Afterparty

by Ann Redisch Stampler

  My dad whispers, “Night, Ems,” to the pillows arranged under the covers of my uninhabited bed. The moral compass rotates toward the pillow where the longitude and latitude of where my head should be converge.

  I’m in the closet.

  The compass mocks, Night, Ems, watching me slide into the dark unknown. I’ve heard my dad say no a hundred times to the specific geography I plan to explore, the land of unchained kids doing their thing under the watchful eye of no one.

  But it always comes back to the unasked question: Dad, do you think if you let me out of your sight, I’m going to score some heroin, develop an incurable addiction, find myself a mini-mall, and curl up and die between two Dumpsters with a needle in my arm?

  If he were honest, he would say yes to that one.

  That stepping across the threshold of a party-lit tennis court can make a girl succumb to fatal carelessness. That the minute my kitten heels slide out the window and touch down in the wet grass, I’m lost.

  No. Just no.

  The compass says, Yeah, you just tell yourself that.

  But even in fairy tales, princesses climb out windows, shimmy down vines and dance all night in diamond shoes. Hot princes vault their castle walls and climb their hair, all to spring them from their parents’ lockdown hell.

  Seriously, if a fairy-tale princess had lived in a one-story Spanish house with a screenless bay window in the Hollywood Hills, would she have sat there pondering whether she should have a guilty conscience?

  I unlatch my window. It’s so fast. First I’m inside, and then I’m ankle-deep in a bed of impatiens, and my kitten heels have sunk into the planting soil.

  I leave my bag inside.

  The moral compass is re-energized: Could this be a message from your highly moral, totally non-functional conscience calling, Go Back? Hmmm? Well, is it?

  I ignore this. I’m an analyst’s kid. I was raised on this stuff, and I’m not climbing back through the window, peeling off my jeans, and retreating into bed.

  I grab the bag and streak across the lawn. Siobhan keeps texting: Where ru? RU still coming? U didn’t chicken out did u? Where the helllllllll r u???

  I silence my phone.

  Suddenly illuminated houses (no doubt with girl-sensitive motion detectors) signal my descent into civilization. Cats meow, dogs bark, and I imagine that somewhere along the way, there’s a chatty talking parrot that’s about to rat me out to his suspicious owner. By the time I reach the Strip, I’m convinced everyone my dad has ever met is, at this moment, driving down Sunset and speed-dialing him.

  Naturally, the Chateau Marmont is flanked by paparazzi. I think, Really bad plan. Why didn’t I go to the Standard? But the Chateau is the plan and I’m too wigged-out to cross the street.

  I ask one of the guys in the motor court if he could get me a cab. I wait for him to look me over—so much mascara my eyes threaten to seal closed, kitten heels slightly caked with mud—and go, “Who the hell are you?”

  But he doesn’t. He looks me over and gets me a cab.

  It’s on.

  • • •

  The streets near the top of Beverly Hills are pitch-black and empty.

  “You’re not going to regret this!” Siobhan says. She’s standing at the bottom of Roy Warner’s driveway, shivering in jeans and Nancy’s gold mesh top. She smiles into the taxi while I pay the driver. Cash isn’t a problem. My credit card might be confiscated, but I haven’t spent one cent of birthday money for sixteen years.

  She says, “Of course, you’re you, so you might a little.”

  “Are you sure this is okay? I don’t even know Roy Warner.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Her necklace catches light from the cab’s open door. “He’s so trashed, he wouldn’t recognize his sister. I mean, she’s here and he didn’t.”

  Roy Warner goes to Winston and this party seems like a better plan than staging my first adventure in normal teen life at a Latimer party where I could end up acting bizarre around people I know. Still, I’m shaking so hard, Roy’s driveway starts to resemble the trail up Mount Everest.

  “I want to throw up.”

  “Breathe,” Siobhan says. “Don’t geek out on me. Everyone will think you’re cool because you’re with me. Don’t blow it.”

  She pushes me up the driveway toward the house.

  “Roy’s parties suck,” she says. “It’s only stoners from Winston. You can throw up all you want.”

