Note: Although I imagine those of you originally so eager for new entries on my part have probably long since forgotten about this little piece of fiction, in case there are some who have not, I regret to inform you that this will probably be the last installment of BOS. I started this story actually last summer, at a time when I was very lonely (stuck in a lousy suburb that was, assuredly, not NYC). At the moment, I have found the most wonderful boyfriend, school is going great, and I'm an all-around happier guy; whatever emotional state originally propelled my pen has since departed. However, if the archivist allows some experimentation on my part, I would love to write some much less ambitious (in terms of length) and much more unusual stories. As my writing has always been tremendously belabored, I seem not to have many other choices if I wish to enrich our online community, which I wholeheartedly do.
Blues of Summer Mustapha Mond III)
Megan's house is huge, and gorgeous. If we lived anywhere near the west coast, I would point my finger squarely at a daddy (or mommy, to be fair) in the movie industry; however, as we live in the sprawling suburbs of DC, a bribe-fattened congressperson seems more likely. Cars are parked all up the driveway and on the lawn, which I imagine will spell trouble when Megan's parents return home and find less grass than tire tracks. We park down the block a ways, on a street whose name - Mapleleaf Drive - seems much less ironic than the thousand other arboreal avenues I've been up and down: this street is canopied by huge, ancient trees. Shade must be in no short supply during the daytime.
Two hundred feet away, the noise of pop techno begins like a whisper, and by the time Mark knocks on the front door, it seems to have swallowed up all other sounds of the world. Someone apparently could hear us, though, for a nice looking girl with black hair spiked in every conceivable direction lets us in. She gives us a look suggesting we were hardly worth getting up for, and turns back inside. By now, the music has somehow faded into the background - either that or the deafness has set in quicker than I like to think - so I say to Mark, "Guess she's not one of your friends, huh?"
Mark laughs. "In all honesty, I'm not much better known here than you."
Inside, the party is exactly like I expected it to be. Although I do like socializing, and am far from shy, the cacophony and plain phoniness of such events can sometimes get to me. Dozens of people mill around, jumping from conversation to conversation; here, a bong passes from hand to hand, filling the air with that fresh scent like earth and hay; here, a girl and boy make out unabashedly against a mahogany banister; here, drinks are handed out and a dirty joke makes everyone burst into laughter. Self-consciously, I stroke my chin. The darkening peach fuzz there just doesn't match up to the robust beards and side-burns these guys are sporting around me. I feel very, very small.
Mark, though by no means a campus icon, is well enough known, and his moment of awkwardness passes quickly. He heads off into another room with a few kids dressed all in black; I tactfully flick him off for leaving me. Dammit. In such a situation, a lesser man would panic. However, I am blessed with charisma that those lesser men only possess in their most intense dreams of conquest. I clear my mind and float into the music. Although I am not a fan of club music per se, a thumping bass line gives me just what I need to drift around, room to room, seeing faces pass like in a fog. Someone, taking pity on such a young kid obviously lost, hands me a beer. I take a sip, just for show. I have nerves of steel.
Eventually I find Mark again. He's apparently found his way into Megan's inner circle: they are bunched around a few couches, in what seems a spacious living room. A fire is blazing pleasantly in a giant marble fireplace. Mark has an uncharacteristic all- American glow to him; his earth tone wardrobe is almost flashy among the tight black clothing, black hair, and black glasses of the theater set. On his right is Megan, in a plush armchair which she fills with regal authority. No one could see her and doubt this to be her party. Her blood red hair, in large spikes, falls asymmetrically around her head like a post-modern crown. They are all giggling like much younger kids; empty wine bottles scattered around the central table suggest a cause. Mark leans over and whispers something into Megan's ear. She explodes into laughter, then rises rather unsteadily in her chair.
"Can I have everyone's attention!" She yells, much too loudly. Someone turns off the music. The house is eerily quiet as people shuffle in from various rooms. Megan giggles and the kid on her right nudges her.
"We've decided that, as so many of us have graduated, and shall soon fall into the clutches of adulthood, one last shining moment of adolescence should be had.
To this end, we shall be holding a spin the bottle game, to begin as soon as I have finished speaking. I cordially invite you all to join us, regardless of your place on life's great highway – my friends young and old, we are united here in this moment, in this last great night of our youth, and, if you allow me to quote the Bard, we..."
"Less talk, more lip lock!" Yells someone from the back. I must say that is a sentiment I quite agree with. Rumors of Megan's ego were not, I see, exaggerated. She shoots a hateful look in the direction the voice came from, clearly pissed at the spotlight being stolen right before her climax, then shrugs and collapses back into the chair.
Some kids begin clearing a large enough space in the center of the room for everyone to play; others, muttering "déclassé" under their breath, leave the room to talk of Michelangelo and wish for cocaine. I am torn. On the one hand, spin the bottle brings back some painful memories of middle school, when the closet felt less like a doorway and more like a cell, not to mention I don't know a soul here but my brother, not to mention I'm a good two years younger than everyone else, from the looks of it; and yet I certainly can't just leave, and the other rooms hold no more promise for me.
And there's something about the fire in the fireplace, dancing over the faces around me, filling me with a strange heat; it compounds with the heat already coursing through me from being in a foreign place, among strange people. In the crackling flames, I am drawn to the circle. I take my place.
There must be fifty other people sitting with me, some still sipping at beer, others smoking gently. I am clearly an outsider, but looking at the faces around me, no one seems to notice, or care. The room seems to expand. I think I am getting sleepy. I look at their faces and see how beautiful some of them are, these boys with nonchalance and glee painted across their mouths in firelight. Although I am a link in the circle, they are so remote as to seem in another world entirely. They carry a presence of maturity, while I feel myself so small and mundane, still in highschool, still struggling with the minutiae of petty tasks and naïve concerns. Their faces are so alien, like some higher order of being, except for one kid, exactly opposite the circle, who looks almost like...
