The Cinderella Agreement (Completed) [Featured Story]

27: The Party (1)

Not edited

High School parties, to sum it all up in a compact, mildly pessimistic sentence, were earth bound renditions of hell. They could hear the music even before they got out of the car, so loud that the metal barrier of the vehicle's body became insignificant.

"Are you nervous?" Paris asked as she turned off her BMW, sending a sideways glance at Mit whilst checking her blood red lipstick in the rear view mirror. She had a retro rocker slash biker chick thing going on for her, with her off-shoulder blouse tied to a bundle just in front of her navel and shiny leather pants sticking to her shapely legs like a second skin.

"Hell yeah." The house was big, but even from the outside it was possible to see just how full it was. People drinking, people smoking, people laughing... just people everywhere. But hey, at least no one had thrown up yet. Maybe.

The car doors unlocked. "Get ready," Paris said, then opening her side door and climbing out gracefully.

Mit followed suit, just with much less grace and a lot more gawking. They straggled up the pathway to the front door, where a burly dude with a chest width about the size of Texas, let out a series of obnoxious cheers with his friends as they walked in (okay, mostly for Paris. Probably only, but whatever. They had walked in together so half of the hearty hails should belong to each of them. Nobody cared about specifics).

Paris got held up in a conversation with one of the boys. He looked fit enough to pass as a sport player, although he wasn't bulky enough to be a football player or lean enough to play basketball. Maybe he was a soccer player.

Mit attempted intermingling into the crowd by dancing, but then remembering that she danced like a dying sea otter with a spastic problem, decided to just hover awkwardly around the peer groups.

Luckily, Tuesday came to the rescue soon after, wrapping her tan arms around Mit and squeezing hard like she was a grapefruit. "Mit! So glad you're here," Tuesday spoke, although she was looking into her burgundy purse and not at Mit. "You'll be voting for me next week right?" she asked hopefully, placing a campaign button in Mit's palm and closing her fingers around it. "You won't regret it, I guaran—"

"Tuesday would you mind not turning my party into a political rally?" Cisco drawled lazily, draping an arm over her shoulder and almost spilling a bit of his beer onto her romper. "Let the children enjoy!"

"Get off," she scoffed, albeit jokingly, letting his arm drop back to his side. "Have fun, Mit. I'll see you later!" she rushed out quickly, already making her way towards another unsuspecting victim in the crowded room.

"Liking the party?" Cisco inquired, his smile too lopsided to still be considered a smile.

"It's fine," she said as cheerily as she could manage, clasping down on Tuesday's button. "Is there anything without alcohol in here though? I don't drink."

"Um...yeah. Water and Coke. Kitchen—which you should find on the left side of this room—upper cabinet...can't really remember which one so you'll just have to search them all, lol. Think of it as a scavenger hunt."

Mit wasn't sure if she was more annoyed at Cisco for saying 'lol' out loud or that he couldn't give her a simple location. Nevertheless, she still smiled tightly and muttered a thank you. 

Bo was leaned up against the fridge, brooding as usual and toying on his phone. Mit contemplated greeting him, but for fear of a rebuff, quickly decided against it and continued on her quest.

By the time she'd made her way through 9/10 of the upper cabinets with zero results, she deliberated on what torture mechanism would be most efficient on him if the drinks weren't in the last cabinet. A kick to the crotch? Swapping out the cream filling in his Oreo cookies for toothpaste?

"Looking for something?" came Bo's lazy voice, a careful mixture of I-hate-the-world, I-don't-even-care, and I'm-a-pretentious-little-prick.

"Yes, actually. But I'm guessing you already know what."

He walked to the back of the fridge, bent, and came up with a water bottle and a can of Coke. "Which one?"

She selected the water. "Thank you..." Unable to curtail her tongue, her speech continued, "but why are you hiding those there?"

He shrugged. "Gotta make sure there's enough for me—and helpless souls such as yourself. If it stays in the cabinet it won't last for even thirty minutes." His face twisted with contempt. "God I hate parties."

She chuckled. "But why are you here though?"

"DD." His chest deflated as he sighed dramatically, blowing wisps of purple hair away from his eyes. "Responsibilities."

"Why do you dye your hair purple?" she asked impulsively, before she could get the chance to overanalyze the action. Over a year of curious speculation narrowed down to this very moment, within the four walls of Cisco's kitchen. The secret behind Bo Jung's purple hair. Should this be recorded? Would he find it rude if she pulled out her phone?

Bo laughed. "How long have you been wondering about that?"

Mit tried to pull on her most nonchalant expression. "Dunno, it just randomly sprung in my head right now."

"Sure." His tone was condescending, but playfully so. "My full name is Bo Ra Jung," he said.

Her eyebrow cocked upward. "Mhmm, and?"

"Bo Ra means purple in Korean."

"Oh...oh! That is so cool! Honestly. Didn't think you were that interesting. In a non-offensive way, of course."

"Of course." He rolled his eyes. "If I already have a purple heart—as in figurative and not the tree—I might as well have purple hair too, right? It gives me a sense of identity. I'm not just that Asian kid or the one that Aimee Flour-bag called a faggot. Of course, the kid with purple hair isn't much of an improvement, but it's something though. The worth of things really depends on the amount of importance you put on them."

"This is the deepest and cheesiest version of you I have ever witnessed," she said—really regretting not having tried her luck with recording—and then they both chuckled lightly, although Bo's last sentence kept resounding in her head like a broken record.

The worth of things really depends on the amount of importance you put on them. It applied to her in so many ways.