  By now, we are standing outside the front door, which is hanging open; there are fumes. I’m thinking, What was I thinking? How could this even vaguely be a good idea, there must be something seriously wrong with me.

  Siobhan pulls notebook paper folded into origami squares out of her bag.

  “Kiddie pool,” she says brightly. “I even brought the list. You’re going to drink a beer and take a reasonable number of hits on a joint and you’re going to hook up with a guy. A half hour from now, you’ll have three things checked off.”

  She sounds like a cheerful camp counselor explaining how much fun it’s going to be to rappel down a cliff when, to me, the whole idea of rappelling down a cliff has a lot in common with jumping off the cliff.

  “I’m hooking up with a random Winston stoner? Think again.”

  “He won’t even remember; they’re comatose. Some of them might be dead.”

  “I thought I was observing the first time.”

  “Noooo, you’re going to participant-observe, like a cool anthropologist participant-observing in the wilds. Like Jane Goodall if she got it on with apes.”

  There’s the sound of something crashing inside, and someone saying “Shit,” but not sounding that upset about whatever it was.

  “Do you ever worry something bad could happen?” (Because even Totally Bad Emma can’t get all the way away from the images of looming danger I’ve been raised to entertain.)

  In the yellow porch light, Siobhan’s pupils are so dilated, they fill her irises, and her lipstick is smudged. She does not look worried.

  “Sib, how much did you pregame? Want to wait out here for a minute?”

  “I’ve been here for a while,” she says. “I gamed. And now you need to game.”

  In the powder room off the front hall, there is a gold sink with faucets in the shape of scary swans, and wallpaper with flowers that look like Venus flytraps.

  Siobhan says, “Frightening, right? No wonder Roy gets loaded.”

  She spreads the list on the counter. “Oh, I might have updated it,” she says. “Don’t freak. ’Shrooms is a joke. I might have gotten carried away.”

  “Seriously? A threesome? And LSD?”

  “I was just having fun. Don’t be a baby.”

  “What did you do to my list? Where’s beer pong? Wait, a biker bar? Have you ever done any of this stuff?”

  “You have no sense of humor. Why would it be so bad if I had, anyway?”

  I am staring at this bucket list of bad high school behavior, starting with baby steps and working up to an assortment of sex acts in settings other than a bed.

  “Complete joke,” Siobhan says. “Look at the easy column. Check mark for passing a joint. You don’t even have to take a hit.”

  “I’m supposed to find Ecstasy, is that what this x is supposed to be?”

  We head down the massive hallway into a rec room where maybe thirty kids are sprawled on big, low couches. A couple of kids are playing pool in slow motion.

  The weird thing is, I knew Siobhan partied. My phone is full of little video reminders of how much fun she was having and I wasn’t. But her in Roy Warner’s rec room is not what I’d visualized. Not thirty glazed-over kids passing a joint around, too far gone to even hook up effectively.

  Siobhan leaves me sitting on the arm of a sofa and disappears into a knot of kids who might or might not be dancing. She comes back with a red cup in one hand and a joint in the other. She is completely gleeful.

  “Worst party ever. Even if you get très wasted and throw up on one of thes
e kids, tant pis! You could get your freak on here, and no one would look up.”

  “I don’t have a freak to get on. Can we go home now?”

  I wait thirty minutes with a frozen smile, holding a red cup of warm beer. Occasionally, I pass a joint to the guy next to me. In slow motion, he tries to nuzzle the left side of my face. I flick him away. It doesn’t even seem sexual. He just seems to have an unnatural interest in the taste of human skin. I wait until he tries to stick his tongue in my ear, not getting a single check mark except for passing the joint.

  Sib says, “All right. This one sucks. I just wanted to ease you into it, you know, kind of gradually.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “It’s going to work, all right?” Sib says. “We have a pact.”

  “You want to share my cab?”

  She says, “I’m giving it another hour. It can’t get worse.”

  I make the taxi drop me off at the Chateau and I climb the hill to home. Everything happens in reverse: the barking dogs, the stalking cats, the security lights triggered by me walking past, Mutt and Jeff going doggie-berserk.

