home onto her skin. Her hair too, died pink to look like cotton candy, was wound with a bunch of flowers and beads, and made her look more adorable than you’d ever tell anyone. As gay as you are, you had to admit that she was fucking attractive. She giggled and screamed a lot, which you guess was her one flaw ever, but otherwise she welcomed you into her home with a flourish of her blue and green breezy skirts. How the fuck did Dave even know this girl?
A number of other people you met you quickly forgot the names of; the blind girl with what seemed like way too many teeth, her grouchy companion that – okay, he was kind of cute in a kittenish sort of way. You figured they were a couple, but he quite obviously liked someone else...you’d let Dave figure it out on his own, it’s more fun that way. There was also the dude with a sweet mohawk, and impressive prosthetics from the waist down that really left you gaping, he was nice if not a little nervous too, so at least you weren’t the only one. He mentioned occasionally skateboarding with Dave, and the idea that this dude with no physical legs could skateboard at all was mind blowing, why did you not socialize more? These people rocked.
And of course, Dave insisted on getting himself a drink, but you just settled with carrying a cup of water for something to hold. It made you somewhat calmer? But that might have just been the air, you’d seen the huddled shapes of those sharing joints, and it was quite hard to escape the mighty plumes of second-hand smoke. You were relaxed. It felt good. (Up until Fef ‘politely’ told those smoking to go outside, you think you would have just gotten high from that. Silently, you thank her. Drugs were not your thing.)
At last, around midnight, Dave had decided to rest on a free couch, introducing you to the last of his friends. You knew them, briefly. John was always over, so to see the dorky smile he gave you was a relief, and you more than appreciatively returned it. You could at least talk to him without feeling like he was judging your every move, he was like a growth on Dave’s side, and they were never apart (literally, John was all over Dave. You almost wanted to switch seats they were giving off so much second-hand homo); so you knew that he was as threatening as a daisy. He was a good kid in your book. He was gooberish enough to be entertaining and pleasantly easy to fall into step with - you might have had a crush on him for a confusing moment, and were he not your brother’s best bro you probably would have let that develop. But you’re really, really glad you didn’t for a number of reasons.
Jade, on the other hand, fangirled over you so hard you might have cried and shit yourself right on Fef’s beautiful white couch. You think it might have had something to do with robotics? Either way, she wouldn’t stop touching you and grinning like a fool, until eventually both John and Dave saw your panic and peeled her off of you; she quickly apologized and adjusted her glasses, cheeks bright red from what you assume was the beginnings of her intoxicating journey – you knew full well what that looked like. She babbled to the guy beside her, but he seemed to be in a foul mood. His face was drawn down into a frown, and he looked more upset than anything - which was quickly ruined by the garish and skewed bow-tie around his neck. Also by the fact that he may have been piss-drunk; the way his blinking seemed uncoordinated and slow gave away the deal.
“What’s wrong with Jake? Somethin’ got him down?” Dave asked, lowering his voice and leaning over to Jade. She barely looked up, and continued to croon over him, her hand on his back. You think they might be brother and sister, but then again, John looked like them too – maybe they were triplets? You were too scared to ask in case the question was idiotic. Maybe they weren’t even related at all.
John answered instead, his entire body leaning into Dave as he whispered the details of Bow-tie’s – Jake’s - woes to all of your waiting ears, but you had to strain slightly – the noise of the party behind your back was ever increasing in noise levels. “Someone tagged his car. Bright green spray paint!” Your eyes wander down to the loosely curled fist in your lap. You shut it tighter. “Whoever did that is literal garbage.”
“Wow. Sounds like some nasty shit.” You mumble, just loud enough for Dave to hear. You don’t know what came over you, but something about his sad expression and the fact that he was drunk brought out the momma bird in you – you reach over (with your non-green hand, obviously), and lightly touch his shoulder, the first contact you’ve made with anyone that night.
“You okay, man?”
You get a fiercely dealt headshake in return. Jade looks at you solemnly, her eyes glassy and slightly unfocused, and mumbles something before fleeing from your group – you assume it’s to get him water so he can sober up, but with Jade’s boisterous activity levels you really couldn’t tell whether she needed to run around the garden for a few hours or if she was actually helping or not.
You almost didn’t notice both Dave and John sneaking into the swarm of party-goers either, curse you for turning your back on the two most homo-erotic people you know. The thought of anyone assuming things about them leaves you panicking all over again, but with a desperate and pleading look at Dave, he was whisked away with a horrid mix of apologetic and mischievous look on his face. Your head is going to explode.
You remember that you’re the only one left with the drunk guy. Jake does not realize, as you frantically do, that you are both now alone in the dimly lit corner, your motherly tending now a single parent gig. You sort of knew what to do; every time Roxy got too intoxicated to move, you’d get her water and tell her to lie down. But you couldn’t get water; that meant leaving him alone. And you feel like telling him to lie down on the couch was a bad idea given his current mood, so you did what anyone would do. You sat down in front of him, legs crossed and back turned to the rest of the people there so you wouldn’t have to see them.
