Her Name is Sorrel

XIII

13

I told her to dress up. No high waisted shorts and ratty 1975 tee. No - I meant tea length skirt and flats or something presentable. Yes it was a party; no, we were not pigs. Granted, there would be the presence of alcohol and illegal substances but Woodbridge High kids got wasted in class. 

“I’m so stoked!” Sorrel exclaimed, her voiced muffled behind the closet door, “Thank you, thank you, thank you-”

“Hurry up,” I snapped impatiently, wearily eyeing my Rolex for the ninth time, “We’re going to be late.”

“Keep your panties on grandma; I’m trying to find a shirt.”

“Well could you hurry up because if we don’t leave in the next 10 minutes, we’re going to be running late-”

“Is this okay?”

I sat up from her bed, blinked, and did a double take - no - a triple take.

Sorrel cleaned up; she really cleaned up. Ripped skinny jeans and t-shirt replaced by a pale green Ann Taylor Loft dress. For once, she didn’t look like, well, Sorrel.

“This was my sisters,” the girl explained, twirling a 360 twice before slipping on a pair of mildly worn out Tory Burch’s, “She wore this a few times on dates or whatever.”

“Well, I approve.”

“Well, you have no choice,” Sorrel teasingly mimicked, wrinkling her nose, “My only other option was one of my mom’s beaded cocktail dresses.”

We both violently shuddered at the mental image.

“Okay,” I finally stuttered, “Let’s go.”

The party paralleled Gatsby’s.

We reached the lawn, 10 minutes late, and already, the house looked trashed - at only 10:30 pm. It was a paradox. The house, deleteriously getting destroyed and vandalized by teenagers, sat on a serene beach under the calm moonlight. In the distance, you could hear the light howling of the wind and the consistent crashing of waves against the rocks that littered on the shore.

“This is so cool,” Sorrel whispered excitedly, clutching my arm like a lifeline as I towed her through the doorway, “I’ve never seen so many wasted, disoriented, slutty whores at one place in my entire life.”

I grimaced.

“What the hell, why is there a piñata?” she inquired quizzically, extending a slender finger in the direction of the paper mache donkey suspended from a wooden ceiling fan, “Aren’t we a little too old to be beating the crap out of that thing?”

A handful of guys and girls surrounded the donkey as they took turns beating it would a metal baseball bat, cheering whenever the piñata cracked and revealed the cardboard interior and small white packages inside.

“Aren’t we a little too old to be attempting to galvanize candy out of a cardboard donkey?”

“Not when the donkey’s inside is filled with joints, we’re not,” I scoffed and Sorrel wrinkled her nose distastefully, “That’s nasty.”

“Well that’s the way this party rolls - that’s life,” I reminded her, “You want to go home now or what?”

“No. No, no, no,” she shook her head violently and I found myself grudgingly towing her further into the house and into the kitchen where an assortment of alcohol littered the countertop.

“So what will it be,” a red headed boy smirked - who I assumed was the designated bar tender for the night - “We have Captain Morgan, Budwiser - light available - Samuel Adams, Blue Vodka, Strawberry Hill-”

“Danny, pick your poison,” Sorrel whispered into my ear annoyingly.

“Well, what do you want?”

“I’m driving you home, remember?”

“Oh right.”

Four bottles in and a handful of shots and I began to become hazy and disoriented. Everything seemed funny, fucking everything.

Even when Jenny Williams tripped in front of me and almost broke her neck.

I laughed non-stop. And my head. God my head hurt.

“You reek,” Sorrel muttered after I slung an arm over her shoulder as she lead me to a ratty couch in the corner of the living room, “You smell like booze and cheap cologne.”

“It’s Burberry,” I wearily defended before sneezing, “Fucking Burberry Sport.”

“Well your Burberry Sport smells like Burberry Shit.”

“Watch your mouth-” I coughed before groaning, “My head kills.”

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before chugging down all that alcohol.”

Yeah, no shit.

I suddenly jumped at the violent shriek, “Ew, what the hell are you doing here?”

I looked up to find a disgruntled Aspen Hamilton with her arms crossed over her chest, “Do I have to repeat myself? What the hell are you fucking doing here?”

“You know why I’m here Aspen,” I mumbled before letting my head fall back onto the couch, “Pres-presidential campaign.”

“Not you O’Connor.” The disgust in her voice seeped with venom, “You.”

Aspen pointed a perfectly manicured finger in Sorrel’s face, “Why the hell are you here, you social reject?”

“I’m the designated driver,” Sorrel snapped, slowly standing up, “What’s it to you?”

Aspen’s icy blue eyes glared into Sorrel’s chocolate ones, “I didn’t drop $850 of alcohol money for some poor, charity case to mooch off of. Shouldn’t you be at home, smoking weed with your pot head parents, Squirrel?”

“1.” Sorrel retorted calmly, “I’m not drinking your disgusting liquor. 2. I don’t smoke Marijuana.  And lastly, 3. I have every right to be here just as much as you do - Danny invited me to this party so why don’t you run along and go suck a dick or something.”

The shocked look on Aspen’s face was rewarded with a triumphant Sorrel’s.

“Danny,” Aspen slowly drawled, a sharp eyebrow raised as she nervously pulled on her blonde locks, “Did you invite Squirrel?”

I blinked. I squinted. I resisted the urge to puke.

My head hurt, my body was sore, my being longed to take a nap.

I opened my mouth to answer.

My head pounded like a kick drum and my words slurred into one another.

Then the booze started talking.

“No, I didn’t invite anybody.”