  My house is dark and quiet, with no sign of the FBI or a canine search-and-rescue team or the entire juvenile division of the LAPD camped out in front. I push the window open, quietly, quietly, trying not to squash any more impatiens blooms than absolutely necessary to climb back into my room.

  I strip down as fast as I can, and put on the big tee I left under one of the many pillows lined up in the shape of me under the covers. When I pull out my phone to recharge it, Megan (who, when I told her the plan, was surprisingly entranced) is texting.

  Megan: Are you having fun yet?

  Me: Why are you up?

  Megan: Are you?

  Me: Parties suck. You have no idea how not fun. So not worth it.

  Me: Bunch of stoners too wasted to move.

  Megan: Cheer up. It can only get better.

  Maybe.

  And it was so easy. I’m not even close to being in extra trouble.

  Then there’s Siobhan’s text: Next week. On Mulholland.

  The time stamp says 3:00 a.m.

  Five hours later, I text back: Maybe.

  Siobhan: What took u so long?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I STUDY ALL DAY SUNDAY and I am completely good.

  But inside the good girl, sitting at the desk poring over excessively detailed history notes, is the kernel of a slightly different girl. The thing is, I can’t tell if the different girl is the bold fairy-tale princess who sneaks out and dances all night in diamond shoes (all right, didn’t dance, sat in a room full of comatose stoners), or if she’s Little Red Riding Hood, recklessly skipping through the woods (okay, Beverly Hills) just before the wolf eats her.

  I creep down the hall with the pot-scented laundry basket. I dump the entire contents of a bottle of Febreze into the wash with everything I wore to Roy’s in case my clothes reek. When the contraband phone vibrates with a text message, I dive back into my room.

  Siobhan: Say yes.

  Me: Busy being grounded.

  Siobhan: Unground yourself. U know you want to. Only this time we have to pregame together.

  Me:????

  Siobhan: Don’t panic. Not substances, hair. Nails. We’ll pick out your outfit.

  Siobhan: Not that same jacket.

  Me: Jacket just fell apart. I put it in the washer.

  Siobhan: Come on. I’ll put pink streaks in your hair.

  So, all right, I want pink streaks.

  I study some more. I outline two chapters of the truly awful AP European History book and email the fruits of my industrious guiltfest to Dylan.

  My dad is eating on the patio. Mutt and Jeff are circling the table, having figured out that we have better food at our house than they get at their house.

  I say, “May I come outside?”

  My dad pulls out the other chair. I am actually choked up. It would probably be better if I’d felt some shred of guilt last night so I wouldn’t be hit with it so hard right now.

  My dad is playing an ancient, scratchy recording of guys from Nova Scotia singing sad, monotonous folk songs. I do not complain. Instead, I get him more coffee.

  I plow through the most incomprehensible unit of French poetry I’ve ever seen, which is pretty damned incomprehensible given that I speak French. I take even more notes. For hours. I think, How reckless can I be, sitting at my desk making insanely perfect notes?

  The compass says, You’re kidding, right?

  My dad brings me a sandwich. I thank him like crazy. I do not act like a resentful person who is grounded until snow falls on the Hollywood sign. (Hint: Snow never falls on the Hollywood sign.)

  Megan texts: Are you okay? The secret is secret?

  Me: No lightning bolts. No toads. No boils. No killing of the firstborn child.

  Megan: You’re my hero. You didn’t get drunk right?

  Me: You sound like your mother

  Megan: Kill me now. I wish I had a magic portal.

  I am almost making it through the weekend. I think. When Dylan texts: You weren’t lying about notes with footnotes.

  First text since the cafeteria.

  It’s so much easier to pretend that nothing happened in writing without my voice, or face, or weird choppy breathing to give me away.

  Me: You’re welcome.

  Dylan: You’re thanked. OCD outline very handy. Amazed you have time for footnotes and bad parties.

  Me: Don’t remind me how bad. Wait. How do you even know?

  Dylan: Hard to picture you baked. Curled up with a joint outlining sidebars. Being entertained by Roy.

  Me: My household is devoid of joints and entertainment.

  Dylan: I cd come by with magic tricks.

  And your lips.

