Deep Fried Love by Dixie Fried   Life of the Party

 

I was fifteen. I was fifteen and had a curfew hours earlier than anyone I knew. Plus, my mother bought my clothes at Sears. One more nail in my coffin and I would be destined for the nunnery. So it was with extreme anticipation that I waited for Saturday night. I was invited to my first "cool" party by my friend Jason.

Jason wasn’t popular, but he soon realized that since his father worked every night, he could buy the friendship of the cool kids—even they needed a place to hang out. This would be the first in a long line of parties at his house. I heard that everyone was going: the boys that hung out at the Italian ice stand, Rocco’s Pizza, and even the boys that hung out on St. Callistus’s steps. Of course, all the popular girls that had 25 pairs of jeans each would be there, too.

As the week dragged on, I tried on everything in my closet five times. Half of my wardrobe consisted of hand-me-downs, which contributed to my panic attacks. I asked my sister with tears in my eyes if I could borrow something of hers. "Pleeeeaaseee? No one wears tuxedo shirts any more! I’ll look like the biggest jerk!!!" Exasperated, she let me borrow a black minidress to shut me up.

I planned everything. From the perfume I would steal from my sister’s dresser to the five-dollar hoop earrings I bought, everything was ready. I realized that this party was a test. If I failed, I would be shunned for the rest of my teenage years.

I arrived at the party earlier than everyone else. After changing my clothes in Jason’s bathroom—I wouldn’t have been allowed to go out in that dress—I poured my first beer. Jason’s friend, The Older Guy, bought three kegs for the party. I couldn’t figure out why The Older Guy hung around younger kids. We never had a problem getting booze, though.

Although I was discovering how great smoking Kent butts out of my father’s ashtray was, I hardly drank at this point. I was only fifteen, and the only alcohol I’d ever tasted was the daily glass of wine at dinner (mixed with 7-Up, of all things). The bowls of chips and pretzels were on the coffee table and loud music was blaring.

Slowly, almost every teenager in the neighborhood showed up. The Cadillacs and the Irocs were parked up and down the street. (It was an Italian neighborhood.)

I sat on the couch staring at people’s legs, only getting up to refill my cup of beer. I was loosening up and even felt a sense of false confidence. I liked beer!

After awhile, I found myself talking to some boys; they all had short dark hair and too much gold on. I developed an instant crush on a boy named Gabe. "Yo, how come we never seen ya around here before?" he asked me. "M-my parents are strict." Someone had a beer funnel, and he teased me, "I bet you can’t do one!"

"Sure I can!" the Budweiser inside of me said. I drank a whole beer in eight seconds flat as the whole room cheered me on. I was the greatest. "Another! Another!" they chanted.

I did another in 8.5 seconds. "I haf to go to the bafroom," I slurred and I made my way up the stairs. Couples were entwined everywhere. I turned red watching hands grab the asses of the popular girls.

When I was walking back down the stairs, I realized I was going to be sick. Really sick. I couldn’t let these people see me throw up! It would destroy my newfound popularity. With each step down, everything became more and more blurred. All of the conversations were distant and echoed and the bass on the stereo became louder. I made my way outside into the yard by feeling the furniture like I’d suddenly gone blind. I stumbled out, trying to be cool and collected until I was out of sight. It was raining steadily for a summer night, but I couldn’t go back inside. The rain felt good against my green skin. I found a bush around the side of the house and crouched down behind it. As soon as I positioned my head against a branch, I got sick. When I was through I felt even worse. A few minutes later, I got sick again. I was kneeling in mud and the rain was beating down on me.

The front door of the house opened, and Gabe came outside. I was sure he didn’t see me because it was dark and the bush was big. He unzipped his pants and pissed against the side of the house. I sat there staring at his penis, with my head against a branch, eyes slit, mouth half open. Either there were too many girls going to the bathroom or one of the popular couples made the bathroom a make-out lounge. After Gabe went inside, another boy came out and did the same thing. Then another, and another and another. Each of them urinated against the house and I saw all of their penises. One after another. I was being a voyeur by default. I was paralyzed, getting sick every fifteen minutes or so, although I managed to do most of it between the bathroom runs. I was glad each of them were choosing to piss against the house and not further down in the bushes. I was so embarrassed by what I saw. By the end of the night, there must’ve been five gallons of urine on Jason’s house.

After what seemed an eternity, I managed to stand up. I had mud all over my sister’s dress and my legs. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t go back inside with mud all over myself. How was I going to get home?

As I panicked, the Older Guy came outside and I asked him if he could drive me home. "What the hell happened to you?"

He was one of the penises I saw. "Oh, I-I took a walk to clear my head."

He gave me the once over and sarcastically said, "Yeah, right. C’mon." I sighed and got in his Camaro. As we were nearing my house, I felt a hand on my leg and saw a toothy grin. I suddenly realized why he hung out with the younger crowd.