“What’s going on here?” Lucie’s got enough booze in her bloodstream to act nasty. Agnes and I better watch out.
Agnes feels the same threat hanging in the air. She even backtracks straight into the kitchen island. “We were talking about that English school.”
“Ah, Colette?” Lucie takes my hand. “I go there too.”
Tony, who has followed Lucie to the kitchen, raises his finger. “So do I, by the way.” Tony clearly doesn’t think Agnes is the enemy. From the look of it, he would prefer to ask her out. But I know he won’t. As brave and bold as my best friend is in so many aspects, girls are not one of them.
Lucie pounces on me and flattens me against the fridge while Agnes looks away. “You look so hot tonight.”
“Thanks, baby.”
Lucie always tells me I’m hot. It’s either flattering or it just means I have literally nothing else of interest to offer. But you don’t know Lucie as I do: when a girl of her calibre calls you hot and pins you against an appliance, you thank her, and you do what she says. Rich, super smart, gorgeous and athletic, she could have anyone in the world, but when she arrived at Colette last fall, she gave up her fancy mates in favour of Tony and me. So, I let her squeeze and probe me without complaining, even as the amount of booze I have drunk is starting to make me feel completely wasted.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
I press my lips together. “Nothing.”
“Nothing. Really?” Her forehead creases. “You’re two hours late, you don’t want to go with me to the bathroom, you disappear into the kitchen, and I find you flirting with some bitch minutes after you’ve arrived.”
“Oh, come on, don’t call her a bitch. We were just talking.”
“Just say it! You’re interested in her.”
Here’s the truth: when you’re as anxious as I am, keeping up an air of nonchalance demands a lot of energy, which means I sleep a lot. I either sleep, or I run, to make up for all the sleeping. It’s as simple as that. Who has time to have a mistress when one’s married to chronic anxiety? But I say nothing. My silence, which she cherishes on so many occasions, now only serves to antagonise her.
“Forget it!” Her tone sounds like the gavel after a death sentence. She whips around and walks off, eyes blazing, toward the dance floor.
“Hey, Agnes?” I turn to her and gently nudge Tony between us two. “Have you met Tony? He’s a legend, an absolute rockstar.”
Tony puffs up his chest. “Why, thanks, my dear Lou—”
“Do you guys have a band?” Agnes’s face lights up.
Tony snorts. “No need for that. It’s the attitude that counts, you see.” She seems a little disappointed by his answer, but he doesn’t notice. “It’s an act of rebellion, a way of being truly unapologetic about who you are, you know. Fuck the system, the patriarchy, and everything in between. Let me start at the beginning. Have you read Marx?”
Agnes’s shoulders sag, but she’s stuck with him now. I know this stuff by heart, being his first and best student, so I quickly slip out of the kitchen. Now, changing the music is of critical importance, or Lucie’s going to stay pissed off. I’ve already pushed her too far tonight. Proof: she’s dancing to Beyoncé, flailing her arms around and spearing me with her pale glare at the same time. I’m going to have to go in. No looking back.
I wish I had more booze.
“Lou, baby, you made it!” As though she heard my plea, our magnificent hostess Sacha finally makes an appearance, clad in sequins and wearing hoops like Ferris wheels. She pushes her hips into mine, holds a shot under my nose. She smells of Malibu. “Why don’t you have a little fun?”
Sacha’s a horny drunk, and the sequins of her dress are digging into my skin through my clothes, but she’s all right, really. She’s got a tenacious spirit and can take rejection like no one. Oddly enough, that doesn’t apply to women. If a girl hurts her feelings, she’ll never be forgiven. I like Sacha, we’ve been acquainted since we were in diapers.
I take the offered shot and toss it back. I love the way it burns on the way down. “Thanks, Sacha. Can I change the music?”
She giggles. “If you can get past François. He made the playlist.”
“Yes, I can hear that.”
She shakes her head. Her massive earrings catch the light like a disco ball. “Be nice to François, he thinks you’re so cool.”
The hell with François, I need Lucie to like me again. With a grimace, I toss back a second shot, then slowly wade my way through the flailing limbs, laughing mouths, and glitter hairspray.
Near the sound system, François is trying, and failing, to light a cigarette. The ridiculous hat perched on top of his almost red head says “2008” in gigantic gold letters. He’s drinking from a blue cocktail with a paper umbrella in it.
Behind me, Lucie is pretending to have fun dancing to Enrique Iglesias and rubbing her arse against Lars, our only Danish student. He looks both mystified and terrified she might disappear if he makes the wrong move. A side glance informs me Agnes has had enough of Tony. He’s hovering on the edge of the crowd, his brow furrowed. The responsibility to save this party is solely mine.
But to get to François, I must first go through Yasmine. I must proceed with caution. She takes shit from no one, especially not Tony or me, whom she’s known since before kindergarten. She will flatten me with the back of her hand if I dare make a bad joke. She’s also fiercely protective of François, for reasons beyond my understanding.
She sees my sweaty face and arches a perfect eyebrow. “What do you want, Mésange?” Uh oh, the oldest trick in the book, calling me by my surname. She’s all business. My only way out is to feign drunkenness.
