Status: back in action
Town Limits
No. 1 Party Anthem
It’s strange, seeing them again. The straggly blue hair on Chad’s head has been shaved down to its roots, and is growing back a natural shade of brown. Amber has ditched the contacts she begged her parents for, replacing them with thick framed glasses that seem to engulf her thin face. And Paige has painted her lips a deep shade of red, which is something she’d never had the confidence to do before.
“It feels like it’s been forever,” Amber shouts over the loud music.
“Only five months,” I say in a light tone, despite the heavy feeling in my stomach. And twenty-six days.
Leaving doesn’t pause life, I’m beginning to realize. And after the initial excitement of my return, the What have you been up to?s and the Oh my god! You look so good!s, it grows awkward.
Every time I glance away and look back, I catch them staring, glassy eyes laden with apprehensiveness. Maybe they think that I shouldn’t be acting human. That it’s weird that I’m at a club, first night back in town. Maybe they’d be less concerned if I’d portrayed myself as broken.
There’s nothing to talk about anymore. We no longer share the mutual trials and tribulations of high school. We can’t gossip together because the things we used to gossip about are no longer important. We can’t cry together because the things we used to cry about are no longer aspects of our lives.
During those five months, everyone found a new common ground except for me. I left and the bonds that tied me to certain people began to wither away and I wasn’t around to replace them.
As a last resort, I down my double and grasp Chad’s wrist, yanking him onto the dance floor. We move in a way that friends normally don’t, our hips and stomachs and thighs sliding against each other, until I’m dragged deeper into the crowd by a different stranger.
That’s the nice thing about clubs like this. Everyone is new and everyone is a friend. We’re alone and together and breaking up and making up and losing and finding. It doesn’t matter if it’s been five minutes, an hour, or four months. It doesn’t matter that my mom is dead. We’re all too lost in our own emotions to care about anyone else’s.
***
Outside, I lean against a the brick wall, dropping my head back lightly against its surface. I’d needed to get some air after taking my fourth shot, bought for me by some boy who I don’t think I’ll ever see again. A film of sweat has settled on my skin, causing the cool air to cling to every curve of my body. Sparks of light still flash against the backs of my eyelids, remnants of the strobes inside the building.
“Hey, you gotta light?” Someone asks.
Opening my eyes, I notice that the person is balancing himself against the bricks with one hand, attempting to keep from stumbling over as he fishes through his pocket. His brow is dramatically furrowed in what seems to be frustration. I’ve never seen him, which is odd. Old Shore is so tiny with it’s three thousand people. If you don’t know a person by name, you’ve at least seen their face once or twice.
It’s a surprising question, nonetheless. The reputation that precedes me is one of prudishness. I’ve never been someone who is conservative, I just never had to opportunity to be wild while I was growing up. Before, no one would’ve even considered asking me for a lighter, even though I almost always carry one.
I pat my hips just for show, then pull out the plastic device, tossing it to him. He tries to catch it, but his reflexes are too slow and it hits hits his chest before falling to the ground. He frowns, and it is one of the cutest drunken boy frowns I have ever seen.
“Thanks,” He mutters around the cigarette wedged between his lips, and then moves to come stand beside me. His shoulder presses against mine and he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
I don’t respond, but just stay there, being washed over by the sound of cars rushing past, my eyes glued to nothing particular in the distance. Conscious only of the warmth in my left shoulder and the aroma of burning tobacco.
“I’m Liam,” he says.
“It feels like it’s been forever,” Amber shouts over the loud music.
“Only five months,” I say in a light tone, despite the heavy feeling in my stomach. And twenty-six days.
Leaving doesn’t pause life, I’m beginning to realize. And after the initial excitement of my return, the What have you been up to?s and the Oh my god! You look so good!s, it grows awkward.
Every time I glance away and look back, I catch them staring, glassy eyes laden with apprehensiveness. Maybe they think that I shouldn’t be acting human. That it’s weird that I’m at a club, first night back in town. Maybe they’d be less concerned if I’d portrayed myself as broken.
There’s nothing to talk about anymore. We no longer share the mutual trials and tribulations of high school. We can’t gossip together because the things we used to gossip about are no longer important. We can’t cry together because the things we used to cry about are no longer aspects of our lives.
During those five months, everyone found a new common ground except for me. I left and the bonds that tied me to certain people began to wither away and I wasn’t around to replace them.
As a last resort, I down my double and grasp Chad’s wrist, yanking him onto the dance floor. We move in a way that friends normally don’t, our hips and stomachs and thighs sliding against each other, until I’m dragged deeper into the crowd by a different stranger.
That’s the nice thing about clubs like this. Everyone is new and everyone is a friend. We’re alone and together and breaking up and making up and losing and finding. It doesn’t matter if it’s been five minutes, an hour, or four months. It doesn’t matter that my mom is dead. We’re all too lost in our own emotions to care about anyone else’s.
***
Outside, I lean against a the brick wall, dropping my head back lightly against its surface. I’d needed to get some air after taking my fourth shot, bought for me by some boy who I don’t think I’ll ever see again. A film of sweat has settled on my skin, causing the cool air to cling to every curve of my body. Sparks of light still flash against the backs of my eyelids, remnants of the strobes inside the building.
“Hey, you gotta light?” Someone asks.
Opening my eyes, I notice that the person is balancing himself against the bricks with one hand, attempting to keep from stumbling over as he fishes through his pocket. His brow is dramatically furrowed in what seems to be frustration. I’ve never seen him, which is odd. Old Shore is so tiny with it’s three thousand people. If you don’t know a person by name, you’ve at least seen their face once or twice.
It’s a surprising question, nonetheless. The reputation that precedes me is one of prudishness. I’ve never been someone who is conservative, I just never had to opportunity to be wild while I was growing up. Before, no one would’ve even considered asking me for a lighter, even though I almost always carry one.
I pat my hips just for show, then pull out the plastic device, tossing it to him. He tries to catch it, but his reflexes are too slow and it hits hits his chest before falling to the ground. He frowns, and it is one of the cutest drunken boy frowns I have ever seen.
“Thanks,” He mutters around the cigarette wedged between his lips, and then moves to come stand beside me. His shoulder presses against mine and he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
I don’t respond, but just stay there, being washed over by the sound of cars rushing past, my eyes glued to nothing particular in the distance. Conscious only of the warmth in my left shoulder and the aroma of burning tobacco.
“I’m Liam,” he says.