Magicians Secret // Big Mouth

.8 Magician's Mistake

I should've just stayed home.

By the time I get there, Jay's house is already so loud and busy dust and rubble is falling down his slanted roof, sprinkling the overgrown weeds and grass in the front garden. Red plastic cups litter the yard, half full of yellow-brown liquid, some with bright lipstick stains of pink or red. Along with the dirt and cups, the yard is covered in torn streamers, crumpled up beer cans and smells musky and uninviting, a perfect juxtaposition with the front of the house. The windows peer into the life of the party: crowds of people so large some are pressed up against the window, bare skin of arms lightened in tone when met with the thin glass. People are laughing and talking, with red cups and cans and bottles held in one hand, the other curling around another body and resting on a hip, shoulder or waist. The boys are tall with sideburns and scruffy stubble for beards, with large bouncing Adam's apples, wearing long shirt jackets and zest tops, some with muscle-built bodies, some thin and graceful, all confident with booze or general charisma. The girls are voluptuous, their clothes struggle over their boobs and butts and many of them are exposing midriffs, none of them covering their legs, some are clearly loud, some are clearly quiet, all are more comfortable than I could be in that situation. The door is closed, but not shut, with a sliver of golden light peaking through where the chain should be latched. No one is outside, even though it looks very hot inside, people shedding layers like long-haired dogs, hair being tied up and foreheads being routinely swiped with backs of hands, but no one excusing themselves to breath fresh air.

I take a deep breath and run my hands down my shorts, my fingers locking over the tough denim hem at the ends. I then proceed the door, the thin wood poorly coated with black paint that's peeling off so commonly it looks like Dalmatian fur, and lightly push it forward. It creaks a little, but the sound of the music blares so loudly it clouds my eardrums, I recognise the song for something  I switched the car radio off for, and crinkle my nose. Inside the house it is (as I suspected) so hot I have to immediately pull off my jacket and tie its arms around my waist. The crowds are immense, and it doesn't help that everyone in here is clearly older than me, and bigger than me. I always considered myself seeming rather old for my age, but being in this swarm of drunk, loud high schoolers I would shamefully retract that statement. There are a million voices, talking over each other so often I can't manage to grasp one single conversation, even the two girls talking right next to me, yelling into each other's ears and cackling deviously. No one has seen me, and I'm not surprised, because the colour scheme of my outfit seems to be a trend, and dark tones wash over each room like a tsunami wave. I awkwardly push through the dining room area, slide across the stairwell, drown in the kitchen and come up for air in the back garden. There is a pile of fireworks in the corner, unlit thankfully, and few people talking seriously to each other, all turned in close to each other, as if conserving body heat. And kneeling beside the pile of fireworks, holding a large tube and reading the instructions on the back, is Jay. After a few seconds of intense concentration, he carelessly drops it into the box containing the others and exhales deeply, running both hands through his hair and looking around with wide eyes.

He finds me with his gaze and his expression livens, he excitedly jumps up and rushes to me. We do a handshake we'd invented a few weeks ago, something that in hindsight is incredibly lame, and a brilliant representation of how drunk we were that night. Jay then looks at my outfit, and nods respectably.

"You could actually pass as a high school student, you know." He says.

"Are you kidding?" I cross my arms over my chest, "I look like an eight year old boy compared to these girls."

Jay laughs a wholehearted laugh, the same laugh he applies to my scripts, or when someone (usually Andrew) embarrasses themselves in a particularly spectacular way. He drops his arm over my shoulders and turns me to look back into the house, giving me a chance to see the insane frenzy of the kitchen that makes the crowd from the front of the house look amateur. I frown, wishing it was a little less daunting, wishing I could locate Val without physically having to search for him so obviously.