Harper

May 4, 2011
“Ten!” everyone glanced at the television.

“Nine!” another person shouted as the room quiets down.

“Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!” the whole room yelled as they watched the bright shinny ball descend down. I glanced around at my acquaintances grumbling to myself that Harper should have been here by now. Right as I was giving the host’s mother a hug, the doorbell rang. I knew it was her. She’d missed it by not even a minute.

“I’ll get it,” I called to the hustling room of under-the-influence teens that were getting on my nerves. I padded over to the front foyer and glanced through the peep hole. Yep, it was her and her uninvited boyfriend. Was he just dropping her off or did he plan to stay? I thought to myself as I unlocked the deadbolt and peeked through the small crack I left open.

“Happy New Year!” She called, pushing through the door with her arms wide open initiating an unwanted hug, which I surmised to anyways. I winced and let her in. He followed with out an invitation.

“He wasn’t invited.” I whispered to her.

“I know,” she smiled back to me. “He’s just dropping me off.” She popped her heels off her feet and placed them neatly next to unorganized pile of boy shoes leaving her red polished toe nails visible, slipped off her black leather jacket and draped it carefully over the back of a wooden chair, and finally turned to him. “Bye,” she hugged him and sent him on home.

“Why’d he drop you off?” I questioned. “Couldn’t you just walk by yourself? You’re only three houses down.” I prodded seeing if I could get any information about where they’d been. The front of her dark hair was pinned up to the side and curls fell to her uncovered shoulders. Black rhinestones scattered the front of her ironed mini dress and the light glistened off of her tanned shoulders.

“He offered,” she batted her eyelashes and smiled. Her deep brown eyes were glowing and her white smile blinded me.
“Well, I should probably…” my voice trailed off as the group of 5 or so teenage boys ran down the stairs pushing, shoving, and knocking everything out of their way.

“I call the black controller!” one shouted.

“Well, I call the white and I’m playing first!” they all argued as they shoved past us bounding down the stairs to the basement. I reluctantly followed behind with nothing else better to do.
Arriving downstairs I glance around the already demolished basement. There were piles of jackets in the corner, purses lying on the guest bedroom floor, and the infamous red plastic cups intentionally placed on the ping pong table in triangle form. Beer pong. Really? These “popular” seventeen year olds were already kissing their lives goodbye.
She followed me over towards the table, and picked up the corner cup. Glancing into it she doesn’t realize it’s not soda and takes a mistaken sip. Her face contorts as she tries to swallow the clear liquid. It clearly burns going down. Smiling she wonders over to the couch. It’s surrounded by guys watching two teenagers playing Madden 2011. They were cursing and yelling and throwing things at the television, apparently the referee is a “dick” and “can’t see for s***”.


“Go Go Go! F***ing tackle that b****!” one of the teenage boys yelled off the couch. Thinking about how he’d called a “big, macho” football player a “b****” made me giggle inside. Nope, guys don’t giggle. I chuckled. See, that’s the reason guys hit on me instead of girls; I feminize everything I say. Unintentionally of course.

Update on the game, the b**** did not get tackled. He ran it in for a touchdown and all the guys rooting for the Ravens were high fiving, fist bumping and chest pounding… or whatever that’s called. The sandy-blonde boy, there I go again, correction: the blonde dude chucked the XBox controller behind the couch. Sadly, this controller was not wireless. The “brilliant” idea that the XBox company had come up with, controllers with detachable wires for situations like this, backfired. The controller, attached to the wire, attached to the XBox, attached to the TV and the wall came catapulting towards me behind the couch. It towed the whole game console off the shelf and onto the floor. Silence filled the room. Simultaneously all the teenage boys turned to the guy of the hour, the host, the man up top, the one in charge: Kyle.
Kyle, my best friend, decided to have this party to celebrate the New Year. Little did he know he’d be mourning the loss of his 250dollar Xbox. After my 145pound friend screamed until his face turned red, punched Xbox destroyer in the face, and told everyone they were chipping in to pay for the damages; I spotted her from across the room. She was still dazzling. There I go with the femininity. Hot. She was smoking hot. I made my way over.





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