Sisters: Butterflies at Graduation [book two]

Chapter Eleven (NaNoWriMo)

Dedicated to @IdrisGrey because she's doing Camp NaNoWriMo and the book she's writing sounds so amazing I honestly wish I had thought of it. (Ironically, this chapter kind of fits the genre of her book).

Chapter Eleven

I honestly have no idea why I'm doing this.

I've borrowed Michele's leather pants (despite their length reaching just above my ankles and their tightness almost cutting off my blood supply) and a pair of Devil horns sit perched on my head. The only black t-shirt I could find was one deep within my dad's wardrobe. It's not even completely black; it has a white imprint of The Ramones' emblem on the front. My lipstick and my nails are a fiery red. (The reason behind my bare-feet is the result of an hour-long nail-painting process that included the re-painting of my big toe three times and the promise that they won't dry for at least ten minutes, even though it's more like five hours).

I stand at the bottom of the stairs with one leg crossed over the other and my arm resting on the banister. I check the clock on my phone then at the door.

No-one's arrived yet.

I'd managed to persuade my parents - well, it was Mom who took the persuading - that the gathering I'd planned tonight is just a congregation of my friends with some drinks. Definitely not a party.

I've taken over the lounge, leaving Michele to have free reign of the TV in Mom and Dad's bedroom while my parents are attending a dinner party around the Jacksons' for most of the night. The snacks are laid out on the coffee table, Netflix is on the TV, the drinks sit in the fridge in the kitchen. But I have told everyone to bring something because I know that supplying the entirety of the alcohol will lead my parents to believe that I am having a party.

Honestly, I'm not.

The doorbell rings and my muscles jumpstart. It's Esmee, carrying bottles of cider. She sports a witch's hat and cape. Her wand is a chopstick. She wears lime-green contacts that make her almost unrecognisable.

"Anyone here yet?" she says, planting a kiss on my cheek.

"You're the first," I say.

Minutes later, Louis and April arrive. I gawk at their face-paint. Louis laughs behind his mask of mutilated skin, and bloodshot eyes. "It was April who did it," he says. April simply shrugs, a witch like Esmee. But her skin is white and cracked and her eyes are a dark red. They bring bottles of alcohol.

The others arrive in brisk succession. Bridgit arrives as cat woman and Chelsea as a clown. Zac arrives last. Red eye-liner has blood dripping down the corners of his lips. His skin is brushed with a powder that's ghostly white.

I snort. "You look like Edward Cullen," I say when he walks through the front door.

"I don't sparkle unfortunately," he says, kissing my forehead. "You look sexy."

I can smell the beer on his breath and I lead him into the living room where everyone is arguing over what movie to watch on Netflix. "Has everyone got a drink?" I say, and people hold up their bottles, cans and glasses. I sit beside Zac on the sofa and reach for a bottle of beer. My muscles slump forward. I bite my bottom lip.

It looks like we're either going to be watching 28 Days Later or Alien, but then Chelsea snatches the remote control from Louis and clicks on American Horror Story: Murder House.

"Yes, let's watch this!" Esmee says, sitting up straight.

"You've already seen it," Bridgit says, "Like ten times."