Jamie tried vainly to keep her manufactured smile from becoming a grimace. She’d already told her litany of terrible jokes a few dozen times with varying success. These Googled gems were most effective on shy, anxiety-ridden super-nerds.
“Yesterday I saw a guy spill all his Scrabble letters on the road. I asked him, ‘What’s the word on the street?’”
“Helvetica and Times New Roman walk into a bar. ‘Get out of here,’ shouts the bartender. ‘We don’t serve your type!’”
“What’s a pirate’s favorite letter? You might think it’s R, but a pirate’s first love is the C.”
One by one, Jamie built up their confidence and then smoothly pawned them off onto other partygoers.
The unjustifiably confident tech bros however, well, they all seemed to think it was funnier that a girl would even attempt to tell a joke. Their condescension was infuriating, but nothing compared to their microaggressions.
“Where are you from?” they’d ask.
“I’m from Portland,” Jamie would reply coldly, knowing what was coming.
They’d give her disbelieving looks. “No, you’re not. You’re Asian, right? Anyway, your American is so good. Teach me how to swear in Chinese.”
She’d smile and say, “Fuck you.”
To top it off, her sequined dress was itchy in all the worst places, her feet ached, she didn’t dare drink alcohol, enjoy herself, or partake in any real or meaningful conversations. She wove her way past the hordes of guests until she reached the white karaoke tent and peeked in. Disco lights swirled in the empty space, void of humanity except for a lonely DJ who waved hopefully at her. She waved back, then ducked outside and glanced at her watch. It was definitely game time. Standing on her tiptoes, she scanned the grounds, but Lisa was nowhere to be seen. She pulled out her phone but didn’t see any messages from her tardy friend. For the millionth time, she was annoyed that Lisa refused to enable location tracking on her phone, citing the right to privacy she was denied during her time at the Academy.
Jamie had just finished texting Lisa, Dude! Karaoke! Stat! when she spotted Nigel talking with a stressed-looking food cart owner. She walked over and waited impatiently for him to finish berating the poor man about running out of personal poutine pizzas only a few hours into the party.
Finally, Nigel turned to her.
“Have you seen Lisa?” Jamie asked.
“You, my dear, are the hit of the party,” he said, his eyes sweeping the crowd.
“Seriously, have you seen her? I’m a little worried. She’s late for karaoke.”
“Oh dear, what a tragedy,” he said. “I’m sure she’s fine. I saw her with one of the city’s elite, the great George Green, of Blurb and Green, or Blunt and Green, hmmm . . . Anyway, I just hope George’s wife isn’t here.” He shuddered. “She’s terrifying.”
“If you see Lisa, please ask her to text me,” said Jamie.
“Yes, of course. Now go make some young tech geek’s wet dreams come true.” He gently pushed her away and she glared back at him.
Jamie stomped past the food carts back toward the karaoke tent, determined to sing with or without Lisa, and almost ran into a tall man very underdressed in a white T-shirt and faded jeans.
“Hey, watch it,” she said, but the man ignored her and kept going.
Jamie realized with shock that it was Patrick and called out his name, but her voice was lost in the mix of blaring music and conversation. Curious, she followed, and watched him wander around the food trucks. Even with the slouch to his posture, he towered over most of the guests and was easy to follow in the crowd. He stopped at an Airstream trailer that looked closed—odd, considering the steady business the other carts were doing. He glanced around, as though worried he were being watched. And he was, she realized, by her. She ducked behind Double D Donuts.
Patrick knocked on the Airstream’s door. A woman with spiky black hair opened it and brusquely motioned Patrick to join her inside.
Jamie frowned. The woman looked familiar, however Jamie couldn’t quite place her. She mentally flipped through the last few weeks. Another of Nigel’s parties? No. School? No. Then it hit her. Sheila. She’d been introduced to Sheila a couple years ago by an ex-boyfriend slash wannabe professional cyclist at a house party. He’d whispered to her that Sheila had hooked up his team with performance enhancing drugs in addition to other recreational and illegal pharmaceuticals.
She stared at the Airstream’s closed door and wondered what Patrick was up to. Whatever it is, it can’t be good, she thought.