My friend Laura was throwing a going away party for herself at her mom's house. I'd known her since the eighth grade, so our friendship was significant enough that I'd agreed to go and saved up the money for cab fare. It sounds as if I'm either exaggerating the price of a ride or the extent of my friendship with Laura, but as a university student, I had little time to work and even less money to show for it.
The party was supposed to start at 8. Most rational people leave an hour of cushion time just to ensure they aren't the first ones there; now it was 7:30 and I was in a cab on my way to the house. I was always the first to arrive. I can even recount a time that I showed up before the host.
I'm not exactly sociable material. I've made very few friends in my life time, and I'm in no rush to make more. I'm a pretty humble person, I'd say. I usually prefer staying at home and watching a movie than going out to a bar and dancing with some acquaintances. Not that I could afford going to the bar in the first place, but the gist of it is that I'm not a people person, and I am totally okay with that.
Not to say people haven't tried bringing me out a little. As naive and innocent as I am, I've been able to tell when someone tries to pick me up. I've been told I'm fairly attractive, even though I don't try to make myself stand out too much. I have long, wavy auburn hair, which I usually take to wearing in a ponytail. I've got a fair complexion and somewhat sharp features, besides my apple cheeks. Other than that, I'm average everything. Average height, average weight, average bust and bum—Average Audrey. Some call me Audi.
This party was probably the first one I attended since the beginning of the school year. It was December now—everybody was finishing up their semester and planning trips home to be with families. Laura was transferring to a school in London, and there she planned to stay until her degree was complete and minted. Which meant I, nor anyone else, would likely see her for another year and a half.
I was mulling over that fact when the cabbie turned down her road. "Just the fifth one down on the right here," I said, pointing over the passenger seat from my place in the back. The man pulled over silently and flicked on the light. The register blinked back at me in red numbers, making me wince. I handed him forty and asked for just a five back. He thanked me and I bid him a good night before getting out of the cab. I was hoping Laura would let me crash—I was fairly certain I couldn't afford the trip back.
Laura's mom's place was a blue and white two-storey house, straight out of a white picket fence fantasy (except that it had no fence). All the lights were on inside. I checked my watch. 7:48. Yup. First one there, without fail.
I walked up the cobblestone path, which had been immaculately shovelled of snow, and climbed the steps to the porch. Before I even got close to the doorbell, Laura whipped open the door and beamed down at me.
Laura was a bit taller and slimmer than I was. She looked like she could have been an actress or a model if she wanted to. She had blonde hair which she had pulled back into a sleek french twist, and a sultry tan, even though it was the dead of winter. She was wearing a plain yet gorgeous beige dress which made her look curvier. She had these sparkling blue eyes and a wide, brightening smile—the kind that would force you to smile, too, even if you were down in the dumps.
"Hi, Audi!" she exclaimed.
"Hi, Laura. I'm the first one, I bet."
"Yup. Just in time to help me get set up!" she said, waving me in. "I'll take your coat."
"Thanks" I surrendered my jacket to her. "So where's your mom this weekend?"
"Annual meeting in Pittsburgh," Laura replied automatically. My inner alarm went off; I shouldn't have brought up her mom. I decided to let the topic drop.
"What sort of things do you need to do to set up?" I asked.
"Just set out some snack bowls, prep the bathrooms for sick guests, that sort of thing."
She led me into the kitchen and we got to work. There really wasn't much to do—I set out the finger foods while she placed extra buckets in the bathrooms (just in case the toilets were ocupado) and made them more presentable and homey. We hooked her iPod up to some wireless speakers and picked some appropriate ambient music that could appeal to anyone and set a good mood. She then lined up some bottles of alcohol that was meant to be community booze, or "pity booze" as she called it, and tried to label them as such with masking tape and a felt pen. When I pointed out that the word "pity" had only one T instead of two, she renamed them all "titty booze" with a snort and a snicker.
"Well... I think that's it. What time is it?" she asked me.
"8:15."
"I'm just eager, I guess. Let's go see if anything's on TV."
