The Cinderella Agreement (Completed) [Featured Story]

28: The Party (2)

Not edited!!

It wasn't long before Bo—in all his antisocial glory—disappeared out of sight for possibly the rest of the night. The living room was far too claustrophobic and loud, and she's already tried toughing it out outside on the back porch, but the throng of smokers there practically pushed her back into the house with the force of their fumes.

Mit sulked in the kitchen, debating on starting on Water Bottle Two but then decided against it. The couple in the far corner of the room were far too preoccupied in the activity of eating each other's mouths off to even be aware of her internal battle. They'd probably not even be aware of rapture.

The door to the kitchen opened, and in walked none other than Marshall Andrews. She stopped to discreetly stare at him, all the while hoping that her staring was discreet enough not to come off as creepy. Her heart picked up its pace when he walked to where she stood. "Hey Mit." He scratched his head as he said this (whether this was intentional or unintentional, she didn't know), emphasizing the biceps in his arm.

"Hi," she greeted, hoping she didn't sound too excited.

She didn't mean to brag, but her relationship with Marshall seemed to be actually heading somewhere now. The wheels were getting oiled, the engine was getting serviced. All that was left—and perhaps the hardest of all—was getting the train to leave the station.

On Tuesday he'd asked her what day it had been (October 3rd, ironically), on Wednesday he borrowed a pencil from her (when there was clearly one already on his desk!), and he'd been making sure to drop a few compliments here and there. Enough to be endearing, but not so much as to make it come off as creepy.

"What're you doing in the kitchen?" His eyes shifted uncomfortably to the couple that looked ready enough to start copulation right there and then on the kitchen counter.

"Least busy place downstairs," she explained, lowering to a sitting position on the kitchen isle stool. "I'm so bored though. Want to play maybe?" She smiled coquettishly.

"Oh, um, okay." He started to chuckle but then cleared his throat midway. "How—what?—do you want to um, play?"

"Isn't this so naughty?" Mit breathed out with excitement, again. "Playing Hangman at a high school party with alcohol and drugs. This is the height of rebellion. We are the future."

Marshall shook his head, a laugh threatening to spill out of his lips. "Yeah damn right we are. But back to the game."

"Is there a Q?"

"No." He drew on an arm.

"W?"

"Nope." Another arm.

"B?"

"Non." A leg.

"C?"

Mit started to panic. Almost everything was filled into the picture. One more wrong guess and bye bye to Mr. Stick Man. "An X?"

Marshall made a buzzer noise s he finalized the drawing with another leg, then flipping to another page of the jotter they'd found in Cisco's cabinet. "You lose. The word was potato."

"You're not supposed to tell me the word; you'll ruin the game."

Marshall tipped his head to the side. "But...the game is already over."

"Not its not."

"Mit," he raised the paper to her line of sight, "the game's over. Everything's already drawn in. See?"

"No," she stressed, grabbing the jotter and then using her index finger to point at the stick man's head. "There's clearly still more to draw on. Don't you think he'd like a nice hat?"

Marshall paused for one, two, three seconds, his countenance heavy with bemusement, before he finally burst in laughter. "You're funny," he said, flipping to another page.

"You see those people outside, smoking?" Mit started as she tried to think of a very difficult word to give Marshall hell. "It's like they've smoked so much that they've detached from the world. No wait, listen!" she rushed out, sensing another chuckle brewing in Marshall's throat. "It's like their spirits have left their bodies and they're in some sort of other world. That's what it looks like. Like they're spiritual Teleporters." Teleporters. Maybe she's use that. There was a small advantage there, considering the fact that it wasn't an actual word.

Marshall's laugh was interrupted by his ringtone. "Hang on a minute, let me get this." He stood and walked towards and out the back door, probably to answer his call.

She nodded, waiting patiently for his return so that she could murder him in their next round of Hangman. There were some loud noises coming from the living room area, sounding vaguely like panicked shouts, and Mit's curiosity had leaked to its highest pinnacle by the time Marshall returned two minutes later with wide eyes and sprinting lips.

"We have to get out," his words were rushed, disjointed. "There's alcohol and marijuana and underaged teenagers at this party. And Someone tipped the cops off."