Inferno

sixteen | the flashback

2015

Music so loud, the roof might blow up and shatter into plaster, throbs inside the annual bash of the Falcons' infielder. The season's over and in keeping with the ritual at our high school that's been passed down through bloodlines and decades, the team celebrates their last game on the Monday after, as some sort of symbol to their rebellion. None of this extravaganza is usually my taste or something I want to get into, but it's their ultimate victory and my boyfriend is their pitcher, so marking my attendance and quaffing down a beer becomes a part of the deal no matter how much I'm disgusted by every inch of this reeking villa.

"Just to be clear, you owe me one for doing this," We sidle our way past sweaty armpits and drunk baseball players with a thing for Drake.

"Really? And here I thought I'd already handed my life over to you," a protective arm around me, he presses sloppy kisses on my neck, making my knees turn wobbly.

"Alright, it's your night, soak it in. But if I find you going beyond three shots of anything... your life, my hands, I promise I'll squash it," my finger pressed against his denim jacket, I demand an answer from him more assuring than a humble nod.

"I swear, just one beer, nothing else." Clasping my hands within his, he leans in for a quick kiss before going over to the first floor of the villa, finally moving the congratulatory queue he's got waiting from people who're just not content with their social class in high school.

He deserves it all, though.

Alone for a short while, I stick to lingering in the kitchen, the only place where there's minimal risk of getting drinks spilled on me and of having to bear through burpy flirtations. The kitchen counter is cold against my thighs, settled on top while my legs fling in air, involuntarily swaying to Charlie Puth's Attention. I'm tempted for an orange vodka, but well aware if he's restraining I cannot too. Thankfully my attention's diverted to the clattering of a pair of boots coming my way, belonging to Madison O'Hare, the prom queen of Falcons and daughter of Arizona's two time mayor. Burgundy hair falling to her waist, she's busy concocting something with gin and fruit punch, barely even realising I'm there until I choke on my lemonade.

Eyes sparking with curiosity, she grabs her solo cup and walks up to me with her known poker face and contrasting tinted cheeks. "You're in Mr. Green's journalism class, right? First bencher, quiet and broody."

I just nod, hoping she'd take a hint and go play rapid fire with someone else just as buzzed as her. Instead she hops on the counter as well, side eyeing me. "Can I help you?"

"I'm just making conversation," she shrugs, gulping her entire drink in a sprint and then making a poor aim for the dumpster in the corner. She straightens out her tennis skirt, sighing when her phone pings on her side. "So you're going to become, what, a reporter after college?"

"I'm leaning towards editorial work," Chugging down the lemonade, I now wish it had some spirit dissolved to help me through this conversation.

"So that's your dream? I mean, no offence, sounds good, but you look like there's this fire inside you and I didn't think it was for a desk job," laughing in tattered beats, she shakes her head, her gaze fixated on a couple students brawling over the last of the Budweiser.

"Editors do more than that, and you might not know, but there's some things important beyond fame as well, in life," I get off the pedestal, leaving her be, yet feeling her words stay behind and in that same silky, hammered voice.