How to Have a Good Time By David Raygoza 10:47pm At The Party, the one you dont think about

much, Jess told you she didnt feel anything, and probably never had, so she had decided, we shouldnt date anymore. She had said we and date complete with air quotation marks and pity eyes, implying you, or we, had been delusional, and that what you had done wasnt actually date but perhaps hallucinate dates and imagine yourselves intimately, fabricate nights and emotions completely, because that was a thing you did. She said she was sorry and that she hoped you would understand and that Senior year was supposed to be fun but that all it had been as stressful and that you had a stain on your shirt. All that time youre wondering why youre here. Not existentially, but at The Party. How had you ended up with Jess, holier and more perfect than thou, Handen? How had you let yourself get dragged to this End of the Year Were-Seniors-Lets-Grind-and-Drink-and-Smoke-andScrew Party? The stain, of course, was no mystery, because every teen with a car or a friend was at this party, and every teen with a car or a friend planned on drinking, and every teen that planned on drinking also planned on dancing, and so the spills coated Everything from tile to carpet to cat to pool, but Jess had felt nothing? What had you felt? Had you felt? You stand there at The Party, wondering if this is a good thing or a bad thing and if the people looking at you care about the stain or the break up. Words spread quickly through moist lips. How poetic, you think to yourself. Pushing past them, their necks crane and follow you out. They wonder if youll binge drink all night, pouring out your feelings and liver into a toilet, or if youre chasing after Jess, and if so, will you kiss her triumphantly or slap her and give them Youtube material. Or at least you figure thats what theyre thinking. Not that you care. You arent doing any of those things. Youre calling Derek. 11:02pm Youre sitting on the curb and youre calling Derek. Dereks not your friend, hes not your brother, hes not even a ride home. Dereks your Dealer. Dereks going to show up and hes going to be polite and hes going to treat you like a Bro and then hell hand you a dime bag or a plastic cylinder and youll hand him cash, thats how it works. The small talk will be just that, if not smaller. Miniscule talk. Obligatory verbal transaction before the voluntary herbal consumption. As the phone connects your call, you turn around and look back at the house. While you sat on the curb, two more cars pulled up, each producing three-to-four teens, mostly males, but maybe two of them were girls. It doesnt matter. There wont be enough for everyone. The sexual frustration insides going to burst. You watched these kids, these classmates, score 1900s on their SATs and now youre watching them lust over each other, watching them drink and smoke and have a good time. A good time. Dereks answering machine. You dont leave a message. Hell be at this party eventually, you

figure. A good time. Sometimes, when youre feeling very judgmental, you notice the twentysomething parents at the mall, pushing the strollers with their dead eyes, or holding their toddlers hands while ignoring the Daddy, daddyss or the Mommy, mommys, and you think to yourself, well at least they had a good time that one night, right? Immediately, you regret it. You tell yourself thats an awful thing to think. You dont know their life. But here, on this curb, smelling the pheromones and pot, you hope theyre having a good time. This better be worth it. Eyes getting misty, and its only Eleven. You head inside. Maybe a drink will wake you up. 11:16pm Inside, the atmosphere has gotten admittedly goofy. Everyones hornier than Greeks and all conversations are inner rants disguised as giggles. The air feels thick, and you cant tell if its sweat transmorphed into humidity or the air conditioning mating with the weed, but either way it seems awful. Worse than marching band bus rides. You take a shot, to wake you up. Spin the bottle, truth or dare, skinny dipping in the pool, childhood games finally reaching their peak. But you arent really one to talk. Youve been here before. Youve done all this and more, you just dont talk about it. Because youre mature now. Ivy League in the Fall. But if you hadnt had a good time at some point you wouldnt have gotten invited at all. You take another shot. Thats how you got here, thats how you got Jess. You got here with the good time and you got Jess with the Ivy. Its not so hard to get places or people, as long as youve got the reputation to back it up. God, the music here sucks. All these stable-economy middle class kids listening to hip hop on huge speakers. They know who 2pac is but they dont know or care why. Its lost on them, the struggle. What are you going on about? You do this too much. Think. You think too much. Another shot. The buzz starts to settle, and you notice Jess across the room. Shes texting on her phone. She doesnt belong here. Shes so pure and wholesome, its why you liked her in the first place. You liked that she was intelligent and didnt drink, you liked the way she wore her hair, and that she chose dresses over shorts in the summer. You want to get her out of here. You can be her knight in shining armor. Carry her over the river of booze, past the dragon breaths of marijuana and smoke, into the safe haven of the park or the lake. Somewhere you two could be alone. Wait. What? Why do you care? You dont. Do you? What had you felt? Had you felt? It doesnt matter, because Derek slaps you awake. Literally, he slaps your cheek. Sup, Big Baller, he asks, with a stupid grin on his face as he scopes out the party. Jess broke up with me, you tell him, not that he cares. Sorry to hear that, man, he grabs your shoulder. Holden was right, everyones a phony. He follows up his genuine sympathy with a very selfless You looking for a little pick me up? So, what? You cant argue or scoff. Youre on his missed calls list. Everyone at this party is looking for a little pick me up. Yeah, a bit, you tell him. Well, man, I hate to break it to you, but I dont even got a bit. You turn to him, expecting this to be a joke. Get it? Jess broke up with you, you got drunk at a party and didnt even try to score, then your dealer shot you down. How funny. Sorry, man, he tells you, sounding a lot more sincere than when he apologized for Jess. The towns dry right now. You start to leave, maybe head toward Jess, maybe head toward home, maybe jump in the pool, when Derek stops you.

