Narrator: Joshua Penningway
My half-gelled hair seems to have lost all its attention. Kieth’s sudden venereal outburst with Greg has stolen it. The two of them looked like playful puppies on the couch, pawing at each other. For once, I felt thankful towards Brent, for having that same disgusted expression on his face as I did, whilst others laughed and cheered at this show. Its most attentive audience being Michelle and Juliet, who after it had finished, look desolate whereas I sighed in relief.
The gayness isn’t what's bothering me; it's the shamelessness of it all. Not only of Kieth and Greg, but of these aimless teenagers that surround me. They're treating this ordinary living room decorated childishly with movie posters and crazy string, like it's some kind of sleazy night club at an abandoned building. Slapping each other’s ass, French kissing whoever came their way – all we needed was some alcohol and doses of ecstasy.
Brent's eyes are feasting on Michelle’s butt as it sways from side to side, somewhat violently. That manwhore. He only wants Leslie for the rumored, “brilliant sex”. I admit, being a virgin, I have no idea what brilliant sex feels like, but for some reason the idea of running my hands through her pink hair seems rather unappealing. I think I might laugh if I tried. Although her breasts look rather… full. If you get what I mean.
Leslie turns to look me and gestures me over to dance. I decline, but a slightly confused expression is cast upon her face – and it’s not at me. Instead a smiling Indian boy is walking towards her coolly and her face loosens up into a jocund and enthusiastic grin.
The two of them bump each other’s hips as a sort of greeting. I shake my head at Brent’s cluelessness of the seductive intentions of the new guy. I can see the new acquaintances lips moving, mumbling to each other; they are, sadly, out of earshot. But I notice the Indian guy’s gaze is unfaltering, never leaving hers and despite his laughter, his eyes are much too serious for my liking.
I suddenly realize how hot I am, my forehead coated with drops of perspiration; something my body does of nervousness. I should get something to drink and desist from observing. Watching these people who suddenly feel foreign to me is becoming unsettling.
As I walk towards the table with drinks I notice CJ, staring blankly into space. He’s sitting on the steps alone (despite first impressions, he does know how to party and his current disposition troubles me), with an untouched glass of Coke, slowly losing it's bubbles of gas.
His expression is clearly morose and he looks quite chapfallen. Something I can't help but to smirk at. Of all people, he should be the least emotionally distressed; he hasn’t got a girlfriend who’s hitting on another guy (or vice versa for that matter) or a brother who has just exhibited a highly sexual and gay act.
I walk over buoyantly, “Mr. Darcy, do you not dance?” My Elizabeth Bennett act never fails to entertain Junior.
He merely shakes his head in response and I sit down next to him somewhat concerned. He remains to look straight ahead, showing no acknowledgement of my presence. We keep silent, me trying my best to eliminate the piercing sounds of dance music that I suddenly feel a rush of anger at. My concentration suddenly invaded by a tearing CJ running up the stairs like a sissy. In front of me was a dumbfounded, Eurasian girl, who looked guiltily past the stairs. And so I conclude: this party is a tribulation for us all.