Who Are Your Friends?

There's something almost ritualistic about parties - something yin and yang about being almost twenty and obsessed with the idea of getting drunk off of cheap liquor and lighting menthol-flavoured cigarettes on fire, breathing in toxic vapour air till your lungs start to char. And for my friends and I, parties are a thing of legend. One of us, Parker Chu, comes from a lot of money and with a lot of that money comes a million different properties and vacation homes, and parents who take frequent enough work trips, and Parker makes a habit out of taking absolute full advantage. With the tension of our sophomore year of college and semester break being over, we're all primed and prepped for a christening night. All week long, the 'back to school' cabin party had been the hot topic of discussion in our group chat: who was going, and who wasn’t, what was Aspen going to wear. I myself landed on this deep burgundy off-the-shoulder sweater that Parker got me a couple of weeks into meeting him. It's a strategic choice, my baby elephant tattoo is painfully visible, showing off my shoulders while still keeping things casual. I wear my high-waisted denim shorts too. The shoes are where I need some backing. I walk out of Aspen's guest bedroom - I've been at her house all day today, watching her online shop, hearing her complain about her little sister, and helping her pack back up for school. I carry my phone and walk over to the other wing of the house. The hiss of hairspray is all I hear as I walk into Aspen's room. Before I can enter, I stare at her, leaning on the doorframe - studying her movements. She checks herself in the mirror before her gaze flickers towards me with her foundation brush still mid-air. I'm still getting used to her being a dirty blonde, but though I hate to admit it, I'd f**k her if she asked. “Take a picture, it'll last longer," Aspen says, turning her attention back to her vanity mirror. “Oh, god,” I reply, finally entering. "I can't decide on shoes." Aspen sets her brush down and analyzes me from head to toe, scanning my entire body like some kind of security guard at the airport. She gets up and tilts her head to the right. "Hm," she starts. The smell of Chanel No. 5 and passion fruit hair oil hangs in the air. Aspen's in her usual attire - a skimpy dress and chunky designer earrings. She rushes to her closet and brings out a pair of black leather ankle boots, and hands them to me. "Here.” "The heel on this is crazy, no way," I say, pushing the shoes back in her direction. "Oh my gosh, it's not that deep, it's like 3 inches. They’re perfect for this —stylish enough to make a statement but comfortable enough to wear all night. Plus, they’re great for adding a bit of height without sacrificing comfort." "I genuinely don't need any more height," I say in all my five-foot-eightness. "Well, if you didn't want my opinion, then why ask?" She has a point. "Alright, alright," I fold. "I'll wear them. Thank you." She returns to her vanity and touches up her body glitter. "You can keep them too if you want, I'm over them." "How can you be over them? I've literally never even seen you in them." She shrugs. "I wore them for dinner like twice when I went to Bora Bora." Nice. I put on my shoes as Aspen smears on her final coat of lipgloss. “Ready?” Aspen asks as she slings her purse onto her shoulder. "85% done," I say standing back up, "It's shot o'clock baby!" "Yeah, you do that, I'm going to get in the car." "Boo, boring," I tease. Aspen doesn't drink - never had a sip of alcohol in her life. When I met her, she said it was because her body is a 'temple' and she treats it as such, never wanting to do anything that might cause permanent damage. The more I got to know her though, I learned that we all have our vices, no matter how much we try to be clean - it's impossible to not have even the slightest stain of contamination on ourselves. And hers is smoking. She picks up the keys to her shiny black BMW, a back-to-school present from her parents, and we make our way to the kitchen. I make my way to the bar and Aspen sits on the ginormous kitchen island, getting on Facetime. I pick out an already open bottle of Hennessy and grab a wine glass - pouring just a little over a shot-sized amount. I take it back and the sting hits my chest immediately. I gag as Aspen's phone call connects, and I hear James' voice over loud noise playing in the background. "Hey," Aspen says over the phone, "Is it crazy over there already?" "Brutal," James replies. I walk over to the phone and blow a kiss at him. "Show us the fit!" James props his phone down. "So this white shirt is from Louis Vuitton, pants from Zara." He says, mocking Aspen's voice and I burst out laughing. He spins in the frame, lifting a leg up to mock one of Aspen's t****k videos where she shows people what she's wearing. "Oh, f**k off," Aspen spits. James picks the phone back up. "Seriously, when are you guys getting here?" "We're leaving right now," I say. "The alcoholic had to take a shot," Aspen says, smirking in my direction. "We all know she's not the real alcoholic," James says - a jab we all ignore. "See you in a bit James," I say, trying to avoid it. *** By the time we pull into the cabin's driveway, James is sitting outside waiting for us. “We’re sophomores, bitches!” he says and takes a puff of his vape - probably something peach flavoured - and shoves it into the pocket of his pants. James is the exact opposite of Aspen - a drinker, a smoker, a vaper, a serial weed-smoker (to name the least). "You can't call us bitches," Aspen says, and I see James mockingly mouthing the words back to her - "yOu CaN't cAlL uS bItCHes" I fling the car door open and give him a fist bump. Aspen snaps her gum and launches herself onto James, leaving a sticky kiss on his cheek. “I can’t believe we made it,” he says, walking us into the party. “What? Sophomore year or us still being friends?" I ask. "... Both actually." As we get into the party, everyone is already visibly drunk and probably coked out of their minds (insider info - the rich love to do some coke). The air is thick with sweat and the sharp sour smell of whiskey and pink gin, and Marshall and Esther from last semester's Introduction to Graphic Design class dry-hump in a dark corner. We stop and say hi to a few people and ignore the rest. "Where's Parker?" I ask James. "I think he went to take a piss or something. I don't know." "I'm gonna go look for him," I say. When I enter, the kitchen floor is sticky with spilt drinks, and some girl is lying flat on her back on the table among the half-empty liquor bottles, smoking a joint and giggling as a boy licks her feet - probably on a dare. I text Parker: Where are you? I shuffle through the crowd, the noise of the party buzzing around me. Reaching the counter, I pour myself a drink – gin and Sprite – and take a sip, feeling the cool liquid slide down my throat. I linger in the corner, nursing the blue solo cup as I scan the room for Parker. “Pelileh,” a familiar voice calls from beside me, and even though I don’t need to turn to know who it is, I do anyway. Adam. Hearing him say my name startles me for a second. My palms get sweaty. "Adam," I manage, trying to keep my voice even. He stands tall beside me, his frame casting a shadow. He smells like a mix of office and something dangerously intoxicating. His skin is a warm, rich brown, a captivating blend of sharp cheekbones, full lips, and dark eyes that hold an intensity that makes it impossible to look away. His thick, jet-black hair is effortlessly cool, and those dark eyes of his seem to see straight through me, just like they always do.