Life of the Party

by Christine Anderson

  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 of our tips on booze and cocaine and cigarettes and weed and whatever else we wanted to do that night. Most nights Grey and Zack and Alex would come over after band practice and party with us until the wee hours of the morning. We all got so drunk and high that most times we just passed out wherever we happened to be sitting.

  Charlie and Grey and I all worked the evening shift full time at the restaurant. Work was a ton of fun with all three of us together, but even then I’d count down the hours until we were free to go home and start the party all over again. There seemed to be no end to my energy. I’d stay up every night until four or five in the morning, wake up about eleven, do some cocaine, get ready for work, work from about four until ten, and then get wasted the rest of the night. It was awesome—I couldn’t get enough of it, I loved hanging out with my friends.

  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 come watch them at the club, crazily high on E or drunk and high on cocaine or stoned on weed or mushrooms, whatever we had on hand, whatever would totally fuck us up. 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.

  Sunday, as per the promise to my mother, I would drag my tired, bedraggled, sick, hung over ass to my parents’ house for dinner. Most of the time I was still drunk and high from the night before, and I would sit at the table as I came down, pushing the food around on my plate as the substance leaked slowly from my system. I must’ve smelt terrible, and I certainly didn’t add much to the conversation—grunting for most my answers and groaning for the others. I wondered if my 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 by my actions and my choices. But she still couldn’t stop me, none of them could. Dad ignored me for the most part, and though Marcy and Greg acted shocked, they seemed to enjoy my total lack of propriety. I think it made them feel good to “tsk tsk” about me behind my back.

  I didn’t care what they thought, not in the least. I was having the best time of my life, just like I had hoped. We were having one of the hottest summers on record that year too, as if even Mother Nature was smiling on me. Nearly everyday was the same bright hot sun in the clear blue sky. Charlie and I spent every possible moment we could in skimpy little bikinis, sun tanning in the backyard and reading magazines and talking and laughing, stretched out on loungers and enjoying the heated quiet of the lazy summer afternoons, smelling the fresh cut grass from the gentle whir of neighbouring lawn mowers.

  Amidst the utter perfection, there was only one thing in the whole world that could have made my summer even better. Something that I wanted desperately, but for some reason, hadn’t happened.

  Grey and I hadn’t had sex yet.

  I tried not to let it bother me. I mean, we made out practically every chance we got, 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. My total lack of experience mixed with just a dash of insecurity and made it nearly impossible for me to broach the subject with him. So I fretted to myself, 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 every time he stopped us was that he didn’t feel the same way.

  “Mac! Mackenzie!” Marcy’s impatient voice jolted me from my wayward thoughts. I shook my head and returned to the present.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you even awake?” Her dark eyes glared at me. “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 tri-fold mirrors, each reflecting back a picture of total elegance and beauty. The dressmaker was pinning and pulling at the vast layers of gauzy white fabric as she hemmed up the bustle. The wedding gown Marcy wore was gorgeous; satin encrusted with jewels and embroidery in the typical princess cut, the skirt about four times wider than Marcy was, the train about four times longer.

  Mom stood by, glaring at me with blatant disapproval. Her lips were thin, pursed so tightly that they matched the color of her face. That was another one of her signs, like the nose flare. She was not happy with me.

  “Wow, Marce. You look great.” I smiled woodenly and nodded. Mom shook her head at me, clearly not impressed with my response, but as 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 beamed as she looked at herself in the mirror. Her dark eyes met my mother’s and they shared a happy, teary smile

  That was about the time I felt the need to excuse myself again.

  When Marcy’s alterations were finally finished, we bridesmaids were next. 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 had wanted for my grad. It was cut in the same style as Marcy’s wedding dress, with a tight fitting bodice and a knee length, poufy skirt. If the skirt had been but 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 went to stand before the tri-fold mirror as well, 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.” She frowned.

  “Typical first year college student,” Whitney laughed, stepping out of the change room behind me in her tutu. “They can’t ever afford anything to eat.”

  Whitney was probably just jealous. Her ass hadn’t seen this side of a size four in years. “I’m actually not going to school this year.” I informed her.

  “Not at all?”

  “No.” I shook my head.

  “Are you kidding? That would cut into her constant drinking and partying, wouldn’t it Mac?” Marcy raised an eyebrow at me, her arms crossed. “It’s so cool to get wasted all the time, Whitney, didn’t you know that?”

  I looked up at my sister’s face in the mirror. She was obviously pissed at me—her dark eyes were flashing and she wore the same look my mother had all day, her face frowning with impatience and irritation. I shrugged at her.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Right, sure.” Marcy leaned back in her chair, glaring at me. It was silent for a moment, awkwardly so. Whitney and Marie looked at each other uncomfortably, like they didn’t quite know what to do. I could practically feel their heated stares boring into me, but I ignored them, staring at myself in the mirror like I was completely oblivious.

