First story, please constructively criticize!
I swear to god I'm not drunk. Everything is just hazy. I'm not drunk. My mind is thinking in upmost clearness. I am completely aware of everything going on around me. I am especially aware of the gorgeously cute guy sitting on my lap, kissing my neck. He giggles slightly as I pull him closer, which allows a small chuckle to escape my lips. I don't even know his name.
"Man-whore," I hear someone whisper in my ear (the one that's not really occupied at the present time). I turn (not too suddenly- don't want the guy to think something's wrong) and give my best friend a sarcastic look.
"I have no clue what you're talking about, Jordan. I- oh" I break off my sentence as the guy hits an especially sensitive spot, which sends a weird tingly sense to my… uh, down there. Jordan rolls her eyes and smacks me lightly on the back of the head.
"Do you even know his name?"
"Of course I do!" I retort. "Now if you don't mind," I give her a meaningful look and turn my head back to more… pleasant matters. Oh, they're definitely pleasant, I think, and grin, closing my eyes and leaning back into the soft couch, pulling the guy yet closer to me.
"Yeah, yeah, just saying, you're probably scarring 'lil Cam's mind forever," Jordan says and I feel her weight leaving the back of the couch. Who the hell is Cam? Cam… oh, Cam! That awkward rich kid who Judas (the guy who's throwing this party) felt sorry for and invited. But why would I be scarring Cam's mind…?
A thought hits me and I turn my head just enough to see the rest of the couch. Cam is sitting on the other end, very still and upright, his eyes wide and looking at us, his cheekbones extremely red. I decide to toy with him a bit and wink, blowing him a quick kiss. If this is even possible, he turns an even darker shade of red and becomes even stiller, though his eyes never leave me.
"Hey!" a soft voice sounds at my ear and I direct my attention back to the guy on my lap, giving him a seductive grin and kissing him.
Now you're probably wondering if I'm gay.
And the answer is yes.
One hundred percent, absolutely gay.
But that really only plays a small part of this story. Actually… it is sort of not. Well, it really has to be a larger part for me to mention it, right? I mean, sure I do get some hate, but it's not like I flaunt it. If someone asks me if I'm gay, I reply truthfully, but I don't go shouting out to everyone 'hey, I'm gay!'
So now you know that and I'll get back to the party.
I may want to rethink that opening statement.
Oh, I am completely hammered.
My name is… ah, who cares? This is my life!
.: 1 Week Later :.
I sip my caramel Frappuccino, staring at my reflection in the glass of the Lush store. Even though it's cold, I only have on a black long sleeved shirt under a neon yellow (think highlighter- yellow) sweater-jacket-thing, and black and white striped fingerless gloves. Courtesy of Jordan (who is standing next to me, reading the display), I am wearing purple jeans with black stripes on them- an overly late birthday present (my birthday was at the end of October, and it's almost winter break now). I'm also wearing my favorite boots- Adidas Jeremy Scott Combat Boots- the ones with all the locks and buckles.
Okay, sorry, I am probably (definitely) boring you.
I turn my attention (and yours) back to Jordan, who is- whoa, where is she? Oh, there. She's in the store, which means I should probably follow her.
I find her near the back, talking to a mediocre-looking guy wearing the typical Lush apron.
"Is there a problem?" I ask as innocently as I can, not trying to be too obvious with my curiosity.
The guy, whose name tag reads Parker, gives Jordan a hard glare and looks at me.
"No, there isn't. Now if you don't mind, I can only see to one costumer at a time," he hisses, which only makes me want to stay more.
"Jordan, is there a problem?" I ask Jordan directly, looking straight into her blue eyes. They quickly flit between me and Parker, and then she relaxes.
"It's okay, Parker. Valerian's my best friend. He can know."
This seems to get Parker angry.
"I don't think you understand, Jordan. I am under direct orders, as are you, from the Twelve themselves! And it's just common courtesy that we tell no one! Not even our gay best friends!"
I can tell by Jordan's look and the way she opens her mouth that she's about to retort and defend me, but I stop her.
"Look, man, your skills of observation are immaculate- I am, in fact, gay, don't worry, you're not my type, but please try not to mention my sexual orientation, or anyone else's for that matter, around Jordan, 'kay? She takes comments very seriously."
Parker rolls his eyes but nods, but Jordan doesn't seem to take it that easily.
"We'll talk later," she scowled at Parker, took my arm, and dragged me backwards out of the shop. I just managed to mouth an 'I'm sorry' at Parker before a tower of soap blocked my view of him.
Once outside in the freezing weather, I pulled myself out of Jordan's grasp and spun her around to face me. She wouldn't meet my eyes as I tried to look into hers, and I could see a faint blush creeping along her jawline.
"Okay, what the hell was that about?" I question with more force than intended. She flinches slightly at my choice of language, but the question is clearly extremely bothersome to her, seeing as she doesn't correct me by saying 'h-e-double hockey stick.' Yes, she usually does that.
