I blame my parents for many of my adulthood ineptitudes.
I won't bore you with the list, but I didn't see the inside of a single party throughout junior high and high school. Then when I got to college, there was the issue of having to keep myself on the up and up.
Teachers aren't humans you see. They don't party, have sex, or dress in anything other than the most respectable of clothes. My social media had to be squeaky clean, so in the interest of not being fired someday, avoiding parties became the norm.
It was no secret that Aaliyah was a socialite. She ran her twitter empire with a gusto that, if turned to more academic pursuits, could have cured cancer or something like that. Going to one of her parties was a surefire way to get incriminating photos of myself onto the internet. And once it's on the internet... it's never coming down.
That's how I found myself at home, scooping a bowl of ice cream as I prepared to read the next book in the stack that littered my new trailer. The ice cream: a mix of chocolate panda paws, espresso chip, and plain old vanilla. The book: The Green Mile by Stephen King.
Bowl in hand, I plopped down into my mushroom chair, carefully arranging my Star Wars fleece blanket over me, and wishing for the thousandth time that I had a fireplace. Only this time, the wish was accompanied by a lovely burning sensation, and I shook my head, attempting to dislodge what few memories I had of the accident. The phantom pain subsided after a moment, and I decided then that the fireplace could probably wait.
With a bit of tweaking I managed to find the absolute perfect position in my mushroom chair, which, of course, meant that something was about to happen and I'd have to move.
There was a knock on the door, and I groaned, mentally cursing the person responsible for Murphy's Law.
"One minute!" I called, allowing displeasure to color my voice.
To further paint a mind picture of my frustration in the head of my guest, I stomped over to the door and flung it open.
And suddenly the ice cream was forgotten.
"Kyra! It's good to see you! How'd you find me?"
She snorted, "You parked right next to your old trailer. It wasn't hard."
"Right... well, would you like to come in?"
I motioned Kyra to the mushroom chair, and sat myself in the only other seat currently available in the trailer: an old blue folding chair. Aaliyah hadn't scheduled our furniture trip yet, and wouldn't let me go without her, so I had to make do.
"Not going to the party?"
"No, it's not really my scene. Did Aaliyah invite you?"
Kyra waved a hand, "Oh god, no. And before you ask, I found out from her instagram. And her twitter. And her-"
"I think I get it," I chuckled. "A bit surprised you follow her though."
"Surprised? Or jealous?" Kyra asked, winking. "Don't worry, it's not by choice. She wouldn't let our meeting end until I subscribed."
I cocked my head at that. "Your meeting?'
"She seems... threatened by me? Maybe that's not the word. She's suspicious? I don't know. We talked last night. You'd have thought I was a burger for how much she was grilling me."
When I realized my fists were clenched I immediately flexed my fingers, trying to play the whole thing off as a deliberate action that a normal person would do. A normal person who wasn't mad at his meddlesome co-actress.
"Well," I said, trying to reweave the threads of conversation, "Um. You're not at the party either. Considering you work for me, you'd probably be welcome."
Kyra cocked her head. "What about the other girl? The one they showed on heave Studio Drama?"
A blink. "She is?"
"She is now. I hire my assistants, not Aaliyah."
I fished my phone out of my pocket and began clicking away, earning a snort from Kyra. With sarcasm thick enough to be a choking hazard she said, "Firing a girl over text? Classy Aaron. Classy."
"I'm not firing her over text," I said, scowling over my shoulder. "I'm scheduling a meeting over text."
"And the purpose of this meeting?"
"To fire her."
Kyra laughed, and in that moment I was so glad I had a trailer. The sound filled the entirety of the small space. The windows shivered, and I could feel her laughter traveling through the thin metal wall.
I blinked back to the present to see Kyra extracting her foot from what used to be my ice cream.
"Sorry for uh... ruining your night plans there. Looks like your date couldn't take the heat."
I blinked once. Twice. Then shook my head. "Well there's the door," I said, motioning, "take your puns with you."
Kyra gave a mock pout. "You'd throw a girl out with ice cream all over her foot? What will the media say?"
I rolled my eyes, "Ohh fine. Take the sock off, you can wash it in the sink. Is that cotton? Balls!"
Kyra's sticky sock, no longer on her foot, was now on my face instead. I peeled it off and let it fall to the floor, next to Kyra who was rolling back forth in in hysterics. So amused was she at her good aim, that she didn't notice me taking off my own sock.
"Aaron!" she shrieked, still flopping around, but now for an entirely different reason. "Get it out of my shirt!"
But I was too busy fumbling with my phone, taking a video that, despite my own professional reservations, was definitely going on the internet.