Oh my god. My jaw drops. It's Tad. He sees me just as I see him; the same shock plays across his accentuated features. How could I have missed him here? What is he doing here? Then I remember: his sister, Irene, a boisterous lesbian, ranks among Megan's best friends. There she is, off to my left, chatting with the girl who let us into the house. But Tad is no more attached to Megan than I, and he seems to be the only other person who has yet to graduate from school. I raise my hand slightly, and he replies in kind, a smile breaking out on his face. I smile too, mostly at the absurdity of the situation. One of my closest friends, here, at this completely random party. Fate is playing funny games today. A dark cloud passes over my brow at this thought: I remember the chat room for the first time since I left the house. But Club180 could not be Tad. He is as true a technophobe as I can imagine; he can barely maneuver around the simple confines of AOL or MSWord, and likes nothing better than a weekend spent camping, someplace that smells of pinesap and where all traces of humanity are absent.
On quick reflection, he seems even less well suited for this party than I; I at least know how to interact at social events, how to move around, how to mingle; he is like a fish out of water. I think I like him so much (as a friend) because he is utterly free of pretension: all the more reason why Megan's party is the last place I'd expect him to be.
Cheering breaks me out of my thoughts. Megan has spun the bottle – I suppose it makes sense she would be the first to do so – and I find myself hypnotized by its blurring spiral, and the fire glinting madly in a thousand directions from its glass surface. The rotation slows, and finally stops. To my surprise, it points at none other than Mark; he looks as pleased as punch, and as though he had been expecting this very turn of events, gets immediately to his feet and walks to the center of the circle. Megan is already there, and with no hesitation, they close eyes and lock lips. He draws her to him, and they kiss eagerly, with no lack of passion. I see his hands roaming gently over her back, and hers on his. After an exceptionally long period of time, they break apart, staring deep into one another's eyes. They walk rather unsteadily back to their places. Mark cannot conceal the smile on his face. I can't honestly say I'm surprised. Megan is beautiful enough, and Mark is a lucky man for that kiss. And yet his eyes have a glint that tells a story beyond that; I suspect this is not the first time they have been so engaged.
Megan quiets the laughter and applause with a raised hand. "Having thus opened the ceremonies, I propose that we let the whims of fate determine how the night shall now progress. I will commence to spin the bottle again, and whomsoever it lands on will then spin to find love's true kiss." The girl and boy sitting immediately to the sides of Megan look nonplussed at this remark – I suppose they hoped they would go next. She spins heedless of their dirty looks and the bottle finds its target in Irene, Tad's sister. Megan rolls it across the circle, and it is Irene's turn.
She spins the bottle, and while it inches to a stop, I feel a momentary pang of empathy for her. She is openly a lesbian, and I can't imagine she will relish having to kiss some random boy just because a bottle tells her to. The bottle comes to a halt, pointing at a gorgeous blonde girl who I don't know. Redo, I think. But Irene makes no move to respin; rather, she casually stands up and saunters over to the circle's center. I almost don't believe this is happening. Nothing in middle school games ever hinted at the existence of homosexuality. The blonde girl looks around, rather confused. She doesn't seem to know what to do. Her friends seated next to her jab her and gesture with much laughter; finally, smiling sheepishly, she gets up and walks over to Irene. There is a moment of hesitation, and then the blonde girl leans in and kisses Irene, not deeply, but sweetly. Irene places her hands on the girl's hips, and the girl replies in kind. Considering the girl hardly seemed enthusiastic about the whole thing, the kiss sure goes on for a long time. Finally, they separate and find their places. Irene looks smug; the girl has a rather distant look on her face, and more color in her cheeks than before.
All around, people are cheering. I look around for any sign of disgust, but if anyone was bothered by the proceedings, they are certainly hiding it well. On most faces people smile and laugh good-naturedly. These are drama kids, I remind myself. Perhaps I should have gotten involved in drama at some point. Then, I look at the clothes all the kids are wearing, and remember why I didn't.
Irene spins a second time, and when Tad is chosen, howls with laughter. His face goes ashen. The bottle, sent by his sister, clinks against his shoe; he hardly seems to notice. I feel his terror even from the other side of the circle.
"Come on, baby butt," yells Irene. He scowls at her and spins the bottle with a particularly hard twist. This is to demonstrate his courage, I can see at once. I can't imagine why Tad came to the circle in the first place. His first love is the woods and the animals; I don't think I've ever heard him talking about girls. Even in normal social situations he is awkward. The bottle spins on madly, like a flaming baton with the light from the fireplace. He shouldn't be so concerned, though. Tad is quite attractive, in a tall, thin way; he moves slowly, and pauses before he speaks, like something ancient and wise. I wonder if so much time spent among trees has carved him to resemble them. The bottle spins on, slowing. Then it stops.
On me.
Final Comment: Sorry to leave on such a cliffhanger, but when the road calls... And a final note, which I add with much guilt at the sleaziness of such a remark, but nevertheless this is how I feel. I would consider writing some more chapters of BOS, but only if I got some requests for it. This sounds (to my ears as well) like shameless pandering for appreciation, but the fact is, BOS has just lost interest to me; however, if there are those out there who find something like inspiration in it, maybe even hope, and hate to leave without resolution, let me know, and maybe I'll see my way back to my poor, lovelorn hero. XfragmentofanangelX@hotmail.com. Take care, everyone.