Navigating the dining hall while quasi-tipsy is a task proven to be much more difficult than I intended.
That, combined with my incoordination and my inability to walk in heels was a recipe for disaster. Really, I can only attribute it to pure luck that I hadn't fallen off a ledge and broken all 206 of my bones. Also doesn't help that the train of my too-long, uncooperative dress keeps sliding underneath my shoes. Luckily, my footwear is new, or else there would be prints all over the shiny fabric. I can't ruin the most expensive item in my wardrobe like this.
But I am a woman on a fucking mission, and I'd be damned if I let that stop me. I just needed to find Tara...or anyone for that matter. If it isn't blatantly obvious, I'm very desperate.
Grumbling curse words under my breath, I bunch the skirt that fans out with my hands, hoping to create enough space for mobility.
The stairway looks almost endless from the bottom floor. The spirals of velvety crimson carpet stretch to the sky. One hand on the carved white railway, I hold my breath, concentrating on bringing a foot up after another. Stumbling up a few steps, somehow I manage to make my way to the top and through a sea of bodies.
Suddenly, my toe collides with the side of a crinkled pillar, and a sharp pain jolts up my calf.
"Fuck me," I hiss rather loudly, earning a few wide-eyed glares from the guests around me who watch as I fumble to take off my strappy shoes, putting them against the wall.
"I mean—" I begin, slightly slurring my words once I notice that more people are lurking on while I try to figure out a way to save my image, "what I meant to say is that—uh—Jesus is our Lord and savior."
Real smooth.
The audience I've garnered simply exchanges a look of confusion amongst themselves, nodding as if what I am saying made complete sense. To be honest, I had no idea what was going on either. I'm not even religious.
Get a grip, I tell myself.
Thankfully, none of them question the nonsense I'm spewing, and with one shooing motion of the hand, they resume their more interesting conversations and sipping drinks of their own, most of the red wine variety.
A couple of caterers maneuver around me, balancing trays filled with bite-sized appetizers that I don't even know the name of. I wonder if the food here tastes as pretentious as it looks. I could really go for some McDonalds right now.
"Leighanna?" a semi-familiar voice calls, bringing their hands to my waist to steady me.
Through my squinted eyes and CCTV quality vision, I could only make out two faint silhouettes that likely belong to a man. Blinking furiously, my perception restores, and I realize that it's Hunter's dad, dressed in a navy blue suit, holding me up. Ripping away from his grasp, I slowly wobble to stabilize myself.
Whoops.
"That's—that's...my name," I confirm rather slowly, grabbing onto the air in an attempt to keep my balance, "...don't wear it out."
He grimaces, back stiffening enough so his posture is straightened. "Christ, you're hammered already? Tara told me you just got here."
The alarm bells are going off in my head. "Oh me? Nope. Not at all. I'm fine, I swear," I ramble, mostly to conceal my unease. Even in my drunken state, I could smell trouble off of him from a mile away.
Out of nowhere, my knees buckle, and I lean on the wall next to me for support.
"You need to sit down somewhere," he says, reaching toward me.
YOU ARE READING
your best american girl ✓
Teen FictionLeighanna Chua has always struggled to fit in. Left feeling disconnected between her suburban community and her own identity, she's determined to prove that she belongs. But when Hunter D'Medici, a boy who embodies the very essence of privilege, off...
