Parties.

I never cared much for parties, but when you're in high school, it's one of the ways to pass the time. Carmen and I are on our way to Shrau's family estate. I don't know Shrau Ansari well, except that her father is in the movie industry and that she plans to go to Penn State for the cheerleading program. The property sits near the slope of Paradise Cove in a neighbourhood filled with rich folks like most of high-end California.

Arriving at the party in Carmens BMW E28, Shrau's home crawls with people.

Carmen loves her car, so much so that she's named it Pelt Patty after her favourite character from the cartoon, Peanuts. The red, four-door sedan belonged to her father. It initially was left in San Juan with her paternal father, but Aunt Dahlìa had it shipped over for Carmen's eighteenth birthday at the end of April this year. It came in good condition, except for faulty brakes and an oil change.

She was emotional the day she got it. Having something that connected her tangibly to her father was a dream come true. She said so during an hour drive we had later. Immediately when things checked out for Pelt Patty, we drove Pasadena to Santa Ana and spent the day visiting various Disney parks.

Just me, her and her father's red BMW dream.

Considering the number of people at the house, I assume that most of my classmates (ex-classmates) only make up a small fraction of the people crammed into this place. I notice recognisable faces and not so recognisable ones, which shouldn't be a surprise since anyone at my school loves an excuse to party.

Following Carmen inside, she leads me to the kitchen like she's been here before, which she probably has since she parties more than I do.

"I need a drink. You think there's whiskey?"

I look at her incredulously, but she doesn't see me, so her burgundy curly hair gets it. She thought a new look for graduation day would be a good idea, but I haven't gotten used to the colour yet.

We find a spread of liquor bottles cornering a space on the kitchen island, along with various snacks. Removing a red solo cup from its pile and pouring herself a half cup of bourbon, she adds lemon juice and simple syrup she found at the bar station in the kitchen.

I wrinkle my nose at the whiskey in her hand, "I have no idea how you drink that."

She muses, "I love me a good whiskey sour. What will you have, a club soda or ginger ale?"

"I think...I'll take my usual."

She looks at me questionably, "your usual? You haven't had your usual since junior year."

Her words flash a memory of my ex-fuck buddy, Ren Wilkes, and me in bed. The thought sends a chill down my spine.

"I know, but we only graduate from high school once."

I may have had wine today, but on my paternal side, wine is treated as an everyday custom—so it doesn't count.

She chuckles, "I gotchu." She grabs a bottle of Cîroc and pours two ounces into my cup with ice, "more cranberry than vodka, right?"

I nod.

We take our drinks and manoeuvre past the living room, which has been converted into a dance space. If we thought inside was crowded, outside was even worse. A scene of high schoolers fills the infinity pool and the lounge chairs when we reach the backyard. The pool is surrounded by lush landscaping, and I can glimpse a panoramic ocean view. Without all these people in Shrau's backyard, it would be a perfect place for silence and contemplation.

Suddenly our names are called by Jackie, waving us down. I notice they're sporting a pixie bowl cut in ice blue.

I'm starting to feel left out of the coloured hair circle; maybe I should finally go for purple hair this summer because I've wanted to do so for quite a while.

Carmen smiles, skipping towards Jackie to peck them on the cheek before taking a seat between Jackie's legs.

Jackie (short for Jacqueline Lawan) and Carmen met freshman year; they had moved from Phuket City, Thailand and didn't know anyone, so we took them under our wings. When Jackie and Carmen became a couple, it wasn't much of a surprise since the two appeared to be crushing on each other from the beginning. They've been going strong for a long time, and I know college won't be any different.

It makes me happy to know that Carmen found love so young. Love is love, they say.

If only I could do the same.

Jackie teases me as soon as I reach them, "cool speech. How's the risk-taking coming along?"

"Was the speech that transparent?" I muse, sipping from my cup.

They both agree.

I sigh, taking a seat on the lounge chair, "risk-taking...who wants to go there?" I sourly state, taking a sip from my drink.

The cran-vodka is partially sweet but lightly burns as it goes down my throat.

"Maybe it will end sooner than you think," Jackie inconspicuously responds.

"Tell that to the two years they've been dating."

I can already feel the liquor working through my system as I lazily lay across the lounge chair.

"Well...I overheard that Livia cheated on him with someone recently. A few of the baseball guys were talking about it earlier."

I choke on the last gulp of my drink, "again? Are you fucking serious?"

Carmen goes to pat my back, but I motion to her that I'm fine.

"Shouldn't be a surprise. He loves his problematic woman. Hopefully, this time is a lesson to do better."

She winks knowingly at me; the girl is the best wingwoman.

"How recent?" I finally ask when my throat has succumbed to ease.

Jackie replies, "earlier tonight, I heard it when I arrived. She slept with someone in the upstairs bedrooms."

My eyes almost pop out of my head, "I have to find him before he kills her accomplice."

I scramble out of my seat, spilling some of my drink.

Carmen lazily waves me off, "you do that while I lay here."

"Carmen," I state exasperatingly.

"What?" she says innocently. "It's too much drama. I'll find you after he throws hands."

I shake my head and go in search of Damìan.

I realise looking for Damìan is like looking for a needle in a haystack because I don't know where he is. I find myself outside, finally making it to the other side of the house, where the basketball/tennis court is. I can hear the panting breaths of guys shooting hoops. It's dark outside except for the two court lights illuminating their game.

