unbeta'd and written in three hours. that's how i do it, baby.
"Is this yours?" A voice asks from before me, reaching down to pick up the ping-pong ball loitering by his Sperry's.
By the time he's risen up from his bent position, I've placed a name to the voice: it's Nate. Nate from one of my GE classes. As in Nate whose tardies have disrupted lecture thrice now, and counting.
His question elicits a pause in conversation, turning heads to our direction. His friends are silent, watching us, and it doesn't take much to detect the judgment in their stares. I've intruded on their circle.
I don't say anything, choosing instead to grab the ball from his outstretched palm.
It's sticky. And wet. I can't help my grimace.
"You're lucky that didn't roll in yack." Nate grins, amused by my disgust.
"Feels like it did," I tell him.
"Nah," He steals the dirty plastic back, casually making a show of rolling it around in his palm as if to test it. "Probably ran through some jungle juice. Nothing too major. Just rinse it in the sink and you'll be good to go, Young."
He deftly passes the ball back to me, but I don't notice. The easy slip of my name staggers me, and my disgust is replaced by uninhibited surprise. How does he know my name?
Nate's blonde brows crinkle warily in response and I realize I've inquired aloud. He shrugs his shoulders with an ease so enviable; I feel the knots in my shoulder throb in protest. "Tessa Young, right? We're in the same group for the mid-term project."
Surprise shifts into recognition as smoothly as running water.
I have a project in my communications class. A project with Nate. Nate is the fourth member of our group.
"Nate." Another voice interrupts, his gruff pitch robbing me of my chance to respond and pulling Nate's attention back to his friends. They all don various looks of boredom and disinterest.
The one who spoke is a boy with piercings and tattoos, whose face twists in glaring irritation at how long our conversation's dragged on.
"We're leaving," he announces, his words emerging more as a demand than anything. "Now."
Nate rolls his blue eyes but hops off the table he's been perched on. "Chill out, Hardin."
"How can I?" That rude boy – Hardin, that name keeps popping up everywhere– snips. "Your boring-ass conversation is grating my fucking nerves."
It's such a stupid comment, one reminiscent of an impatient boy throwing a tantrum, but it pisses me off. I can't stop the affronted "Excuse me?" that follows instantaneously and somehow meshes with Nate's simultaneous "Shut the fuck up."
Hardin rolls his eyes at us and dismissingly turns his attention to the pink-hair girl pawing at his inked forearms incessantly. Whatever.
"I gotta dip, apparently." Nate tensions the last word, throwing a look of vexation to his friends but they're all ignoring us, by now. "See you in class though."
I barely get a goodbye in before the group shuffles out, heading straight towards the living room. An unwanted flare of awkwardness blossoms in my chest, as I contemplate on whether I should feel embarrassed or not, hovering alone by a mahogany table because the pseudo-leader of Nate's gang decided he just couldn't be in my presence for another second.
The social uncertainty and anxiety go as quickly as they came. By the time I release a deep exhale, Lillian appears in my line of vision.
"Tessa?" She calls out, lunging towards me from the doorframe connecting the kitchen to the dining room. "Where've you been? I've been looking everywhere for you. Robert's yacking!"
"Oh God," I groan, following her lead as she latches a loose grip on my wrist. "Is he okay?"
"I'm sure he's fine," Lillian says flippantly "He yacked out most of it, I think, and now he's resting on the couch. It's just gross as hell. We almost didn't make it to the trash can in time."
"Should I drive him back?"
"What? No." Pausing by a cabinet, she produces a spare cup that she fills with the tap water from the sink. I quickly douse the ping-pong ball in the cool water as well. "Let's just give him some water and see how he feels. It's too early to leave."
My watch shows it's 1am but I don't try to argue. WCU is infamous for their all-night ragers.
Just as Lillian said, Robert's slouching on a worn-leather couch, his eyes closed and limbs drunkenly sprawled, as Riley and Noah flank both of his sides. It is only when Lillian coos at him with her offer of water does he stir from his lifelessness. Graciously, he downs the tall glass in one gulp before fluttering back to closed eyes.
"Should we leave?" I ask again, just in case.
"Nah," Riley speaks up, shrugging her leather jacket off. It's 1am and yet there's still so many people swarming in. The house is packed. "He's going to rally. Just give him ten minutes."
I don't ask what 'rally' means but I'm comforted by Noah's toss of a thumbs up, all the same. Mollified, I squeeze myself in between Robert and Noah while Lillian rolls up a loose cushion to lounge on.
It's not long before we ease into the lull of partying, once more. After I produced the well-hunted ping-pong ball I had stuffed in my pocket for safe-keeping, another round of banter sprung between Riley and Lillian. Their shit-talking only ceased after I promised another game of Beer Pong to "settle the true winners," whatever that meant. I guess the two conveniently forgot our scoreboard of 7 to their 2.
The switch from discussing games to hook-ups happened in a blink of an eye, as Becca, from out of nowhere, fell woozily into Noah's lap. With her hair moussed, her make-up smudged, and her neck decorated with a series of bruises, it was easy to deduce where she'd been the last hour. Becca giggles like a school-girl at the attention, lapping up the way we all zero-in on her look.