Unless, you REALLY want some. Meaning, you ask. Meaning, you come with me to pick some up and we hotbox the car all night, or come back here with party favors. Where would we go? Not too far, he assures you. You look around. Jess, pool, shots, weed. Weed you could easy mooch off someone. Here and not somewhere with Derek. But Jess. If you stay here, youll talk to her, and if you talk to her youll grovel. If you dont grovel youll fight. So you turn to Derek and you say All right, lets go. 11:29pm You dont like having the vodka shots in your stomach. You dont like the smell of it in your mouth. What you do like is the fluidity it allows you, you feel less restricted. You remember, though. You remember waking up in your own house and finding it absolutely trashed. Glass broken, liquor stolen or spilt, and speakers burst. You remember the pain in your head and your stomach, oh god, your stomach. You dont like having the vodka shots in your stomach. You think about telling Derek to pull over, but youre in a hurry, the quicker the better. Its only Eleven-Thirty and you want a bed, where did the good time go? Oh, right, it went into a pump. You remember that after standing up, and all the pain, and trying to clean up the vomit in your bathtub (not yours), and throwing away the condoms (not yours), you remember passing out and seeing a sister (yours) crying. Her dialing, you gagging, them inserting a tube into your throat. You remember these things and you remember not being able to pay. So you called your parents, and they were so scared. They were so scared and so not angry that it made you want to cry and it made you want to not have a good time anymore. Now you dont like having the vodka shots in your stomach. But, you do have them in there, so cest la vie, right? Derek stops the car and turns to you. Showtime, he says. Getting out of the car, walking toward the house with the thundering bass, standing there as Derek knocks on the door. A big, pale kid wearing an ever bigger Sublime shirt opens the door. He looks you over and instantly you know that he knows youre no threat. You puff out your chest just a bit, stand a little taller, and the slightest smile forms on the Big Mans face. He waves the two of you in. Everyone in the house is either huge or tiny, apparently stoners have no middle ground. The atmosphere feels a lot like The Partys, except there are less people and none of them look like theyre having any real fun. Theyre mostly just sitting and watching Comedy Central or MTV, you cant tell, maybe both. Derek works the room like a business man at a convention, highfiving everyone, or doing that hand-shake/pound thing you could never do. Derek asks them where Craig is. You laugh out loud and everyone turns to you, but its cool because you blame it on the buzz, when really youre laughing at how apparently the towns major drug supplier is named Craig, which has got to be the lamest name ever and especially lame when drug business people are supposed to have bad ass named. Well, thats what The Wire and Breaking Bad has taught you, at least. They tell Derek that Craig isnt here, hes looking for someone who hasnt paid up. Derek tells them to call him when Craigs in because time is of the essence, and they nod with the weight of monks addressing the Dalai Lama. Time is of the essence, right man,

yeah, well tell Craig, anything you say One with All the Dope. They are pretty zen, you think, sitting here all day and night, eyes red and alert with consciousness, quietly contemplating the Kardashians and Snooki. When we get back in the car, I ask Derek What now? He turns to me and tells me, Now we score. 12:00am You look at the clock on the dashboard. The witching hour, you think to yourself. Derek pulls up to the driveway, punches you playfully on the arm. The Party is in full swing. This is its peak. There are people in the bedrooms and in the backseat of trucks, others are fleshing out the pantry, and the rest alternate between dancing in the living room and pushing each other into the pool. How fun. Derek takes out a pipe shaped like a ladys legs and lights it, drawing in every ounce he can before setting it down on a table and exhaling. Pass that around, fellas. Lets party, he yells, a war cry before entering the battlefield. Youre left there standing by yourself and you start to wonder where Jess is, if shes all right. Did she get a ride home? Is she asleep somewhere in the house? Is she in the backseat with someone? And then you remind yourself that it doesnt matter. Shes not yours anymore. Youre allowed to worry, but youre not allowed to do anything about it, so cest la vie. Might as well have a good time while youre here. You take another shot. 12:33am You like having the vodka shots in your stomach. You like the girls in the pool with their bikinis just right. You like the guy in the living room saying all the funny stuff. You like it all. 1:12am This isnt good. What are you doing? You should have gone home. You should have taken Jess home when you saw her. You should have stopped her from breaking up with you and you should have 1:25am No more Derek. No more drik no more praty only Jess.Youll be good again. Pinky promiz. 1:40am You walk up to Derek. You say, no more Derek! He laughs and says, Okay, buddy. You say, no really! No more Derek. He says, Ill miss you, bud. You turn around a big guy in a Sublime shirt punches you right in the ear. You think its bleeding, but maybe youre crying. Anyway, somethings on your cheek, cest la vie, good time, where are the shots.

9:54am Twitter says The Party was crazy and that they cant believe Craig beat up Derek. Apparently Derek was keeping the supplier cash for himself. Probably how he paid for gas and also was able to afford his classy pipe. Twitter also thinks you took the hit like a BAMF. Your cheek is bruised. Dont really feel like a BAMF. But, itll heal by Fall so whatever. You think to yourself: Ivy Leagues, here we come.