What the fuck do you do now. How do you comfort someone at all.
“Uh...” You start eloquently. He politely raises his head from his lap, though his mouth is still turned downwards and his thick eyebrows drawn into a frown. “You maybe want to talk about it?”
“Talk abou’ what?” Jesus that was an accent if you’d ever heard one. It sounded horribly put on, but you don’t think he’d be doing much joking around at this moment in time. “How attractive you’re right now? Jumping Jacks, what’re is a hard-boiled guy like you here for? I recognize a hot-pot when I see ‘em, and you’ve got it, ol’ chap.”
You wonder briefly if he just insulted you, but the dumb wobbly smile on his face left you feeling a little more than warm and floaty inside. You didn’t ask what that meant at all.
He shook his head slowly before speaking again, more at the spot over your shoulder than at you, but you’d give him kudos for trying.
“I shouldn’t say that. I’ve been ridiculed, you stupid sod, ‘ow am I supopsped to get home driving that? It sure would get many a bronx cheer outta the neighbours with...” he blinks at himself, raising his hands like they’re on loosely tied puppet’s strings to claw at the air in what you assume was apostrophes. “’FAGGOT’ plastered ac-across the side like a beacon of my friggin’ prefeferences. A fellow as gallant as m’self should be able to choosewhat he desires. I mean, hoothedick. Who the dickens gives a shit what I like! I bet if I ask any chap in here they’d sure as day b’ honest. An’ even though I’m still balled up about it that does NOT mean...”
You’d started to drift in and out while he was speaking. You had no idea what he was saying at all, whether that was because of some of the words he used or because he was mostly mumbling into your shoulder – when did he even get there? – But you just patted his back and told him it would be okay like a good mom.
Jake jumped up suddenly, staring you dead in the eyes (why did Dave convince you to leave your shades at home, oh fuck) and focusing intently on your face. He looked a lot better when he wasn’t scowling, and did in fact look genuinely curious, wide green peepers seeking out your very soul. Unless that was just him trying to keep his vomit down. You instinctively move away from him in case this happens, both of your hands raised to steady him as he rocks uncertainly from backwards to forwards – which, was a very big mistake. His eyes stay on your face a moment longer before shifting to your raised hands, and you realize for the second time that night, that one of them is entirely green. He may be drunk, but it doesn’t take him longer than a few seconds to put a misplaced two and another misplaced two together to come up with the very wrong conclusion that you did in fact spray paint his car with a homophobic slur.
“You absolute asshole.”
You shift backwards as his thick eyebrows are pulled down again, his cheeks heating up with clear misguided anger. You weren’t exactly scared. But he was clearly not a flimsy noodle, the dude had beef, and it was directed at you in the form of a fist. You had an idea of where John and Dave were, but where the fuck was Jade??
You had no desire to fight back, it was the absolute last thing you’d be doing; he was slow and clumsy, but he still got you in the shoulder – it would have hurt more had he actually been with the rest of the world, but it would still leave you sore for a few hours if not mildly miffed at the discomfort it left. You pushed back onto your ass and stood in a swift motion, out of his way for a second before he spotted you again, his eyes honing in on you like a sensory missile; you backed up into a group of people and turned around to fashion a quick apology when he launched at you again. Jake mowed you down like a rhino, ploughing you into the couch and pinning you there with his heavy body. You couldn’t breathe for a second, but he didn’t seem to want to get off of you. There were a few wolf whistles from behind, and you guess that from angle it did look kind of terrible. You could feel your face heating up, and it wasn’t just from the warmth of alcohol on his breath. You may have also gagged a bit; if you held a flame to his mouth he could be a human flamethrower.
You realised then then he wasn’t moving. But of course you knew that he hadn’t died on you, the guy was making the grossest of noises in the back of his throat, and breathing so deeply on you it was crushing your lungs every time he breathed out. When you tried to move though, he just clung closer, the asshole had passed out mid-fight and decided he needed to sleep with a cuddly bear. There were laughing teens all around you, and the crushing weight of ‘are they laughing at me?’ settled into your subconscious. God, why did this have to happen? Of all things, this was the last, and the worst. At least if you’d been spiked you’d be having a great drunken time, not pinned to a couch by an attractive beefy teen in a bow-tie. You think under other circumstances, this would be good. But it isn’t.
He groans uncomfortably on your lap, and you embarrassingly shift so his noises don’t vibrate through your legs and to your groin.
You think you might cry, the panic is starting to settle in and there’s really nothing you can do about it.
You gingerly put your hand on his back, rubbing circles so he settles back down into a somewhat less restless state; you’re occupied with this for a good while, closing your eyes against the rest of the party and focusing on your hand on him. It helps a bit to focus on something and shut out everyone else, but it takes a while for you to accept that nobody was laughing at you or talking shit, and that you should probably just relax and focus on making this poor drunk guy better. He might still puke on you, but it’s a risk you’re willing to take.
You think it’s safe to say that your first and last high school party was memorable and certainly one to tell the grandkids. But you will not, ever, be planning on going to another.