Open as ever, it takes less than minute for Becca to spill on her dirty details. It is only when Noah blushes furiously and sputters clumsily when Becca lifts her hands to mimic the length, does the focus shift onto Noah.
"And what about you, Noah?" Lillian asks, bouncing on the edge of her seat. I know she's been dying to ask this since the moment we caught of a glimpse of it. "Who was that on the couch, earlier?"
"J-J-Just a classmate," his ears singe red like they used to when we were kids. I almost keel over in affection.
It probably would've been better for him to ignore the question altogether, given how all the girls immediately pounce on him with teases and quips. Myself included.
The teasing ceases when Riley, her reflexes incredibly honed, twists to grab at the spare bin by her feet and thrusts it to Robert's lips. I've only just blinked as Robert lurches from his pseudo-slumber to retch up the rest of his intoxication, his large hands instinctively gripping the metal bin tightly. I don't even register that Lilly's left to refill until I feel a glass of water pushed into my left hand. The other hand is too busy rubbing circles on Robert's back.
The acidic smell of vomit creeps into my nose and tears form as a result, brimming my bottom lashes and waiting for permission to stream. Fortunately, Robert finishes quickly, and Riley practically jumps out of her seat to toss the chunks.
"How are you feeling?" My voice is soft, and I hope it's not grating.
"Like shit," Robert replies, humorously. He sounds soberer than he has been for the last two hours.
"Do you need anything?" I ask as he sits himself up. There's color back in his cheeks and the flush of alcohol simmers as a pink hue. Both are good signs.
Robert licks his lip musingly and immediately grimaces at the taste of vomit. "A towel."
"Towel?" Becca repeats, whirling her head around. "I think I saw some upstairs. There's probably a towel closet. Want me to get it?"
"No, no," I stop her before she can get up from Noah's lap. Despite how coherent she is, I know she's still drunk. The last thing I want is for her to fall on the staircases. "I can get it. Just look after Robert and I'll be right back."
Lillian and Becca move to occupy mine and Riley's spots and I hover for another second before throwing myself into the crowd of people moving in and out of the house.
I have to circle the house twice before I make my way towards the stairs. There are too many people – people who are almost twice my size – forcing their ways to the center of the party and I serve as their collateral damage in their pursuit for the main living room. I wonder if this is what a mosh pit would feel like.
Thankfully, there are less people on the second floor.
A few are pressed on the walls, the opposing force a pair of lips and a body frame. Others lean on the railings, making chit-chat with their friends and greeting their red-cups every-so-often. And all the other party-goers are, I can only assume, occupying one of the many spare bedrooms.
I don't focus on that though, pointedly ignoring the thrums of moans vibrating the thin, white, chipped walls. I'm too focused on my hunt for towels and the blatant realization that I forgot to ask for specifics on where the closet was. All I have in front of me are rows of indistinguishable white doors. Rows and rows and rows.
God, how big was this frat?
Throwing caution to the wind, I stalk down the long hallway. Logically, the towel closet must be near the bathroom. If I can find the toilets then I'm bound to detect the closet.
I try the door at the end of the hallway.
And by the time I press open the door, regret engulfs me. Regret that I didn't take Becca's offer.
And now, regret that I've walked in on a couple going at it.
The thing that tops this is in the worst way possible is the pure mortification that shoots through me, a horrible reaction that flushes my chest and cements my feet in place. I can't move an inch and it's not for not trying.
Not when the girl's raspy moans penetrate my eardrums. Not when the boy's inky back tenses at the noise of intrusion. And not when the half-naked couple leaps for the long-forgotten comforter on the floor in an ill-attempt of privacy. I don't understand why my body has shut down; it's as if I'm waiting for them to explode on me.
"What the fuck—" the guy roars, whipping around to face me.
The apology trembling on my lips dies as I recognize him as Hardin. Nate's Hardin.
Oh God, this is worse than I thought.
And of course, the real kicker is the head that pops up from behind him, silky locks of brunette hair that I recognize instantaneously. I see strands of it every day in our dorm.
Samantha.
Samantha and Hardin.
Sammie's eyes match mine, wide with shock and straining with mortification. In the moment, I don't understand why she looks at me like that, when I am the one who barged in, unannounced. But later, when the adrenaline dies and logic creeps in, I remember our conversation that started this night: Zed. Her something of a boyfriend Zed. Zed in Florida. Samantha with Hardin while Zed is in Florida. That is a lot to process.
What isn't a lot to process, however, is the way I scramble out the room as Hardin begins a slew of threats and curses. I forgo the apology and instead hone all my energy on dashing away as far as possible from the couple.
The hallway that felt so long earlier is exited in less than a minute, courtesy of my heavy-breathing sprinting. And the staircase that was obnoxiously blocked by unmoving people seem to clear itself as I push unapologetically through the hordes.
I don't stop running until I've exited the house, my embarrassment and humiliation propelling me to neglect returning to my friends. It's only the sight of my car, parked innocently on the driveway, that halts me.
