[And I chug-a-lug on. BTW, and I feel really silly for forgetting to do this *twice* now, but chapter 5 was (and is) dedicated to whoever it was who sent me an email about this story sometime last fall. It had far reaching consequences- dragging up to consciousness old thoughts, which turned into a nagging in my cerebellum which, months later, resulted in ch 5 being written, and so on. Cheers ~**~]
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Chapter 7
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It was her party and she'd damn well cry if she wanted to.
Bodies, music and discourse filled her dorm room and dribbled down the hallway to the common area. Borrowed tables were ladened with chips and dips and double mocha fudge cake. Speakers hooked up to her computer threw out vintage Coldplay. The rest of her desk was donated to the alcohol.
Beers were stacked underneath, hard liquor and a few bottles of wine and champagne, fruit juice and a bucket of ice weighted the top. Taking advantage of a pause in Grace-participated conversation, she refilled her new wine glass with her favorite fermented beverage.
It was her party and all she wanted to do was laugh.
Her roommate was on the same mission, and gave her a hug before reaching for the vodka. "Congrats again. Though of course, there's no surprise from this side."
And Grace laughed. Laughed not at the words, but because she wanted to, and because she could. "Now if only I could pass Western Civ..."
"Application for God in the mail?" A judicious whoosh of OJ mixed with the vodka.
She wondered briefly how much Max had had, but wasn't worried. Her roommate always spoke like that, fast and slick and oftentimes as if she wasn't quite responding to the same stimuli the rest of the world received.
It was her party and life didn't get better than this.
Grace Manning, sophomore at NYU, was a published author. Technically, she had been published for years. A couple of short stories had been published in small magazines while she was still in high school, and the trend continued into her college days. What they were celebrating today was the signing of her first contract.
Granted, it was for editing collections of short stories. But she included some of her own, some from her friends, was making contacts with more established authors and out there in publishing land, and thousands of copies of a book were being printed: a book on whose front cover her name would be stamped.
She felt professional and had a right to the word and it was all due to one conversation.
People have relatives and relatives have jobs. One of the students in her writing group had an uncle. To be precise, more than one uncle, but it's just the one that is relevant to this occasion. His uncle was an editor by trade and a great guy by nature and was only too happy to speak to the group and talk with interested individuals.
He and Grace had hit it off, continued talking after the group officially dispersed for the night. She sent some emails with attachments, he liked what he saw, and now there was one book at the printer, and she was legally obligated to hand her new editor two more in two years.
A long term homework assignment, only less pointless and more lucrative.
Scrap the "more." It didn't pay well, exactly, but there is a satisfaction to being paid for creating unrivaled by anything else.
And so she had ample justification for her self-satisfaction as she stood there, in the midst of friends, with a song in her heart and a good drink in hand, all flowing through her veins.
"Hey, congratulations." Another pair of arms snaked around her waist, another voice picked up the sticks and went tappa-ta-tap on her ear drums.
"Brian, hi. But you gave me something already." Because in his hand, resting against her stomach, was something rectangular and gift-wrapped, purple strings tied in an altogether ridiculously elaborate fashion.
"I know." His cheek was warm against hers. "But you, dear sweet one, are queen. A goddess, sparing a glance downward at the humble masses, deigning to grace us with notice… What loyal servant would fail to pile offerings at the feet of such a being?"
At a point early on his voice had deepened and become adoringly tragic, amusingly simpering. Entertaining, on the whole, rather than disgusting or annoying, which is why she had let him continue on with it. It was so pleasant, actually, to listen to him, while warm arms surrounded her, that she wouldn't have been disappointed had he continued on for a bit.
"Heh. Aren't offerings usually offered up while the offer-er is prostrate on the ground? I think something about incurring wrath is generally mentioned?" Swaying softly back into him, she deliberately tossed her hair back into his face as she took a sip.
"For the meek and unworthy. I, however, am no ordinary mortal. For my soul's ablution, I must come directly to you."
Brian, she knew, could go on for hours. And he only became more humorous as he became more drunk- and he was already slurring on the longer words.
"Me? Not, say, my desk over there?"
