It's a Buxaplenty Party

[Prologue] /I like large parties. They're so intimate.\

[Prologue]
/I like large parties. They're so intimate.\

He hadn't noticed it at first, despite how eye-catching the envelope was. It was tucked snugly between bills and various magazines his parents were subscribed to, as if it was trying to hide from his sight.

Timmy suppressed a grimace as he picked up the glittering envelope, staring at the return address, a bitter taste on his tongue. He would have thrown it away without a second thought, but his mom, who had previously been working on dinner, reached across the table and grabbed the letter before he even had the chance to rip it into pieces.

"Oh!" she chirped, staring at it with far too much interest, if Timmy was being honest, "A letter from the Buxaplenty's?" she carefully opened it, not wanting to ruin the glittering paper and the wax seal that had been used to close it.

"It's probably just bragging about how rich they are," Timmy stated flatly, keeping his attention on the mail that still littered the table, making work of sorting it into piles for his parents.

His mom gave a small gasp, a wide smile spreading across her face, "It's an invitation!" she exclaimed.

Timmy paled, quickly snapping his head in his mom's direction, "A what?"

"An invitation," Mrs. Turner repeated, unable to mask her excitement.

As if on cue, Timmy's dad burst into the kitchen, running over to his wife and peering over her shoulder, "We got an invitation to a party being hosted by the Buxaplenty's?!" his eyes were wide with surprise and excitement as he turned to Timmy, placing his hands on his shoulders, "Son, do you know what this means?!"

"A night with a room full of stuffy rich people who don't do anything other than laugh obnoxiously about how much better they are then everyone else?" he asked plainly, staring at Mr. Turner with a bored expression. He had no interest in attending the party. It was just another way for Remy to mock him, and tell him how much better he was than him and his friends.

Though, now that Timmy thought about it, he hadn't really heard as much of Remy's cruel comments as he used to. It made a stone of anxiety settle in his stomach. He probably hadn't been teasing him as much because he was planning something big—elaborate, even.

"No!" Mr. Turner corrected, "It means free food!" he was grinning from ear to ear, mind already thinking up ways he would be able to take food with them before they left the event.

"It means a night full of dancing to elegant music and drinking expensive wine," Mrs. Turner sighed dreamily, eyes half lidded, staring off into the distance as if she could just picture what awaited her at the party.

Suddenly, both of his parents shared a startled look, then shouted in unison, "We need to find something to wear!" as they rushed out of the kitchen, leaving the invitation to flutter gracefully on the table in the (now ruined) pile of mail that had been disrupted upon his parent's departure.

Timmy sighed heavily, picking up the invitation and looking it over. As expected, the letters curved and looped in a beautiful harmony that most people could only dream of acquiring. It took every fiber in him to not crumble it up and toss it in the trash. He didn't want to go, but if his parents were going, he had no doubt in the back of his mind that he would be dragged along with them.

It was just in their nature to make him go to things he didn't want to. He trudged out of the kitchen and climbed up the stairs to his room, invitation in hand. If he was being honest, it still didn't feel real. The question that still didn't have a definite answer rang in his mind, Why would the Buxaplenty's invite us to a party?

He could pick out his theories, of course, but the only real person who could answer that question was the blond, rich kid himself. He pulled open the door to his bedroom, stepping in. His gaze fell on the invite as he took a seat on his bed, eyebrows knitted together. Something told him, far in the back of his mind, that there was more to it than a simple flaunting of their wealth. There had to be. After all, this was Remy he was talking about.

"Hopefully I'll at least see people I know there," he muttered to the empty air in his room, tossing the letter on his bed side table as he stood up and made his way over to his closet, digging through it to see if he had anything remotely decent for the party.