Hey guys! So this is my first post of the new year. Hip hip hooray! I know that these updates are really slow coming, but between school and dance team, show choir, and Seussical, I use my weekends to relax, not write. Enjoy this guys!

I just wanna go back in time

To American honey

There's a wild, wild whisper blowing in the wind

Callin' out my name like a long-lost friend

Oh, I miss those days

As the years go by

Oh, nothin's sweeter than summertime

And American honey

Gone for so long now

I gotta get back to her somehow

- American Honey, Lady Antebellum

Chapter 14

Jordan slung her arm over my shoulder, her car rising above the others like a trash pile stands on the side of the highway. "Come on; let's see if you remember how to party like a real Dixie chick."

I smirked, "You think I've been away that long?! Can't stop this, baby. Country Strong forever!" Bringing back my old nickname brought a fake tear to her eye, a reaction she exaggerated by bringing her finger down her face, tracing the waters' imperceptible path. I stuck my bottom in her bubble, rotating to an invisible beat. "Can't resist some Country Strong."

Her hand made contact with my bum cheek.

"Oww Oww!"

"So Jakey-poo hasn't stolen you from me?"

My raucous laughs hit this newfound wall. His name. God. Couldn't I have just 15 minutes absent of the thoughts bearing his name? My happy face, with its shiny veneer, rushed to keep the façade, if only for an instant longer. But it was noticeable. "No, he didn't steal me away. You're still my first and only love."

She gave me a long and hard look before replying. "Good. But being away has changed you. For the better, obviously."

As much as I abhorred admitting it, she was right. I was borderline depressive most of sophomore year, and despite how good of a liar I had been, it showed itself in my physical appearance. Dark circles, really awful acne, and lackluster hair.

Jake had done me some good. The shadows under my eyes disappeared, my skin somewhat improved, and my hair was shiny and split-end free. But that might've been Pantene's effort instead of mine.

"Yeah, it has. But I'm still tied to here. And nothing will break that." Was I trying to prove myself to her, or was I trying to talk myself into believing it?

She laughed. "Okay, okay chillax. You don't need to force it down on me. You were always spouting anti-Yankee shit every second."

"Too true. Come one, let's get out of here!"

She revved up the engine. "Let's go!" She squealed.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Jordan punched the ON button and maniacally flipped to 107.5 THE RIVER. Bruno Mars was crooning to the sweet sound of billions. I cranked the volume knob and we screeched out the words at top magnitude. It's not like we couldn't carry a tune (we were fellow altos back last year), but no one sings on-key to the radio. Everyone else was piled one on top of the other in the backseat, oblivious to any seatbelt law that might have been in existence.

I loved this feeling: being high on music and laughter. The effects last longer than any kitchen-concocted drug ever could.

Time zipped by, and before you could blink, the lights of multiple skyscrapers gleamed in the horizon.

"It's been awhile since we've called everyone together for a Rebound Party." Emily looked on wistfully, oblivious to the shrieking of her fellow seatmates.

Let's clear up that confused look that just took over your face.

A Rebound Party is something we dreamed up freshman year, when we tossed our junior high standard-issue textbooks into the bonfire and supposedly said goodbye to immaturity for good. Over the summer when we straddled the entrance to the worshipped portal of teenage-dom, Sara's (and the group's) first boyfriend of two months dumped her. But to us, the seriously un-experienced, the effect amounted to that if, say, the world's tree population vanished and we all suffocated. Or the moon aligned in some special way, causing a huge tsunami to form and swallow up Australia.

Yeah, it was that serious.

And so, being the effing amazing friends that we are, we gathered up 50 of only our closest besties, rustled up some caffeine and sugar, and partied poolside. She laughed and danced and threw everything away, soaring on artificial happiness. And, even for only a night, she forgot about the burden pressing down on her.

As the months turned into years, tragedy struck without prejudice, and the Rebound Party became a more frequent fixture in the lives of our circle. The Party evolved into something more detailed and organized. We all love each other, but every person is closer to someone than the others. When disaster ensues, the girl damaged confides in one individual in the group. She then calls the Party. We come, knowing nothing except who is calling it. None know the girl in question, nor the tragedy itself. Feeding off adrenaline alone quickly became obsolete, so in the middle of ninth grade alcohol was the escape of choice. A designated driver post was thus established, a role that I usually fill. Identifying the fallen girl then became ridiculously easy.

It was whoever imbibed the most of the toxic stuff.

In ninth, Sara stupidly fell in love with a boy she met on a Spring Break cruise. He lived in California. He stole her heart and her sanity all through 2nd semester, until July, when he hooked up with some chick on the beach.

At the Party, she gave away her lip virginity.

On February 14, 10th grade year, my crush, receiving my secret admirer note tenderly taped to the inside of his locker door, loudly declared in a crowded hall that he did not like me and never would.

At the Party, I grinded with some dude with red hair. If I squinted in just the right light, he kinda looked like the reason the Party was called in the first place.

I had told Jordan about my sorry-ass state the day of the Fight. She then promptly heralded the Party.

I was so not the D.D. tonight.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

We paid homage to the Nashville greats. Our worship, dancing without hiatus. Our incense, the smell of bitter alcohol and the sweet smoke of pot leaves.

Did you think that this was just any old party? No, no, no, only the classy party here.

Only mixed drinks served. Go find crappy beer somewhere else.

The elevator kindly escorted us to the sixth floor. We stumbled out, our legs tangled in a sweaty heap, paralyzed with laughter along with our lungs. I made a pit stop by the bathroom, changing out of my wrinkled travel clothes and into my typical attire for these festivities: a tight black body-con skirt, with a glittery top and silver vintage heels.

We pushed pass the few wimps reclining in the lounge. The party never commenced until we, the infamous Five, showed up. Jordan, leading the herd, paused near the double doors, her eyes reflecting back at me from the wavy glass of the French doors. I nodded, but only slightly. She smirked, and threw the grand portal open by the polished bronze handles. Dozens upon dozens of eyes fell on us. Those remaining inside gathered.

She had the honor of initiating the festivities. The opening monologue was taken from our (jointly) favorite book.

"'Welcome one, welcome all. As the master of ceremonies it is my honor, my privilege, to invite each and every one of you into the inner sanctum.

A sizzle of invisible excitement swept through the throngs of people. I studied individual faces. I caught the gaze of a couple newcomers, whose eyes were wide with curiosity and perhaps fear. And I saw those who had been joining us since the beginning.

"'But remember, what you see here. What you do here. And who you touch here . . .'"

A knowing murmur all around.

"'All will remain here. For this is life, my friends. So make peace with whomever you worship, and never . . . look . . . back.'"

Will. . dropped his ever-famous beat, and the bash officially began.

Jenni looped my arm through hers. "This is it."

My eyes shone, reflecting the light of half a dozen strobe lights. "Let the revelry begin."

So? Yes, no, maybe? Please review, even if you really don't have anything particularly interesting or fascinating to write. Adios!