I’m the coolest person at this party.
I’m not the most fun person at this party, but I’m the coolest person by far. The cool people are the ones who are quiet and mysterious. I haven’t talked to anyone yet and I’ve been here for half an hour.
Cool people don’t bombard the other guests with a deluge of jokes and stories. They make witty comments that are heard by a select few. These comments ring of truth and inspire respect. When Julia tells a rambling story about her trip to the hairdresser, I wait until she’s done and then understatedly say to the person on my left, “If only her hairdresser could have cut that story short”. When she does not respond, I say it again a little louder. There is a silence, then she laughs without smiling. But it’s still a laugh. Point: me.
I’m not drunk. I can’t risk getting sloppy. Not now, not while I’m ahead. When I was offered a shot, I scoffed. I’m far too mature for shots. I just lean against a corner, sipping on my Capris Sun. It’s not an immature drink: it’s ironic and funny. People get it. It takes a little while to get the straw in, but once it’s in, it’s time to feel the sunburn. That’s what I call the high I get from Capris Sun.
I see someone attractive on the other side of the room. I could go say something, but I know he will come to me. I’m like a magnet. And the other guests are like marbles. Some marbles are magnetic and some aren’t. Most of the guests here are the nonmagnetic kind, as they have not been speaking to me. But I can tell this guy is a magnetic marble. And he’s about to roll on over to my corner.
I’ve spilled my Capris Sun while trying to make eye contact with that guy. No matter. I’m wearing two shirts. I wasn’t sure what the vibe of the party was going to be, so I put on a t-shirt underneath my well-tailored blouse. I take off my blouse, and now everyone can see my cool t-shirt. It is from a Hanson concert. I was front row.
Unfortunately, I’m not sure where to put my blouse now. I feel weird holding it. I decide to give it to the attractive guy. That’s high-level flirting. He’ll get it. Even though I’m not entirely sure if I myself get it, he’ll fill in the blanks.
I walk over to the guy and hand him my blouse. No explanation. He asks what I’m doing. I don’t say anything.
“Are you okay? Are you on drugs? Do you need help?” he inquires, obviously playing into my game.
“I’m on Claratin. My allergies are terrible,” I respond. This is once again very witty, but also true.
I decide to exit the conversation on this note, as it is memorable. I’ve written my number on the tag of the blouse, which I’m sure he’ll check to see whether or not it is machine washable. It isn’t.
I wander into a nearby room and see a piano. It just so happens that I took piano lessons in second grade, and I still know some songs. Not so much songs as scales, but both are just a sequence of notes anyway. I can see it in my mind—people will hear my faint but moving tunes in the other room and come find me. I will assure them that I’m embarrassed and refuse to play more, but they’ll press me. I’ll relent. Then I’ll jam with them until they verbally acknowledge that I’m the coolest person at this party.
And hell if I’m not the coolest person at this party.
I start with a middle C. A classic note. Then I begin to ascend the keys. I run through the full length of the piano several times. No one joins me. I begin to play louder. Nothing. I begin to shout the name of the note that I am playing as I play it. Nada. Finally, I loudly exclaim in a fake accent, “Ohhh, you are so good at piano! I have to leave now but the other guests should come listen to you!” in an attempt to fool the party-goers into thinking that an interesting foreign person thinks I’m good. No luck.
As I leave the room, I see that many of the guests are on their phones. I should probably check my texts as well. Who knows what important person could be trying to contact me. I have one new text, the first one in weeks. But it’s quality, not quantity, that matters. It’s from T-mobile. I’m almost at my data limit. Probably because of all the videos I’ve been streaming about rock polishing. If you think you can just let your rock polisher do all the work while you sit back on your futon, then you must be inhaling paint fumes on the reg.
I get a second text. I’m not surprised. My mom wants to know if I’m the one recording every rerun of Mythbusters and whether or not she can delete them from our DVR. I am, and she can’t.
Then I look out the window and see a group of people standing on the porch. I’m upset that I didn’t think of the porch before. It’s the part of the house that’s most on the fringe. That’s where the cool people are.
I walk up and introduce myself. One guy asks if I’m the girl who had the Capris Sun. Looks like I’ve made an impression after all. Bingo.
A girl offers me a cigarette. I’ve never smoked before, but if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that if a PSA advises against something, then that thing is definitely cool. And I often watch anti-smoking PSAs on YouTube. It’s a hobby.
I accept. I accidentally light the wrong end of the cigarette. The group begins to laugh, but I quickly recover by putting it out on the side of the house and then eating it. I’m pretty sure that’s what people mean when they say they do edibles. It tastes horrible, but I can tell from the stoic looks on my comrade’s faces that they’re impressed. Who wouldn’t be. I only gagged a little.
But now I should go. Cool people never stay too long. They always have a better place to be. And I have to get to bed early if I want to be up in time to go geocaching before the parks get crowded.
I slip away into the night, smiling as I go. I can only imagine that the party falters in my absence. I was its glue, its allure, its heart. I was the coolest person at the party.