  My dress didn’t fit right anymore. I had lost a size over the last few months. The dressmaker pinned the fabric tight to my skin and I was amazed by how much extra material there was. I hadn’t realized I was losing weight. Really though, my diet was nothing but a hearty serving of drugs and alcohol, so I g
uess it made sense. I was just never really hungry—I mean, I still ate of course but it really took a backseat to other things. I liked my new size though, now I had really lost whatever might have been left of my baby fat.

  I looked up at my face. My cheekbones were more pronounced too—attractively so, my cheeks sunk in slightly from the lost weight. It was like I was seeing myself for the first time, or through someone else’s eyes or something. I saw long, slim legs; a firm butt and tiny waist; flat abs; a long, sleek torso; high, perky breasts and nicely toned arms. I gazed at myself with wonder. Maybe it was just the cocaine, but I felt beautiful. I looked beautiful. A surge of newfound confidence suddenly boosted my thoughts. I was beautiful. There was no way that Grey couldn’t want me. All I needed was a little self-confidence.

  Now, even more so, I couldn’t wait to get home.

  “So, how long do you think this will take?” I blurted foolishly, completely forgetting the plentiful resentment that already filled the room, emanating towards me from four pairs of narrowed, watchful eyes.

  Marcy stood from her chair. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mackenzie,” she spat, “am I cutting into your precious time? How thoughtless of me. I thought that maybe you could take a few minutes from yourself and focus on my wedding.” She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “But apparently that’s impossible. Don’t worry, though, we’ll have you home in plenty of time so you can go and drink yourself stupid!”

  She yelled the last part at me—which was very un-Marcy like—and then stormed off down the hallway. I watched her go in the mirror. Whitney and Marie followed after her, but not before shooting daggers at me with their glares. I turned and stared after them, wide-eyed with surprise.

  “What the hell is their problem?” I wondered. I couldn’t think of anything I’d done to deserve all this anger. I hadn’t made us late for the appointment or anything even though I’d only gotten like, three hours of sleep. And yes—maybe I was a little tired—and yes, maybe a little hung over—but really, weren’t they totally overreacting?

  “You are their problem.” Mom declared through narrowed eyes, her expression scorching with disappointment. “I can’t believe you. Seriously Mackenzie, what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. I’m not an idiot, okay? You look terrible all the time, and you have this awful attitude every time I see you. Dammit, Mackenzie, you can’t even sober up enough to be here for your sister. It’s her wedding, for God’s sake!”

  “I’m right here, mom.” My voice rose defensively as I turned to glare back at her. The dressmaker gave up all pretence of work and just sat back on her heels, listening to us, enjoying the drama as it ensued. I gave her a look.

  “I know you’re here, but you’re not here.” Mom scoffed. “I bet you’re still drunk from last night.”

  “No I’m not. Mom, come on. You were young once, I’m sure you did a little partying. Why is everyone making such a big deal about this?”

  “Partying on the weekends is one thing, but today is a Wednesday, and you knew we had this appointment.” Mom sighed, closing her eyes and rubbing her forehead with her hand. “Mackenzie …,” she shook her head, “maybe you should just go … sit in the car or something.”

  I blinked at her a moment, incredulous. “And why the hell should I do that?”

  “Because,” Mom was exasperated, her brown curls bouncing as she spoke. “You are doing your damndest to ruin this day for your sister.”

  “No I’m not—”

  “Mackenzie! Just go!” She demanded. “I don’t want you near me right now.”

  Her words shocked me. I stared at her defiantly a moment, but there was no apology in sight. “Fine.” I turned back to the mirror, my fists clenching angrily. I glowered down at the dressmaker. “Can you get this off of me now?”

  “Off?” She looked up at me in confusion.

  “Yes, off, off!” I pulled at the dress is frustration and pins popped off everywhere. She put up her hands to help me but I pushed them away, stalking past her off the stage and back into the dressing room, slamming the door shut behind me. I sat down on the little bench inside and leaned my head back against the wall. My veins were thrumming, my blood pounding with coke-rage.

  “I’m so sorry,” I could hear my mother apologizing to the dressmaker, “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “No, no, it’s fine …,” the lady answered in her thick Russian accent. I rested my head in my hands and took a deep breath in, trying to calm myself. She was embarrassed? They were the ones that totally ganged up on me, like I was a total loser or something. I felt like crying; I just couldn’t understand why everyone was being so mean. I hadn’t done anything wrong. So I partied a little bit, so what? I wasn’t hurting anybody. What was the matter with a little harmless fun?

