Dead Man's Party II
16 Aug 2020Today’s prompt: “It’s a big, raucous house party of drunken high-school students. Describe the scene in three ways: as one of the teens attending the party, as the police officer called to the scene, and as a parent of one of the teens.”
Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-da-da-da-da-bump. Ba-da-da-da-da-bump.
The house music finds its way into your veins. It rattles your spine, shakes your eye sockets, reverberates in the cartilage in your sinuses.
Are you one of the cool kids now? At least in terms of this party? You don’t usually get invited to parties like this, but it was one of your theater friends who gave you the invite.
You wander into the kitchen, all awkward smiles. A girl giggles and hands you a Solo cup. Your classmates watch you expectantly.
“What is it?” you ask.
“It’s a mudslide,” Ben, who’s kind of your friend and definitely one of the cool kids, says.
“What’s that?” you ask.
“It’s kind of like a milkshake. But boozier. You’ll like it.”
You take a sip. It’s good. Definitely different than a milkshake. But good.
Someone quickly ratchets down the volume on the stereo, and now you can hear the knocking at the front door. And a call of, “Police, open up!”
Shit, it’s your first fucking drink ever, and this happens? Are they going to arrest you for underage drinking, for your first sip of a fucking mudslide?
Your curiosity overcomes your fear. You peer around the kitchen doorway into the hallway that leads to the front door.
A sudden spray of bullets overtakes you.
Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-da-da-da-da-bump. Ba-da-da-da-da-bump.
Yep. This is definitely the house you’ve been getting noise complaints about.
You knock.
You knock louder.
You slam your fist against the door. “Police, open up!”
The decibels on the stereo drop, and you take a few breaths to try to calm yourself. The door opens.
A teenage punk answers the door. You’re about to launch into your standard speech about noise levels, when you see him reaching for something in his pocket. He’s starting to pull out something black, something that looks like a gun.
You’ve had your warrior training. You know it’s you or him.
You grab your gun from its holster and fire off several rounds. The punk lies on the ground, and so does a kid near a doorway, and an older woman. You stare down at the punk. You stare at the phone in his hand.
Shit.
And now you stare at all the phones around you, held by all the other teenagers in the house. How long have they been videotaping you? What did they capture?
Even if they didn’t get this recorded, can you live with yourself after this?
No. You cannot.
You raise your pistol to your temple.
Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-da-da-da-da-bump. Ba-da-da-da-da-bump.
Goddamnit, Kevin, where are you? Your son wasn’t supposed to be here.
“Excuse me,” you say to a girl in a bright pink tank top, “have you seen Kevin here?”
You see that look in her eyes, a mix of oh-shit-the-adults-are-here that resolves into oh-hah-I-am-so-going-to-give-Kevin-shit-about-this.
“Nope, haven’t seen him,” she says, and turns away from you and back to her dance partner.
“Do you have any idea where he might be?” you ask. She looks back at you, her expression now registering only annoyance.
“Maybe the kitchen?” she says.
You storm toward the kitchen. Kevin is going to get such an earful when you find him.
There he is, right in the hallway. “Kevin, what are you doing here?”
“Mom! It’s just a party. This is no big deal.”
“What are you drinking, young man?”
Kevin tries to hide the can behind his back, but can see you’ve already clocked it, and brings it back out. “It’s just a White Claw, Mom. It’s not a big deal.”
“Just a White Claw?” you shout over the pounding music. “You’re underage!”
“Whoa, you mean, these have alcohol?” Kevin says.
“You’re not fooling anyone, Kevin. Now let’s get home before –”
The music suddenly dies. “Police, open up!” you hear.
Great. You had actually hoped you could discipline your son at home without him possibly getting a criminal record.
One of the boys hosting the party opens the door. A few seconds later, you see the officer raise his gun. And all anger at Kevin drains away. He’s still your baby. You lurch in front of him as the bullets fly.