"Look, Val, it's hard to explain, and you heard Parker. I can't talk about it. Not to you. Not now. Maybe later, like, in break or so-"
"C'mon, J, we both know my dad's shipping me off to some psycho-camp!" I argue, and shudder slightly at the prospect of spending two weeks at a camp. Probably all they do is roast marshmallows and sing stupid songs. Now don't get me wrong- I love roasting marshmallows with Jordan and a few other friends in the junkyard. But a camp? Not so much.
Jordan sighs, exasperated at my attitude. She's got the whole 'happy' attitude going on, along with the naïve innocent sophomore (which she really does pull off pretty dang well).
"Val, I thought you were going to give this camp a chance. I mean, how bad can it be?"
"Well, seeing as my dad described it to be a 'place for people just like me', I'd say it's full of terrorized closet-gays who will worship the ground I walk on," I mutter, with a hint of sarcasm at the end. When I see the look Jordan is giving me, I change the ending. "Fine. It's full of people who are addicted to neon colors and parties, satisfied?"
"Neon colors and parties?"
"And who may have come home drunk two or three times and who may have had some obedience issues… and school issues… happy?"
"Well-"
"Great. Now let's go get refills," I declared, already walking towards the next Starbucks at the end of the street, giving Jordan no time to argue.
.:.
"Valerian." The sound of my father's voice reaches my ears as I try to quietly make my way up to my room. I stop and swallow, not really wanting to face the guy right now. It really would ruin my whole afternoon, which was, by the way, with three Frappuccinos and a donut or two, quite excellent.
"Dad," I mutter in response, walking backwards down the stairs and to the sofa where he is sitting. He sighs and folds his paper, placing it on the low black coffee table, and looks up at me. Then he stands up, and now he's a good head taller than me, even though I'm not growing anymore. Something about my mom being very short.
"I thought we talked about this last week when you came home at three in the morning, drunk. I was lenient and didn't ground you, but I did ask you to be home on time for the next three weeks. I told you this morning to be here by three thirty so you would have time to get ready for this evening. It is now four thirty. We leave in half an hour."
I swallow, our conversation from last week replaying over and over in my head.
"Okay, I get it, but that thing, a week ago, you know the buses only go once every forty minutes that early, and today, well, we just sort of lost track of time. I'm sorry…" I trail off, not really meaning it. I can tell my dad knows this, but he says nothing.
"Just go put on something nice and not too bright. We're meeting your camp counselor today, so be on your best behavior."
Ah, yes, how could I forget? Meeting with the counselor of Camp Mental Institution (or whatever it's called) today at four. It's written pretty big on my planner, but for some strange reason, I completely forgot to check it on a Sunday morning. Huh, weird. I'll make sure to wear something extra bright.
I make no efforts to change, really. Actually, I just put on an orange studded bet several inches below my waist, so it hangs loosely in a slight diagonal. Ooh, big words have been used. This moment definitely has to go in my history book. I snort as I imagine a paragraph title: Valerian Madden Uses Big Words in Sentence!
"Valerian! The car is here! Hurry up!" My dad's voice rings through the door. Ugh… I really don't want to go to this meeting. As in, I really, really, really don't. But it's not like I have a choice. So, I just grab my iPod and cellphone (that I mysteriously 'forgot' to take with me this morning), shove them in my pockets, and head back downstairs to where my dad, Gregory Madden, is waiting, and the chauffeur, Al, is standing next to him, looking at me sympathetically.
Yes, my dad is rich. And most of the time, that's cool and all, but it comes with the typical cliché of the rich parent: he's at work most of the time, usually has a maid cook for us, has been married dozens of times, has had more mistresses than wives, and thinks his son is a complete waste of time. Don't I find out that he really loves me and has been protecting me from great evil all along in the end of this? I think that's what happens in movies….
.:.
The car stops at five minutes past five in front of a small store that reads 'Delphi Strawberries and Souvenirs'. I'm guessing the shop is new, since I come down here pretty often and I have never seen it before. Now all I'm wondering is why my dad brought me to a strawberry and souvenir shop. I mean, I thought I was going to see a camp counselor….
My dad, reading my mind in a freakish dad-like way, rolls his eyes.
"The office is above. The store is just a small business run by the camp to get some extra money. Now come on, we're late already."
Oh great. I think I need to change the name from Camp Mental Institution to Camp Strawberry: We'll Help Your Gay Son Get Over His Daddy And Obedience Issues And Some Minor Party Issues And Teach Him To Sell Strawberries At The Same Time! Of course, you'd have to abbreviate that to CS:WHYGSGOHDAOIASMPIATHTSSATST!
Hmm… maybe I'll just stick with Camp Mental Institution.
Either way, I am so not looking forwards to this.
Do share your thoughts in a review, please!