  It was none of their business anyway, I decided. They could go screw themselves. I stood up then and took the pink tutu off, careful not to jab myself with the remaining pins. Then I put my clothes back on, noticing as I pulled my black tank top over my head that it did smell pretty bad, but I really didn’t care.

  Once I put myself back together and gathered my things, I stepped out of the change room to face my mother again. Calmer, more in control of myself. Marcy still hadn’t returned.

  “Here.” I handed the dressmaker my gown. “I’m sorry.” I hoped I hadn’t wrecked anything with my little fit.

  She nodded and took the pile of fabric from me. “It’s okay. I’ll make do.”

  I turned to my mom. “Can I have the keys?” I demanded, completely avoiding all contact with her as I did so. If I had my way, I wouldn’t have to speak to her ever again. She dropped the set into my outstretched hands and I turned to leave before she could say anything more. Grabbing my purse on the way out, I headed for the car and spent the rest of the day in exile.

  CHAPTER 31

  The day from hell was finally over. Mom dropped me off late in the evening after the quietest ride home in the history of the world. The tension in the car was almost tangible. The lights were on inside my house as we pulled up at the curb; loud music was pumping out, noisy laughter filtering through the open windows to meet us on the street. I was cheered by just the sight. Mom peered up at the apartment, a worried look on her face as I opened the door, totally prepared to leave her without even saying goodbye.

  “Mackenzie,” she stopped me just before I could. I didn’t answer, but sighed, turning to show that she had my attention. I’d been waiting for her to apologize all night.

  “Mackenzie,” she started again, “I need to tell you something.”

  I nodded for her to continue.

  “I talked to Marcy about it and she’s still willing to have you as a bridesmaid, but you have to promise to be sober. If you honestly can’t do that … then she’ll … she’ll find someone else.”

  My response was a blank stare. “Are you kidding me?”

  Mom shook her head.

  I could feel the anger building again. I let it escape in a hiss through my teeth. “You guys are unbelievable. When did I become this … this raging alcoholic to you? I party a little, yes, but I’m not a friggin’ idiot.”

  “Marcy just doesn’t want her wedding ruined—”

  “Heaven for-fucking-fend that precious Marcy ever be disappointed.” I got up out of the car. I felt so … betrayed by them, I couldn’t help but swear. I could feel my hands trembling. “You really think I’m capable of ruining her wedding? Thanks mom. Thanks for thinking so highly of me.”

  I think she was shocked by my reaction. Her face looked crushed. “Mackenzie—” she started.

  “Whatever.” I slammed the door before she could continue. I couldn’t stand to hear another word. Frantically I searched through my purse for my cigarettes, but my hands were shaking so badly that it proved impossible. Frustrated, I dumped the bag upside down and let its contents fall onto the withered grass clumped in our front yard.

  The headlights from mom’s car fell
on the pack when she backed up and pulled out. I picked them up and lit a smoke as her taillights bumped down the road before disappearing from sight. I couldn’t believe her. I couldn’t believe them.

  I toyed with the idea of backing out of the bridesmaid thing altogether, but somehow I knew I couldn’t do it. I knew that sometime, maybe years from now, I’d regret missing out on my only sisters wedding. At the moment though, I was just mad enough that even the thought of standing Marcy up made me feel better.

  I clawed through the grass until I found my cocaine, and sitting in the shadows of my front yard, brought the scoop to my nose, time and time again. In the cocaine-haze, mom and Marcy didn’t exist, the wedding didn’t exist, and being second didn’t exist. It was like a fog of bliss, enveloping me, cutting me off from the rest of the total BS. I lit a smoke off my first one and gave into the superman-like qualities of the drugs.

  With them, I could do anything, I could get through anything, survive anything. They were like my hero, my refuge. My saviour. I don’t know what I would’ve done without them.

  The urge to cry had been strong, so strong that my throat ached with the effort, but the cocaine swept it away, replacing it with the numbing, happy trembles that I had so grown to love. I let out a shaky sigh of relief and pure pleasure, and found that I was good again.

  After gathering most of my things from the grass, I headed slowly up the creaky old stairs. I knew that seeing my friends would make me feel even better, knew their exuberance would be contagious. Alex and Grey and Charlie and Zack were gathered around the counter playing a loud, rowdy game of quarters as I opened the door.

  “Hey, baby!” Charlie greeted me. “How was your day?”

  “Oh, you have no idea.” I managed a smile for her and set down my things. There was dead grass all over my jeans, I wiped at it absently. “Marcy’s got me wearing a tutu. Like, an actual tutu.”