“Yas’! I’m so glad to see you!” I manage to throw her off by flinging my arms around her neck, and, in my hasty demonstration of affection, knock over her glass of champagne. The liquid splatters over her navy dress, and she lets out a curse that makes François jump off his perch on the TV stand. I don’t have to fake the apprehension on my face; I’m honestly terrified she might punch me. “I’m sorry, Yasmine. I was just so happy to see you.”
“Now I’ve got to get cleaned up! Don’t move, I’ll come back for you.” Her murderous eyes do not leave me as she stomps out of the crowd toward the main corridor.
That’s a problem for future Louis. Immediately, I slither in the tight space between the wide armchair and François and light his cigarette with the flick of my thumb. He watches me with wide eyes. I, too, light a cigarette, accidentally blow smoke in his face, and start giggling nervously. “I don’t get how champagne on a dark dress deserves so much fuss, but I’m not exactly great at understanding fashion.”
François gives me a look, but he doesn’t smile. He takes a large swig of his cocktail and almost dips his nose in it. He’s not having fun at all. I’ve never even seen him looking so downcast.
This looks serious. I remove my sunglasses and put them in my pocket. “What’s up with you?”
“One of these days…” he sniffles. “Everyone’s having a good time but I just can’t.” He looks at my puzzled face and shrugs. “Ignore me. I think I just need to get laid.”
I give him an awkward pat on the shoulder. “Then get laid.”
“Do you think it’s as easy as saying ‘get laid’? Unless you have someone for me?”
I shake my head, and he lets out a long, terrible sigh. Poor François. He’s an absolute dildo, but no one should be miserable on NYE, take it from me.
“Hang on, hang on.” After a short while ruffling through my pockets, I fish out a joint, perfectly rolled yesterday by the small and expert hands of Lucie. “I can’t help you get laid, but I can help you get high, so you won’t worry about it anymore. How about that?”
François accepts my offer and even returns a smile. “Thanks, Lou, that’s nice of you. Are you sure you want to give it to me?”
“That’s all right. I smoke too much anyway.”
“You know…”
“What?”
“Since you’re nice to me, can I tell you something helpful?”
“Sure. I’m all ears.”
François picks up one of my locks and drops it with a grimace, “Your hair, you should, you know… wash it once in a while.”
“It’s grunge.”
“It’s disgusting. And you would be so good-looking if you made an effort.”
I’m already good-looking, and François commenting about the way I look just feels even more awkward. I have zero ideas on what to think about it, even less on what to say about it, so I stick my lighter under his nose to light up the joint.
“So, François. Sacha has asked me to change the music.” Smooth transition. Impeccable. 20/20.
“That’s impossible,” François declares, blowing out smoke. “Sacha hates your music. Everyone does.”
Rubbish. But that’s not the point.
I force a smile. “But Sacha likes me. She said I could change the music.”
“It’s almost midnight.”
“Yes! And do you want to celebrate the new year to this crap, or do you want a hymn that represents youth and hope and ideals and—”
François holds up a hand. “Lou, come on. Stop lying. Tell the truth, for once. And maybe, maybe, I’ll let you play your music.” He rolls his eyes and doesn’t budge when I try to nudge him away from the sound system.
I give up with a frustrated sigh. “The truth? Really? I need Lucie to like me again.”
“Why, what have you done this time?”
I open my mouth to speak, but I suddenly don’t know what to say.
François clicks his tongue. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Your girlfriend is always mad anyway.” François would know. Lucie used to hang out with the Golden Fork before she discovered her inner rockstar and ditched them all to hang out with Tony and me. However, they’re still friendly.
“I thought you liked her.”
“I do,” he says, “but she’s always angry, that’s true.”
“She’s only angry at me, not the others.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I’m always late, among other things.”
“That’s true. People call you Ever-Late Lou behind your back.”
Wrong! It’s not behind my back if I know about it, dumb-dumb. But anyway. “If you don’t do it for her, do it for me. Or I’ll spend the first day of the year single and miserable, and it will be your fault.”
François puts his head in his hands and groans. “Fine! But only because you gave me weed.”
Works for me. François steps away from the sound system, and seconds later, the comforting and feverish sound of Kaiser Chiefs is blaring through the speakers, and Yasmine is glaring at me from the kitchen door, knowing full well what I’ve done. Gesturing at François with a grin, I show her I have his permission. There’s nothing she can do to me now.
Pushing into the crowd, Tony joins me, shaking his head. “I wish my life were as easy as yours. You always get what you want.”
Dancing in place, I pretend I didn’t hear that. “What did you say?”
He’s drunk, it doesn’t matter. What matters is Lucie. She has this baffled look that she reserves for me, the one that says: “I can’t believe I’m dating Fake-Kurt Cobain.”
She runs into my arms and laughs in my face, all anger forgotten. Tony, bobbing up and down, is shouting more than singing out the lyrics. Midnight is seconds away, and all of our faceless bodies are dancing together, too happy and too drunk to hurt or to care.
10 … 9 … 8 … 7 … 6 … 5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1 …
Not yet eighteen but at the top of my world, obsessed with my own madness, sandwiched between the two people I love the most in the world, I don’t want it to end.
I think I’ve got it all figured out.
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