Planes Hanging from the Ceiling

1: Another One of Grace's Parties

Jake tried not to hate parties, but he couldn't help it - they were an excuse for underage kids to get wasted in the sanctuary of somebody's house when parents went away for a weekend. Jake wasn't a drinker, and he didn't smoke pot; the most fun he could have at parties was catching the WiFi password from the host before slinking off to a corner somewhere so he could do something, anything, on the Internet.

Jake tried not to hate parties, but Grace loved them. Grace Sung was perfect from her sleek black hair to her poetic-sounding name. Jake always said "Grace Sung" sounded like a sentence on its own. Then, he said it was ironic, because the only thing Grace was bad at was singing. Grace liked to ignore him when he said dorky things like that. This party in particular was important to Grace, because the guy she had a major crush on was here. It was rare that she had crushes on anyone, because she tended to get a lot of attention from boys without showing any back, but this was one of the first times Jake had seen her pursue someone the way she'd been.

"He's perfect," Grace told him, when she tried to convince him to go with her. "He's Korean. My parents would love him."

"If your only criteria for a partner is 'Korean,' you'll be happy to know that there are not one, but two Koreas," Jake had replied dryly, not even looking up from the punched out pieces of plastic he was glueing together for his model airplane. That was another thing Jake had always liked - model airplanes. He was rubbish at painting, but he had at least twelve of the little plastic planes (unpainted) hanging from his ceiling, and even more shoved in the bottom of his closet. Jake had agreed, not without complaining and bargaining, to go to the party, and the moment he and Grace walked up to the door, he regretted it.

Grace went to knock, but Jake grabbed her hand. "What's this guy's name again?"

"Smith," Grace said, rolling her eyes but smiling all the same. She was dressed impeccably, like usual, to suit her eerily slender frame. She was healthy, but she seemed so thin it was hard for Jake to understand how she existed. She had on a floral-patterned dress that cinched at the waist and flowed down to her knees, and her makeup was done flawlessly. Jake was almost jealous of the way she could radiate beauty without really trying. Grace knocked on the door.

The person who answered the door was not Korean, so Jake knew it wasn't their gracious host. He was a blond, stoner-looking guy from school named Austin. He blinked as he took the two of them in.

"Oh, hey," he shuffled backwards to clear the doorway, and the music hit Jake like a tidal wave. It was loud, that same stupid pop that played constantly on every nearby radio station. Jake hated Smith instantly. Austin and Grace were making small talk; Grace spoke in her normal, over-polite voice she reserved for strangers, while Austin droned on in his groggy monotone that made Jake want to smack him in the face.

Jake turned around to tug at Grace's skirt and beg her to drive him home in her little silver Toyota, but before he could she slipped away into the crowd of people. Jake hated when she did that, but knew why she did: she got away before he could get to the begging to be driven back to his comfy bed.

Jake weaved uncomfortably though the thrashing mess of bodies that were dancing and jumping and writhing far too eagerly with the music blaring over what seemed to be a high-tech sound system built into the house itself. He began to wonder if Smith's family was rich or middle-class, scooping up a handful of Tostitos without salsa and trying to find a cozy wall to nestle himself against. There were a good mix of people he recognized and people he didn't in the house, and everyone was grouped off into their own little cliques, either gossiping in hushed tones over red Solo cups or finding room to dance. When Jake was done eating his chips, he looked at his pale fingers splayed on his jeans and thought about what music he wished was playing instead of these corporately-owned pop stars. He liked a weird mix of stuff, but none of this crap made his list. While he was mulling over the music dilemma, he missed someone approaching.