Laura Steven - The Exact Opposite of Okay

Update from the front line: Danny is off chatting up one of the cheerleaders, who looks like Michelle Obama’s younger sister, but he keeps glancing over at me to make sure I’m witnessing his superb flirtatious finesse. I just nod encouragingly for lack of anything better to do, trying to ignore the fact that to the untrained eye I look like a creepy uncle lurking on the edge of the dance floor and supporting his lecherous nephew’s efforts to get laid for the first time.

Ajita and I are chilling on a lime-green sofa in the living room. The house is rammed with sweaty teenage bodies, which are completely incongruous with the immaculate decor. The lighting is low and the music is loud, and everyone’s drinking beer out of plastic cups, spilling it all over the wooden floorboards. That’s gonna stink in the morning.

My best friend, bless her heart, is completely unperturbed by the fact I’m updating my blog while at a party. At this point in our friendship she’s pretty used to me tapping furiously on my phone’s touch screen as she chugs her beer and observes the teenage drama unfolding in full flow around us.

Baxter’s house is actually super nice, probably because his mom launched this tech start-up a couple years back and it’s really taken off. They used to live in a low-income housing community like mine, with metal bars over the windows to prevent break-ins, but now they’re firmly in the fancy part of town, where every mansion has at least three cars in the driveway. One of which is usually a Range Rover, let’s be real.

Inside, the house is like something out of an interiors magazine, with bold printed wallpaper, metallic sculptures and glass coffee tables. They’ve mixed it with that industrial chic look that’s so big now, all exposed brickwork and factory-style lighting. I’ll give it to them, it looks pretty cool. And thanks to my fancy shirt I don’t feel as out of place as I usually do.

“Fancy a game of beer pong?” I ask Ajita, who’s curled into the corner of the sofa with her shoes kicked off, hugging a black-and-white chevron-print cushion. She’s pretty buzzed after just two beers, on account of her severe tinyness.

“Nah, that requires moving,” she practically yawns. She’s a sleepy drunk. We haven’t seen either Carson or Carlie yet, but it’s possible they’re in another room. Judging by my best pal’s apathy toward the concept of physical activity, I guess we shall never know.

“Good point, well made,” I concede. “In that case, can I get you another bottle?”

“Now you’re talkin’.” She winks at me like some sort of gangster. I mean, gangsters probably don’t wink at each other all that much. But you know what I mean.

Oh God, Vaughan just arrived with his oily entourage. His hair is slicked back and his Abercrombie shirt is way too tight, and he has a swastika tattooed on his exposed chest. [I made that last bit up as I have a tendency to do.]

And now he’s scanning the room, probably scoping me out like those birds that hover in the air above their prey until they’re ready to strike. I don’t really know what kind of bird this is, but I swear I saw it on some nature documentary, or in real life, or on one of the rare occasions I was paying attention in class. It’s hard to distinguish at this point. Anyway, the analogy made perfect sense when I started typing, and I’ve committed now so I’ll stick to it.

I’m a worm. Or something. A drunk little worm trying to wriggle away from its gross predator.

BRB, off to dig a hole in the dirt and stay there until he goes away.

11.48 p.m.

Yeah I slept with Vaughan.

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