Mikey Jefferson was known throughout the entire suburb for his outrageous parties. The police had learned not to care, the mothers learned to pull their little ones away from their hopscotch games before it was too dark and before the topless convertibles and heels started clicking down their pavements.
The music pounded through the walls so hard that it seemed as though it was the cause for the peeling paint, and not the five years of neglect due to sheer drunkenness and lethargy. The couches and armchairs were already filling up with teenagers and kids in their early twenties, hormones raging so violently that the music wasn’t the only thing being pounded into the walls. The floor was littered with empty cups and cigarette butts and the ceiling tripping with addicts. High up high. The sort of joke they had planned beforehand, in order to tell their children and grandchildren while describing their wild youths. They were frivolous in their speech, and lacked foresight when it came to their actions. But what the hell, eh? It was the 70’s, after all.
Frankie was always the centre of attention, telling stories, cracking jokes, or impressing a swaying audience with his classical guitar skills. The guitar wasn’t the only feminine object between his fingers, mind you. Frankie played those bubbly blondes and brunettes like songs on a No. 1 smash hit album, with his delicate talk and experienced hands, his soft, full lips and hair so black and thick that it was impossible not to run your hands through it while he dove at your neck like a hungry vampire.
It was the age of miniskirts and outrageous leggings, my favourite being a pair of bright red ones that Macy said brought out the colour of my hair. I realized later that she was lying, because my hair and those leggings were the exact same colour. But she was always a jealous little girl, insulting everyone around her to save her drowning spirits. But no one had the heart to tell her that the only way she could lift her spirits was if the spirits her father consumed every night before he shoved his fingers into her somehow managed to be laced with poison. But we’re all terrible friends that way, so it’s nobody’s fault, really.
Macy’s love interest, a boy with hair with more colours than the rainbow, convinced her to meet him on the roof of Mike Jeff’s house, and as thrilled and excited as she was, being a typical girl, she couldn’t possibly attend without a girlfriend at her side. So I tagged along, red leggings pulled up and hooped earrings in place [I took the earrings off later, after Macy complimented them], and it was ten to midnight when we rolled up to Mikey Jefferson’s house in Vibgyor’s jeep, Macy riding shotgun and myself in the back, legs neatly crossed, telling myself that they would stay that way until the last drop of alcohol left my body the next day, until I could think straight again.
I woke with the afternoon sun the next day, the stench of alcohol and vomit filling my nostrils, and something sticky and wet trickling down neck. Rubbing eye shit off my face, I was grateful to find that I had remembered how to have sex, and a boy’s face nuzzled into my neck, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, like the pathetic dog I assumed he was. But judging by the state of the room, I had sure been his bitch last night.