He gasped. "Ah, you have stumbled upon the truth! I dare hide it from you no longer, my heart must be bared in front of ye who I worshipped so long. My heart-" Here he applied a light thwump over her own heart. "-is no longer yours to command, though I wouldst it still reside in such blissful comfort. Yet my new mistress…" Sighing. "She calls. I must go to her." Turning once to give her a regretful glance, he went for the booze.
"Wait a sec. Are you sure you're new religious icon is going to enjoy that sacrifice?"
"Ah." He looked at the package in his hand. "Perhaps not. Well, for old time's sake then. Ta ta."
One handed, Grace caught the box. Twining her fingers under and between the strings, she wandered out into the hall.
Into the hall and between the people, past empty cups and chip bags, away from the noise and the people and into the elevator. Out the front door and even here it was not quiet, music from a half dozen parties and gatherings pushing out the silence.
But she was alone and that was sufficient.
She sat under a tree, comforted by the damp and giving earth beneath her and the rough trunk behind. The greenery overhead sheltered her, but in small gaps through the branches the night sky created another roof, another definition of scale.
She sat under a tree, with the ground beneath and the sky above, solid life behind and in front of her, in her hand, a glass of wine.
She sat and her mind went back to another evening, another party, another glass of wine. That time the wine filled a plastic cup. That time she had never tasted the contents. That time she had wanted to share something more than a pilfered drink and this time she wondered how different it would be if she were holding that plastic cup.
Because she was very conscious of how elegant the glass, how carelessly and familiarly she balanced it in her fingers. How the wine might now be taken for granted but the other, the first sharing, could never happen.
She sat under a tree while her party continued upstairs.
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A few months later, a similar scene, different cause.
Max and she had been up late, with nowhere in particular to go and with nothing in particular to do. Midterms were over and their mini-fridge was stocked.
They were pretty good roommates. This wouldn't be the first night spent hanging out together, and it wouldn't be the last. Of course, not all had been so lucky and at some point they began to make up situations, people who would make for the worst 'roommate experience.' Plain descriptions moved to role play. At some point they hooked up a microphone to Max's computer and hit record.
Neither thought much of it until the last few friends were still sitting around, loath to leave quite yet. The sound of her own voice caught Grace's attention.
By the time she figured out what was playing the others were laughing. She listened too, prepared for the worst.
Not bad. They all agreed.
Rather, those who weren't Grace or Max declared it brilliant stuff, and the two girls were forced to admit that it wasn't exactly the worst thing either of them had ever done.
Over the next month they spared time to transcribe, and worked from there.
When they were done they sold it around and one of the student acting clubs voted to perform it.
Casting was over with and rehearsals had begun. Grace and Max had nothing now but to wait until show time, unless they wanted, meanwhile, to view a rehearsal.
More wine, more congratulations, one more achievement.
Her dad left the bookstore to Tiffany for a weekend, her mom left the baby to Rick, Judy also took a weekend off and brought Zoey to see the play.
It was fun, to be sitting with them, rather than forcing herself to not scan the crowd while on stage.
It was also nice that this was a fairly basic comedy with fairly basic subject matter. Witty dialogue and colorful acting took precedence over anything truly horrifying or personal.
Hugs and kisses and they were flying back.
The play-writes attended every show. Closing night Max was late. Someone too large to be Max sat down, and Grace turned to tell them the seat was reserved.
"Sor- Eli?"
"Hey Grace." He smiled at her, and it all would have been fairly normal except that this was New York and he lived in Chicago and he had told her that he couldn't get off work and this was the middle of the week.
"How- What are you doing here?" Standard confusion and mild shock.
"I figured I'd come and give your 'Happy Birthday' in person."
"But it's nowhere near my birthday." Of course, the thought is always appreciated…
A grimace. "Yeah. That was the one flaw in an otherwise delightful plan."
"The rest of the plan being?" Curious, flirty maybe? But Max was coming down the aisle now.
"To come out here and wish you a happy birthday." Looking very silly now, but he was only hitting the notes he was shooting for.
"So, basically, that was the whole plan?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
Then Max was there and she'd met Eli the last time he had visited. They found another row with three seats together, and since they had fun in one another's company it was comfortable for Eli to sit in the middle, an arm around each of the girls, and they giggled together.
[Oh, vignettes because of the erratic way I'm writing this. And the original concept was moments of time, reflections of instantaneous emotion justifying the stream of consciousness style and whatnot. Doesn't really matter in the end.]