  Me: Hard to picture you pulling a bunny out of a top hat. Is that where you got this number?

  Because it’s Siobhan’s prepaid, the one I’m not supposed to have, the cheap untraceable kind that normal people don’t have.

  Dylan: Got it from your partner in crime.

  Me: Disappointing. I was hoping for a rabbit.

  Dylan: Maybe I should go for it. Beef up my resume for Georgetown.

  Me: I thought you didn’t care about such things.

  Dylan: Crap. Slacker image shot to hell by bunnies.

  Me: You must be one genius slacker to pass. You’re never there.

  Dylan: Excuse me Seed. I’m beating my bro’s GPA by .2 and he was top ten. Hell I cd be valedictorian if I’d off Arif and Mara. And maybe Lissi.

  Meaning that, basically, Dylan is getting better grades with my notes than I am. And is a lot more into school than I gave him credit for.

  He’s an ad for the benefits of constant cutting.

  My dad would so not like this. The best grades ever, yes; the sticking his thumb in Latimer’s eye while getting the best grades ever, no.

  My dad calls and I slide the phone under my pillow.

  I return to the home life of Emma the Good.

  I fold all my clean clothes before going to bed early. I get up in the morning. I eat a waffle. I look out at the ocean past Sunset, past Century City. As we drive down the hill, I read my notes for a French poetry quiz.

  Me: Do you get the French?

  Siobhan: Sorta.

  Me: OK first break outside the caf.

  Sib: It’s just a bunch of shit about Algeria.

  Me: I might need more details.

  Sib: OK but it’s stupid.

  My dad says, “Are you texting Siobhan from this car? You’re supposed to be using that phone for emergencies only.”

  (As of this morning, I have my actual phone back because he’s concerned that if there’s a natural disaster, I’ll need it when foraging for freeze-dried snack packs.)

  “It’s about French. See for yourself. Me: Do you get the French? Siobhan: Sorta. Me: OK first break outside the caf—”

  “Do you think that qualifies as an emergency?” The car s
lams to a stop in front of Latimer in urgent punctuation.

  “I thought the point was no recreational texting. This is far from recreational.”

  All I can think about is how ridiculous my life is, tap-dancing around texting my friend in preparation for a quiz on a French poem about the oppression of colonial Algeria in blank verse. How the ridiculousness of my life is what’s going on in this car, not how I’m pursuing happiness under the cover of night.

  Twenty-seven weeks to Afterparty.

  There’s not a chance in hell I’m bailing on this pact.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “NO WAY,” KIMMY SAYS TO me when I’m sitting with Siobhan in the caf on Monday. “You won’t come to my parties but you go to Warner’s?”

  Chelsea says, “Poor Emily. You should try to get yourself invited someplace a few steps up from Warner’s. Maybe a crack house.”

  Chelsea turns on her heel before I can deliver a comeback.

  Then Arif and Dylan stop at our table, presumably not to admire our so-called salads, studded with dried-out sprouts.

  Arif says, “I heard you ladies had an issue with your GPS.”

  “Please,” Siobhan says. “One L.A. party is as bad as the next.”

  Dylan sighs. “It hurts me to argue with anyone slamming L.A., but even here, Roy stands out.”

  I say, “Come on, it was bad, but it’s not like we caught leprosy. He didn’t have any problem drawing a crowd.”

  “Such as you two,” Dylan says.

  “Play nice,” Arif says. “And for the record, there were arrests last Christmas.”

  Dylan says, “Yeah, some stoner ran over a reindeer.”

  “It was a bush,” Arif says. “There were several bushes. Trimmed in the shape of reindeer. Very festive.”

  “There was a car-versus-reindeer-bush collision in Roy Warner’s front yard?”

  Three of us laugh. Siobhan walks away.

  “Why do you even talk to them?” she says when I catch up to her. “One more person messes with me about that freaking party, as if I couldn’t tell it was a loser party—”

  “They were trying to be helpful.”

  “You think that was helpful ? And Chelsea sneering at me was helpful ? Because, surprise, it wasn’t helpful. When we hit Mulholland on Saturday, we’ll see who’s helpful.”