Her living room was right next to the front hallway; that way we could keep a close watch on the street and anyone arriving. We sat in front of the television and watched re-runs of sitcoms; she glanced over at the front door every few minutes. At about 8:48, she huffed and crossed her arms haughtily.
"Maybe everyone misread the time on the event," I suggested.
"Maybe," she replied stiffly.
When the episode ended and the next program began, she turned her turned head away and fell eerily quiet.
I glanced at my watch for good measure. 8:58. I looked over at Laura with concern. It was dark in the room, but I could still see her shoulders quivering.
"Laura?"
She turned her head as far away from me as possible when I said her name. Then she suddenly sniffed and brought her wrist to her face. I shifted towards her. "Laura, what's the matter?"
"Oh!" she cried, slapping her hand on the couch and turning forwards. Tears streaked down her face. "I haven't had a great week," she muttered, trying to keep her chin from trembling.
"Why? What happened?" I asked, reaching out to stroke her shoulder.
"Before my mom left, she... she told me in so many words that she wasn't proud of me. That she didn't think too highly of what I do." She sniffed again and tried to wipe away her tears, leaving smudged mascara across her cheeks. "Then it's all these stupid people who call me their friend. I can't even get anyone to come out when I offer free booze!"
"Maybe... they all got the wrong date?" I offered, trying to cheer her up and failing miserably. "Maybe they all thought it was tomorrow, not today. And in any case, I don't think your mom doesn't think that lowly of you."
"But she does!" Laura cried. "Ever since I dropped out of Business, she lost respect of me. Not doing something sensible with my life—I can tell that's how she thinks. She wants me to get a degree that will get me a high paying job, not a degree I'll actually enjoy doing."
"Laura..." I shook my head. "Even if that's true... you can't let that get you down like this. Come on."
"She's the person I've looked up to my whole life," Laura said miserably. "What am I supposed to do if my only role model doesn't see me in good light?"
"Get a new role model," I said, shrugging. "Or replace the light bulb."
She furrowed her brow and her sadness was instantaneously replaced with bemusement. Then she burst into laughter and covered her mouth with her hand. I smiled a little, relieved that she wasn't actually angry about my comment.
Laura's laughter tapered off and she sighed contently. I caressed her shoulder again. "Even if they don't show up, we can have all the booze to ourselves."
"Titty booze sounds pretty good about now," she said, jumping up from the couch. Laughing and wiping away the rest of her tears, she hurried down the hall to the kitchen.
***
As much of a shut-in as I am, I don't mind drinking from time to time. It's not that I ever get drunk alone—I mean, I thought about it once, but I got bored and read a book instead. But I've never been opposed to drinking. I realize that even though it's legal, it is a drug, and it has ruined people's lives. But I've always been a proponent of libertarian principles. As long as I'm not ruining anyone else's life, I see no harm in getting a little intoxicated now and again. And even though it was just me and Laura getting sauced, I was totally down for it.
One of our favourite shows was on when we sat down with shot glasses and various sorts of alcohol, and Laura immediately invented a drinking game. "Every time the laugh track goes off, we take a shot," she declared. Unoriginal, but effective.
We settled on just a sip every time it happened; I had pointed out that that many shots in such a short frame of time could actually kill a person. We each took about eight shots once the episode was done, and that had been with small slurps, too. Before 9:30 hit, both of us were pleasantly drunk. I wasn't sure about Laura, but I felt like I was just poisoned enough to feel lightheaded and completely joyous without any trace of nausea. I was also on a fit of giggles that I couldn't quash. This inevitably drew giggles out of Laura too.
"What's so funny?" she asked through her laughter.
"I dunno," I said, tears in my eyes.
She keeled over in silent fits, landing in my lap. I leaned back into the sofa, squeezing my eyes shut and feeling the cramp in my side tighten. For some reason, this only made me laugh harder.
"What—what are you thinking right now?" she asked between gasps.
"I was just thinking about—" I began laughing hard again.
"What?"
"Titty booze—"
Laura guffawed and put her glass down, as if she'd sensed she'd spill her drink all over herself if she didn't. We held on to each other, busting our guts. "Why'd you call it that?" I asked.
"I like titties," she whined. We howled together.
"What?" I managed.
