Courtney Avery had a ritual of throwing parties weekly on every Sundays. Her parties were the definition of three things — drunk, disastrous and drunk.
Looking up at Courtney's house which seemed to be vibrating with the courtesy of the loud music playing inside, I gestured Savannah to straighten her shoulders. We needed to present an indifferent façade to the outside world as if we go to these kinds of parties all the time.
"Kate," I whispered slowly. "Have you ever been to wild parties?"
"No." She whispered back.
Savannah patted both of our shoulders. "It's your lucky day then."
Upon entering inside Courtney's house (which was a struggle in itself when you have drunk people fighting in the doorway), we heaved collective sighs of disappointment and deadpanned at each other. You know
