Page 1 of I Think He Knows

LANA MAE

NEARLY TEN YEARS AGO…

Call me Idiot.

And believe me, I don’t say this lightly.

In fact, I’d like to offer my sincere apologies to Mr. Melville for paraphrasing his most famous opening line, perhaps the most famous opening line in literary history (except forThe Holy Bible’s“In the beginning” and maybeAnna Karenina’s“All happy families are alike”—which is plain wrong, by the way, but I’ll get to that later). But I need to make this known to all: Idiot is my new name, and I’m off to court first thing tomorrow to make it official.

Do, da do, do-oo dah do do, do dah-do do do...

The opening bars of Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” blast through the room, cutting through my thoughts and propelling me back to the present, where for some inexplicable reason everyone in my vicinity is climbing up on the furniture. Judging by the rickety state of most of it, this particular activity looks like it poses serious risk of injury for a room full of very, very drunk people. Not that I’m an expert on drunken injuries. Unless you count the time my Uncle Sam drank too much bourbon on Christmas Eve and accidentally set his hair on fire.

Which I don’t, obviously. Because that would just be… sad. And something I would never do.

A boy with overgrown biceps that mismatch his cherubic baby face pounds the ceiling with a staff made out of taped-together empty beer cans, and yells “DRINK, DRINK, DRINK!”

Everybody drinks.

I take another sip of my water and look around with something between fascination and horror. It’s like being in a Discovery Channel nature documentary. I can almost hear David Attenborough’s smooth, British lilt: “And here, we have the Neanderthal male, inflating his chest while performing a show, of sorts—an alcohol-fueled mating call, in hopes of attracting a willing female. More often than not, these valiant attempts at copulation are resoundingly unsuccessful, and the male must retreat back to his stinky-sheeted nest, alone.”

Unfortunately for me, the show is about to become interactive. The guy on the table to my left swings his arm a little too vigorously in his attempt to raise his red cup to his mouth, which makes me the lucky recipient of a shower of lukewarm keg beer.

“Eeee!” I squeal as I spring out of the way. But it’s too little, too late, and my honey-colored hair, once carefully waved to vintage perfection, is now plastered to my skull in wet, snakey strands.

Drunkypants doesn’t even notice his blunder. Instead, he burps, tosses the rest of his beer back, and flings his cup with abandon.

Of course it hits me in the face.

Fabulous.

Let’s crash a college party, Lana,they said.It’ll be fun,they said.We promise you won’t get left on your own, we’ll be right by your side.

They were liars.

“They” being my friends, Nora and Bethany. Who I have now decided are my ex-friends, given that they ditched me the second I got here. So now I am not only an idiot, but a friendless one, too.

I glance at my phone for the thousandth time, checking the time (9pm) and my messages (none).

Where is he? And why is he not messaging me back?

A sudden wave of nausea crashes over me and I splay a hand across my belly, inhaling sharply to breathe through it. Probably sick from the nasty stink of beer I’m now wearing.

It may be nine o’clock on a Saturday, but I wish I was in bed with a hot water bottle in my lap and my nose in a book. Even if that book wasMoby Dick.

But sadly, I am not tucked up in bed, but instead standing in the sticky, dank residence of the Gamma Kappa Rah Rah Frappuccino fraternity house, watching Bethany search for her dignity in the mouth of a profusely sweaty hockey player who’s wearing a necktie around his head like a bandana. Meanwhile, Nora has been unceremoniously tossed over the shoulder of a particularly rowdy frat member, and is currently being helicoptered in clumsy circles at the center of the dance floor while she clutches at the hem of her skirt, making a valiant (yet unsuccessful) attempt not to flash the entire room.

My friends and I have just started our senior year of high school, and we’ve often discussed how cool it would be to go to one of the famed Frat Row parties at Central Georgia State. However, now that I’m finally at one, I don’t see what all the fuss is about. It smells like BO in here, there are no snacks (which are surely a Party 101 essential), and there’s a distinct lack of Taylor Swift on the playlist.

I can’t picture myself living in a place like this. Or even going to places like this on a regular basis. In fact, I imagine my own future college experience will be very different from what Steven’s current one apparently is—more time spent participating in roundtable literary discussions and sipping black coffee at slam poetry events than attending drunken frat house parties.

Steven and I will have to do… lunch together. Or something.

And speaking of Steven, seriously, where the actual hell is he?

I can hardly surprise my boyfriend at college if he isn’t here to surprise.

My eyes rake across the room again, searching. Nada. If he’s not here, then I’m seriously considering going home to cuddle with my cats, because this party stinks. Literally. I open my phone and check my Uber app—this cool new ridesharing thing everyone’s using.

---