I analyse the faces of sweaty boys running around without their shirts off, but I'm disappointed not to see that Damìan is one of them.

Where the hell is he?

Before I head back upstairs, I hear my name called by one of the basketball players.

"Hey, Luena, are you here to play a game or be my number one fan?"

I inwardly groan, knowing that voice belongs to no other person than Ren Wilkes.

He pours water from his water bottle over his ash-brown bobbed hair and sweeps it back. Some women appreciate length on men, but for Ren, it doesn't work. Or at least it isn't attractive to me, but maybe that's my biased opinion since everything about him deters me.

My past with Wilkes is misery, which is ironic since I'm not much of a Stephen King fan, but Damìan is. He makes me watch his movies every Halloween, although the guy watches it year-round. I think we've seen 'The Shining' ten times by now.

Anyway, Ren may not murder bodies, but his false hope destroys the hearts of the girls he's involved with. I may not have been one of those nieve girls, but we dabbled junior year. It's safe to say that a relationship was never on the table, and I thought being with someone would take my mind off Damìan. However, I squandered my first time on Ren, who didn't deserve it, and my need for escapism from my love for Damìan was projected casually three more times with Ren—the fourth time I don't remember.

"Wilkes," I state with folded arms.

"Man. Can you believe high school is over? It's so fucking-unbelievable."

I respond blandly, "yeah, Wilkes."

"I can remember so much...it seems like yesterday I was pleasing you with my tongue," I wrinkle my nose at the comment. "You know, since we may never see each other again, how about one final night of action? For old time's sake."

He traces his wet pale fingers down my arm, the action sending a chill down my spine. I back away from him, suppressing the urge to throw what's left of my cran-vodka in his face.

"In your twisted dreams, Wilkes. Junior year will never repeat itself."

"Oh, come on. It'll be fun."

"Goodbye, Wilkes. Have a nice life,"

Leaving no room for a reply, I turn on my heels and beeline back the way I came.

Detouring through the kitchen, I hear chants coming from the living room. Of course, it wouldn't be a party without a brawl. My curiosity gets the best of me, so I push through the crowd only to be horrified by the scene before me.

I can hear a girl screaming, "stop it! Damie! You're going to kill him!" I recognise the voice to be Livia.

Damìan's seen punching a guy in the face, blood from the guy's face sputtering onto the floor beside him. I recognise him to be one of Damìan's baseball friends.

"Ìan! Stop," I demand.

I try pulling his muscular arm, but that only knocks me to the ground. I rub my hip, slightly aching from the impact. Damìan sights me on the floor and stops.

"You alright, Lulu?"

I nod, and he pulls me upright by the hand. Exhaling, he turns back to his punching bag.

"You're a real asshole, Sam," he points angrily at Sam, who cradles his nose.

"How could you do that to me?" He regards Livia disappointedly, who's whimpering silently, "twice?"

Sam grunts holding his nose painfully, "you fucking broke my nose!"

"If you're searching for an apology, you won't find one," he responds coldly.

Feeling bad for the guy, I hand him a handkerchief unfolded from my back pocket. Damìan shoots daggers at me, but I ignore him—he isn't the one bloody at the moment.

"We're over Liv. As of this moment, you're dead to me," he coldly states.

"I'm so sorry, Damie...but you must forgive me. I don't have any excuses—" she cries. Livia wraps her hand around his arm, but he jerks away.

I inwardly cringe at the nickname, Damie. I didn't like it the first time I heard it and still don't like it now.

"Forgive you?" He snickers. "Are you fucking serious?"

Shaking his head, he pushes angrily through the crowd, disappearing behind the bodies. I almost follow him, but Livia stops me.

"You won, Luena," she says distastefully.

"I won?" I ask with furrowed eyebrows. "I wasn't aware there was a competition. What exactly have I won?"

"Oh, please. Cut the bullshit. You think I don't know you're in love with Damìan. It's been evident since the first year we started dating. It's pathetic, really," she scowls.

The muscles in my body tense at her words, and I observe the crowd, wishing I were anywhere else.

I feign ignorance, "I don't know what you mean."

She rolls her eyes, "you can play dumb all you want, but let me tell you this," she flips her strawberry blonde hair over her tanned shoulders. "The fantasies that keep you up at night are mere fantasies. Don't think for one second he will ever love you after me because, in his eyes, you're just a pathetically annoying girl he got stuck with. He knows, sweetie, and he never cared."

Her patronising words hit me like a ton of bricks, and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to start tearing up at her words. Instead, I suddenly throw my drink on her white dress.

I smugly reply, "what, boyfriend? You mean the one you screwed over to fuck some jock?"

I point candidly at Sam, who has managed to find a seat, tilting his nose in the air with my handkerchief.

She gasps, "my dress, you bitch!" She screeches.

Her coffin nails lunge after my face, but I dodge quickly, causing her to trip to the ground where Sam's blood has taken residence.

"Ewww!" She shrieks.

I smirk at the drink stain on her dress, and the blood smudged on the side of it. Honestly, with all the red, it low-key looks like a re-adaptation of Carrie.

"Bitch," I retort, rolling my eyes.

Unconcerned, I quickly step over her body, unable to stomach one more minute in her presence. I never knew how satisfying it would feel to ruin Dior, and despite my apologies to John Galliano, it felt worth it. As I pass the beverage table, I grab a quarter bottle of Cîroc to down my sorrows.