Are We Having Fun Yet?
Music blares from the speakers, rattling the pictures on the walls. The tune was audible halfway down the Gardners' winding driveway; at close range it's almost too loud to identify. Mark Emerson endures it as long as he can, and then locks himself in the upstairs bathroom in an effort to escape from the noise for a few minutes. The downstairs bathroom is already occupied, and likely to be for a while.
Jessica, his main reason for being here at all, vanished forty-five minutes ago into a sea of giddy teenagers. He made no more than a token effort to keep track of her; he is no more fond of her company than she is of his, and no more happy to be here than she is happy to have him along. Eventually he will have to search her out and drive her home, but he has no mind to play dutiful brother in the midst of the current chaos.
"I'm getting too old for this," he tells the shower curtain wryly.
As if in answer, there comes a knock on the door, accompanied by a spate of nervous giggles. He takes a deep breath, straightening, and unlocks it. "Sorry."
"Mark?" It's Lindsay, his gracious hostess, eighteen years old today. She is leaning on the scantily-clad shoulder of one of her friends. "Oh. That's where you went."
"Yeah." Wincing a little, he moves to slip past them.
"Jess went off somewhere with Michael," Lindsay pronounces, and staggers into the bathroom, shutting the door smartly behind her. Behind the din from downstairs, he can hear her being thoroughly sick. Miss Hospitality.
The other girl, an auburn-haired waif wearing too much makeup, catches at his sleeve and beams up at him. "This is something else, huh?" she confides.
"I think that's an accurate description."
She giggles. "Yeah. --You're Jess's brother? Right?"
"Yeah. I should really be looking for her." He tries to free his arm, but she clings like a burr, peering at him with what she probably thinks is a knowing smile.
"Mmm. Don't think you better do that."
"Yeah, I ought to."
"Nah. She's with Mi-chael. Bu-sy." She sways a little in time with her singsong, still grinning. "I'm Kristi."
Mark pries her fingers loose as gently as he can. "Yeah. Nice to meet you."
Kristi giggles again. "I'm not busy."
"That's nice. 'Scuse me."
"You wanna be busy?"
"I am, actually. Looking for my sister."
"Nah. You know." She knots her fingers in his sleeve again, and inquires earnestly, "Anybody ever tell you you're really freakin' cute?"
He pulls free, suddenly exasperated. "That's what my girlfriend says. 'Scuse me."
"Is she here?" pragmatic Kristi wants to know, but he is on his way down the stairs, queasy with the reek of alcohol and the relentless vibrations from the stereo. He threads his way through the crowd of Lindsay's friends, and ducks out the front door.
Damn drunken high-school idiots.
The night is warm, fragrant with freshly mown grass and the faint smell of hot asphalt. Moths circle in the light that spills from the windows. There is no one else visible, although he can hear a steady rustling and possibly a snicker from the trees a short way off. He stands at the edge of the lawn for a minute, breathing deeply.
Screw it. She can walk home.
He goes down the driveway, digging his keys out of his pocket, opens the car door, and jumps back as Jessica lets out a shriek.
"Jesus Christ, Mark!"
"What the fuck--"
"Oh, for God's sake," he says in disgust.
"Can't I get any privacy?" his sister wails, clinging to her cursing boyfriend's shoulder while she tugs her skirt down. "God! You scared me to death-- Goddamn it, Mark-- what are you doing?"
"Figure it out." He turns the key in the ignition. "Mike, old buddy, buckle your seatbelt or get out. We're going home."