Parting the crowd, I shove past a girl with a shirt that had traveled a few feet south in the last hour or so. Making it to the bar, I made a rum and coke with 100% coke. My head was already spinning and I wanted to keep my mind flawless. My friend, Emala, finally lurches into the seat next to me with a frown. “Guys need to keep their hands to themselves,” was her only explanation.
She was right. Everyone was a little more daring tonight. Even the regulars who frequented the club seemed to have an extra store of vigor. They moved with new life, their cheeks flushed and arms, legs, and everything else glistening with sweat. The hot, humid air was barely breathable, and especially for me, a known germaphobe, I felt claustrophobic in the pulsating crowd.
Finishing my drink, I look down into my little plastic cup and wonder how in the world people find peace in there.
I shouldn’t have come. The party is in full swing, and I still feel like I’m trapped in the awkward beginning phase. As I look over at Emala, more nervous than she would ever admit, a rush of sympathy hits me, and I realize that I can’t leave her. Not with these people.
Tension was high tonight. Not that anyone would admit to it. The warm, familiar greetings from people I barely knew were making me more than a little nauseous. Which was another reason I was skipping the alcohol tonight. Better for the stomach.
One girl in particular, squeals and runs up to me for a hug. I was surprised to find that I was taller than her; her flat-ironed hair was brushing my chin. Then again, she had always been the “cute and innocent” one. Automatically, I lift my arms as if to put them around her. Traitors. I quickly shove them back down at my sides.
Almost instantly she lets go and turns to Emala with another high pitched squeal, and is received with a warm smile. Emala compliments the girl on her outfit, a standard opening, and wished her a good time. I try not to feel betrayed. Emala was a naturally friendly girl, and even if she was breaking the cardinal rule of the girl code (If I hate her, you hate her) she was just being a good person. I try to swallow the bitter taste that was creating a lump in my throat because I don’t want to react this way.
As the girl walks away with the replacements, I feel my mouth go up in a sneer, and I look down at my dress. Conservative, compared to the others that were dancing around me. The dark blue stood out against the sea of glitz (in every gaudy sense of the word), shiny metalics and bright neons that reminds me of the old barbies I used to play with. They look like little girls playing dress up, their tottering heels and shakily applied makeup makes me sad as I watch them as they declare themselves grown up. Their dresses left little to the imagination, and I look away, embarrassed. Nothing fit well, the dresses weren’t chosen based of fit or comfort. Not that I was anywhere near the other end of the spectrum, even my dress seemed to be a little tighter than I would normally wear.
I was unsure of my self. Maybe I was like them. Maybe I was sick of being the quiet girl in the corner. But as I look towards the girl again, she is sitting in the lap of a random guy, sleazy the only way to describe him, and I get over myself quickly.
“Come on,” I say, grabbing Emala’s hand, “I’ve had enough to drink.”
As we move further into the mob in the middle, I try to keep beat with the frantic rhythm. We were right next to the speakers, and I was glad. The deafening noise, usually avoided by people with sensitive ears like me, was a welcome distraction. While the beat pounded my head, I almost could lose myself in in. The vibrations I felt with my whole body took over, but as I felt myself slipping away into the music, I caught another glimpse of the girl who had hugged me earlier. A wave of nausea hit me, and I could taste the coke I had just drunk. The vibrations that helped me earlier now just threw me off balance as I felt my head spin. Detached from myself, I could sense that I was still dancing, barely skipping a beat. While the other girls around me laugh and pull at each other, I feel disjointed. Memories surround me, the familiar pull of shame and guilt barrage me with every discrepancy in the past three years. They drag at my eyes, and I could feel the familiar lump in my throat again. Emala’s hand touches my shoulder and I look up at her with conflicted eyes.
“Are you okay?” She asks, concern furrowing her smooth forehead, head tilting slightly as if to better examine me.
“Fine.” I say, swallowing, “Just…hard. To be here, I mean.”
She made a noise of assent, trying hard to understand. “I hate it when she comes up to me, as if we still know each other.” I murmur, quieter. I also hate talking about how I feel.
Emala looks at me with sympathy, but without empathy. Not like I’ve already explained this to her. More than once.
Irritation washes through me, even though I know I’m being irrational. It isn’t Emala’s fault; it’s mine for not explaining myself properly.
“Don’t worry about it, I’m fine.” I say, grabbing her hand, a familiar role slips over me, and my shoulders straighten. “Let’s go dance.”
I make a point of smiling at her, laughing when appropriate, and dancing. Trying my best to ignore the desperate wish to curl up, cover up, do anything but this. Showing off the person everyone wants to see. And no one wants to see someone cry during a party.