Page 78 of Life of the Party

Both of them were looking at me like I was someone to be pitied.

I ignored them as best I could from where I sat, slumped over silently in my chair, horribly sleep-deprived and lost somewhere between hungover and drunk. I whiled away the unfortunate time in my own meandering thoughts, impatient for the day to be over so I could go home. My friends would be partying, and I hated missing out.

The summer had been awesome so far, everything I hoped it would be. Every night after work, Charlie and I came home and blew all our tips on booze and cocaine and cigarettes and weed and whatever else we wanted to do while we waited for Grey and Zack and Alex to join us after band practice. We’d party with them until the wee hours of the morning, so drunk and high that often we’d pass out wherever we were sitting.

Charlie and Grey and I all worked the evening shift full-time at the restaurant. Work was fun with all three of us, but even then, I’d count down the hours until we were free to go home and start the party again.

Those were just the weeknights. On the weekends, we went all out. Grey’s band had a show nearly every Saturday, so Charlie and I would go watch them at the club, wildly high on Ex or cocaine or drunk or stoned on whatever we had on hand, whatever would do the job. Those were the best nights, I so looked forward to Saturday, when I could watch my gorgeously hot, unbelievably talented boyfriend rock and sing and seduce me with his guitar. Afterward, we’d all meet up in the VIP room and do some more cocaine and drink more booze and party until the house lights went up and we all had to go home.

On Sundays, as promised, I’d drag my tired, bedraggled, hungover ass back to my parents’ house for dinner. Most of the time I was still wasted from the night before, sitting at the table as I came down, pushing the food around on my plate as substances leaked slowly from my system. I must’ve smelled terrible, and I certainly didn’t add much to the conversation—grunting for most of my answers and groaning for the others. I wondered if Mom regretted asking me to come over. I knew she didn’t like how I was behaving—her nose did the flare and I could tell she was disappointed in me. Dad ignored me mostly, and though Marcy and Blake acted shocked, I think it made them feel good to ‘tsk tsk’ behind my back.

I didn’t care what they thought, not in the least.

They couldn’t stop me. None of them could. I was having the best time of my life.

Even Mother Nature was smiling on us. Nearly every day was the same bright, hot sun in the clear blue sky. Charlie and I spent every possible moment we could in skimpy little bikinis, suntanning in the backyard and reading magazines and talking and laughing, stretched out on loungers and enjoying the heated quiet of lazy summerafternoons, the gentle whir of distant lawnmowers, the thick smell of fresh-cut grass.

Amidst the utter perfection, there was only one thing in the whole world that would’ve made my summer even better. Something I wanted desperately, but for some reason, didn’t happen.

Grey and I hadn’t had sex yet.

I tried not to let it bother me. We made out practically every chance we could, so he must have wanted me, at least a little. But every time things got really hot and heavy, every time I began to think there might be a chance, he’d pull away and stop us. I just didn’t understand it. I was living in a state of constant lust; I spent nearly as much money on fancy underwear as I did on blow. None of it worked.

I was too embarrassed by my total lack of experience to talk to him about it, so I fretted to myself instead, wondering what I should do, what I could do to make him want me more. I loved him desperately; I wanted to share everything I could with him, to experience it all with him, to know every part of him. The secret fear that began to gnaw at my mind whenever he stopped us was that he didn’t feel the same way.

“Mac! Mackenzie!” Marcy’s impatient voice jolted me from my wayward thoughts.

“Yes?” I returned to the present.

“Are you even awake?” Her dark eyes glared. “I was talking to you.”

I sat up and focused on my sister. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

She shook her head in exasperation. “I was asking what you think.”

“Oh.” I noticed for the first time that Marcy was standing on the stage before trifold mirrors, each reflecting back a picture of total elegance and beauty.

The wedding gown Marcy wore was gorgeous, encrusted with jewels and embroidery in a classic princess cut. The skirt was about four times wider than Marcy, the train about four times longer. The dressmaker kneeled behind her, pinning and pulling at the vast layers of gauzy white fabric, working valiantly on a French bustle.

Mom stood by, glaring, her lips pursed so tightly they matched the colour of her face. Another one of her signs, like the nose flare. She was not happy with me.

“Wow, Marce. You look great. Really.” I feigned an enthusiastic smile, nodding my approval. Mom shook her head at me, clearly not satisfied with my response, but when she turned back to Marcy, her face totally transformed. She smiled grandly at her eldest daughter, her face radiating pride as she oohed and aahed over the fit and the cut and the fabric. Marcy practically glowed with happiness at my mother’s abundant compliments, her beautiful face beaming as she looked at herself in the mirror.

Her dark eyes met my mother’s and they shared a happy, teary smile.

Suddenly, I felt the need to excuse myself again.

When Marcy’s alterations were finally finished, it was our turn. I stared at the dress hanging in the change room like it was my mortal enemy. It was pink—light, fluffy, cotton candy pink. Pretty much exactly what Mom wanted me to wear for grad.

Cut in the same style as Marcy’s wedding dress, it had a tight-fitting bodice and a knee-length, puffy skirt. If the skirt had been a bit shorter, it would have looked exactly like a ballerina tutu.

I couldn’t help but shudder as I stepped into the layers of crinoline. I zipped up as best I could on my own and then stood before the trifold mirror, surrendering myself to the mercy of the dressmaker and her fabric tomato full of pins.

She frowned at me, her face wrinkling. “You’ve lost weight since last time.” She decided, pinching the fabric around my waist. I couldn’t decide if she meant it as a compliment or not. “This’ll have to be taken in.”

“Typical first year,” Whitney laughed, stepping out of the change room behind me in her tutu. “Can’t afford to eat.”

Whitney was just jealous. She hadn’t seen this side of a size four in years.

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