Dear Rudy,
Did you like the parties you went to in high school? Like, really did you like them? After last night, I wonder if anyone actually does. And if there is someone out there who does, it definitely isn’t me. Parties have always felt like a weird study in anthropology to me, like there should be scientists in the bushes making notes on clipboards about what happens when kids get drunk and hang out together. The mix of freedom, alcohol and fear leads to some wild goings-on. The graduation afterparty was like some kind of Pagan fire ritual.
Jessica Rabbit was the obvious choice to host our end-of-year celebration, as she had laid-back parents and an older sister who could buy booze and a parent-free house with a pool. She got some of the guys to light a bonfire in the backyard and she put fold-up camping chairs around it. A party with a purpose has a different feeling to a party for no other reason than drinking, and graduation party was a pre-schoolies bender. Dee’s mum dropped us there and we were right on time, which I guess is early in party terms. The night was cooler than usual for this time of year and strangely tense. I’m not sure if it was as simple as the approaching storm, or as metaphorical as a sign of big changes to come, but the air was so thick I thought I might pass out, and that was before I’d had even one vodka and lemonade. I will never smoke, but sometimes, like last night, I wished I had taken to smoking ciggies because at least it would have given me something to do. While I was drinking my drink I noticed Mitch was there, and I wasn’t sure why he would come. He said high-school parties were shit, and we hadn’t spoken since I told him he was dumped at your memorial. We ignored each other. I drank another two drinks very quickly.
The back deck overlooked the pool, and beyond that was a fence and then bushland. There were plenty of dark corners in the yard for drunken fumbling and illegal substance-taking. By 10 pm the deck was full, the music was blaring and most people were at least half-cut. I thought I should probably talk to Mitch at least once. I’d seen him walking out towards the back fence so I made my way there.
I felt a bit wobbly but the sight that appeared before me couldn’t have been clearer. Two huge bare arse cheeks high in the sky, pale and cratered like the moon, but instead of orbiting the earth they were thrusting up and down in the undergrowth. I could hear murmurs and strange noises, but the three vodkas I’d downed so quickly meant I was a little slow to realise there was someone under those bare arse cheeks. Jutting out from either side were limbs like grasshopper legs. My vision sharpened and I realised Pointy Kathy was under Mitch.
I starting laughing as my mind caught up to what my eyes were seeing. Mitch looked over his shoulder and panicked. Then he was hopping around trying to get his legs back into his jeans. He fell over into the bushes and Pointy Kathy pulled down her dress and fixed her hair. She smirked her smirk and walked back towards the house. I wanted to ask her why she had done it, but she was gone too quickly. Pointy Kathy had always made fun of Mitch, and of me for dating him. She didn’t like him, so why was she fucking him?
It took less than a minute for Mitch to get angry, which is a record even for him. He threw insults at me and I couldn’t bring myself to say anything back. If he was trying to hurt my feelings he should have tried harder, because my cringe list, even on a good day, was more creative than the things he said.
I guess the whole party stopped to watch the spectacle of Mitch yelling and me laughing like a crazy person. He screamed at me to ‘stop fucking laughing’, and his face was red with anger. It was clear that I was hurting his ego. When I couldn’t stop laughing, he starting calling me an ‘autistic freak’, which was new. If he, or anyone, had said that even a couple of months ago I would have wanted the earth to swallow me up. Most of my classmates don’t even know I’m autistic, and Mitch knows that. He was using it to hurt me, telling everyone that there’s something wrong with me, not him. I’m not going to see these people anymore though, and I don’t care. I just left him there in his toxic anger and went home.
While I was waiting for an Uber I realised that I hate parties. I hate them. I hate the noise and the lights and the crowds and the fights and the smell of cigarettes and weed.
So why have I been looking forward to Schoolies so much when it’s one giant party?
I got home to three more comments on my post about hugging. I’ve got to reply to them all. It might sound weird, but that’s my idea of a good party.
Love, Erin