Status: Active. (Based on the novel by Laurie Halse Anderson.)
Twisted
Four
The Caines' house was what you'd expect: monstrously big and slightly tacky.
"It's gorgeous!" Mom said. "So tasteful. What a beautiful fountain."
Dad muttered something under his breath. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
Wisps of barbeque smoke and metal music drifted from the backyard. We came to a screeching halt as we rounded the corner of the house.
"Whoa." Aaron said.
Yeah.
A massive swimming pool, complete with hot tub and waterfall, took up a third of the yard and was ringed with a broad patio and burning tiki torches. A local metal band (Not Warrior, for once) was playing at the far end, close to the bar. Right in front of us were two tented pavillions, one for food and one filled with tables and chairs. A pig was roasting on a giant spit, and a good was slapping down hamburgers on a grill. Waiters buzzed around with trays of snack food, glasses of wine, and imported beer in dark bottles. The golf course (a Hampton Estates perk) stretched out beyond the horizon.
The place was packed: people standing, sitting eating, drinking, dancing, flirting, frowning, laughing, practicing pretend golf swings, pretending to play air guitar, and watching each other. It was mostly adults, but the hot tub was filled with half the football team and cheerleading squad, and a couple other kids from school were scattered around the patio. The rich kids, the really rich kids. You know what they look like.
Mom yanked Dad out of view. "How could you do this to me?" she hissed. "This isn't 'casual' and it absolutely is not potluck."
Dad frowned. "The memo said casual. Casual means potluck. Everybody knows that."
"Memo?" Mom's voice went up. "What memo? You said Marting invited you personally."
"Be quiet," Dad said. "Here comes Amanda."
Mom handed the pasta salad to Aaron, who turned and handed it to me.
"Get rid of it," Mom whispered.
I bent down and stuck the bowl behind a bush. When I stood up, Sean and his mom were talking to my parents. Sean was wearing blue denim khakis with a bullet belt secured just tight enough around to hold his jeans up and hang loosely at the same time, along with a black tank top with a band name scrawled on the front in white, devil font chicken-scratch (I think it was Daath) under a sleeveless denim jacket. Mrs. Caine was an older, thinner, female version of her son, with a tan that made her skin look like a tired leather sofa, and very large, very white teeth.
Mrs. Caine gave me the once-over. "My goodness, Elise," she said. "You used to be four-foot nothing and chubbier than a ball. You certainly have grown up."
"She's five-nine and one thirty-two," Mom said. "And growing taller every day, like a sunflower!"
Aaron snorted.
"Ah," I said, cringing. "Ha."
Dad tapped his foot and waited a suave two seconds before he blurted out, "So, where's Martin?"
---
"It's gorgeous!" Mom said. "So tasteful. What a beautiful fountain."
Dad muttered something under his breath. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
Wisps of barbeque smoke and metal music drifted from the backyard. We came to a screeching halt as we rounded the corner of the house.
"Whoa." Aaron said.
Yeah.
A massive swimming pool, complete with hot tub and waterfall, took up a third of the yard and was ringed with a broad patio and burning tiki torches. A local metal band (Not Warrior, for once) was playing at the far end, close to the bar. Right in front of us were two tented pavillions, one for food and one filled with tables and chairs. A pig was roasting on a giant spit, and a good was slapping down hamburgers on a grill. Waiters buzzed around with trays of snack food, glasses of wine, and imported beer in dark bottles. The golf course (a Hampton Estates perk) stretched out beyond the horizon.
The place was packed: people standing, sitting eating, drinking, dancing, flirting, frowning, laughing, practicing pretend golf swings, pretending to play air guitar, and watching each other. It was mostly adults, but the hot tub was filled with half the football team and cheerleading squad, and a couple other kids from school were scattered around the patio. The rich kids, the really rich kids. You know what they look like.
Mom yanked Dad out of view. "How could you do this to me?" she hissed. "This isn't 'casual' and it absolutely is not potluck."
Dad frowned. "The memo said casual. Casual means potluck. Everybody knows that."
"Memo?" Mom's voice went up. "What memo? You said Marting invited you personally."
"Be quiet," Dad said. "Here comes Amanda."
Mom handed the pasta salad to Aaron, who turned and handed it to me.
"Get rid of it," Mom whispered.
I bent down and stuck the bowl behind a bush. When I stood up, Sean and his mom were talking to my parents. Sean was wearing blue denim khakis with a bullet belt secured just tight enough around to hold his jeans up and hang loosely at the same time, along with a black tank top with a band name scrawled on the front in white, devil font chicken-scratch (I think it was Daath) under a sleeveless denim jacket. Mrs. Caine was an older, thinner, female version of her son, with a tan that made her skin look like a tired leather sofa, and very large, very white teeth.
Mrs. Caine gave me the once-over. "My goodness, Elise," she said. "You used to be four-foot nothing and chubbier than a ball. You certainly have grown up."
"She's five-nine and one thirty-two," Mom said. "And growing taller every day, like a sunflower!"
Aaron snorted.
"Ah," I said, cringing. "Ha."
Dad tapped his foot and waited a suave two seconds before he blurted out, "So, where's Martin?"
---
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