"What the fuck—"
I freeze, irrationally thinking it's Hardin. It's not. The shriek is feminine. Distinctively female and sounding distressingly alarmed.
There's more yelling that follows, a mixture of the same feminine voice with bleedings of a drunken, slurred, male bellow. Curses and profanities fill the air, as the two voices clamber over each other, never letting the other finish their thoughts. The escalation of tension and anger remind me of my parents and that's the sole reason why I step towards the commotion.
"Fuck you Dan! And fuck your sister! You fucking—"
"Don't talk about my sister, you bitch—"
"I hope you both rot in hell—"
It's coming from the side of the house, in the alley with the big trash and recycling containers. I approach cautiously, slow and hesitant, unsure if it's my place to step in. I can't see them, the couple to shrouded by darkness and covered by the containers to be visible. It's only when I hear the tall-tale noise of a glass bottle shattering and the horrified screech (feminine, feminine, feminine) that follows, do my uncertain steps propel into hurried strides. Stumbling into the alley was irresponsible and reckless and I paid for that mistake with the two trippings I suffered through to get to the volatile couple. But it's all worth it to see the relief on the girl's face.
"Who the hell are you?" The boy slurs, staggering a bit. His eyes are glazed, his mouth drooling, and he holds a half-broken bottle of alcohol in his hands, the sharp glass pointing threatingly towards the pink-hair girl who is sprawled on the floor. I feel my heart break as I take in the fearful way she's inching as far away as possible from the drunken boy, her back pressed tightly against the side of the trash container. This is a scene I'm all too familiar with.
With a bravado I don't truly possess, I say slowly, "Put…the bottle…down."
"I swear to fucking God, Dan…" the girl anxiously mutters but quickly shushes as I throw her a sharp look. His attention isn't on her anymore and it needs to stay that way.
Dan sways uncontrollably and scrunches his face in perplexity. The confusion increases as he looks from me to the bottle he's holding. It's like he didn't realize he had a weapon in his possession.
He opens his mouth to slur a retort, but I beat him to it. "Put. It. Down."
A pause again, the silence is deafening between the three of us as we wait for Dan's next move.
Just as I think he's going to comply, his anger takes over and he starts to point the broken bottle towards me.
But he's drunk and too slow and he's not as frightening as my dad is on his meekest nights.
So I whip out my phone in warning before Dan could do anything. "I will call the police if you don't put it down, right now."
I hear a sharp intake of breath and I wonder whose it was.
Just to make a point, I slide my phone open and dial 9-1-1. "Put it down, Dan."
"Just fucking put it down, Dan!" The pink-hair girl screams, apprehension and panic whirling in her tone. She's frightened for me.
I'm not sure what it was – perhaps my phone or my use of this stranger's name or even the pink-hair girl's plead – but Dan tosses the bottle away from him. It crashes into other glasses that are littered around and the sound of breaking glass invites a flinch from me. By the time I've recovered from it, Dan is staggering past me, his bulky frame slamming my shoulders painfully as he moves to exit the claustrophobic alley. I hear a distinct "Fuck you!" bellowed into the silent night, the only thing interrupting the humming of music coming from the house, but I'm way too occupied with helping the girl up from her fetal position to pay any heed.
"Are you alright?" I ask the same question I asked Robert earlier.
Distraught and uncomfortable, the pink-hair girl pushes my hands away from her, choosing instead to grab the trash container to stabilize herself into standing upright.
"Don't touch me," she said, but the heat behind her words are lacking. It is only now am I able to distinguish her as the girl from Nate's circle, earlier. Another one of Nate's friends.
"You're bleeding," I point to my own cheeks to show her where the blood flow is, deliberately keeping my hands to myself.
She touches the spots and scowl darkly. "Fucking got glass shards on my face."
"Do you need to go to the hospital?" I ask, scrunching the hem of my dress anxiously. I could take her, of course, but the driveway is packed to the brim and someone has parked tandem behind my car. There's no way I'd be able to find the driver easily.
"No," She declines gruffly, the annoyance in her tone reminding me of Hardin. I frown at the thought.
"What about the bathroom? I have some rubbing alcohol in my car – I can help take those out." I offer.
"Not interested." She replies, moving to grab her bag off the floor. I'm about to offer to take her bag for her but she begins to slip out of the alley before I get the chance. And just like that, as we step out of the darkened area and into the dimmed-lighted front yard of the frat house, I see her shed all of her previous terrors. What is left, instead, is the confident girl that I caught a glimpse of earlier this night. Without another word, she walks back into the party.
And once again, I'm alone in the front yard.
Still reeling from these recent events, I pull out my phone, hoping for a distraction. It's now 1:50am.
4 missed calls from Noah.
2 missed calls from Riley.
1 missed call from Sam.
I feel disturbingly sobered, despite not drinking a sip of alcohol, and I know it's time to go home.
With that in mind, I head back into the frat house, ready to go round up my friends and hunt down a spare towel (perhaps the kitchen might have one?).