No one appreciates the bathroom floor enough. You walk in the small tiled room and get an upfront greeting with white appliances that don’t seem to reflect the dark neon strobes of the house party. No one appreciates the comfort of leaning up against the wall and seeing your tired expression in the mirror cradled by the harsh vanity light. How the smell of bleach easily creeps up your nose after the first few minutes from under the sink. You slide against the wall to the ground and feel your surroundings with your hands. No one appreciates that no matter how hot it gets outside, or how intense the party is, the tile floors always stay cool to the touch, never mind how dirty they are. The music that made you deaf in the living room just a second ago is now muffled through the wooden door, the bass massaging your ear drums. You taste the cheap liquor your friends had bought in bulk, and the nauseating sweet, cherry chapstick of someone you made out with. You don’t remember anything about them except for the fact that they were a terrible kisser. A girl outside makes a noise between a scream and a laugh and you wonder if it’s because someone brought something for her to snort. There’s definitely weed though, you can smell it from under the door. You also passed by a couch of vapes and smoke on the way in. It’s not a party you want to be at, but you stay anyway.
You close your eyes and feel the drinks battle with your empty stomach. For some reason your Calculus teacher’s words ring in your ears. Crap, you have a final on Monday and God knows you aren’t studying tomorrow. The phone in your pocket vibrates. Did your dress have pockets? It’s your friend who talks too quiet and snores too loud, asking for a ride home. Under her text notification you see news reports about another war. Thousands dead… You delete it because what could you do? Under that are three missed phone calls from your Mom. You desperately want to call her back, but then she’d hear the strings of curses from the music, and the splashes of ping pong balls diving into beer, and your scratchy voice that’s been sounding like Adderall, failed midterms, and drinking no water for the last two years… Both of you know that’s not a side she’ll want to hear from.
Then you begin to think about your family. About your brother, who you think might never be invited to a party like this in his life, holed up on a laptop. You think about how that’s probably a good thing. You think about Dad, who forty years ago was probably one of the guys out there chugging liquor like it was his oasis in a roaring desert. The Sahara desert is being dangerously affected by climate change. You were supposed to write an essay about that, and you’re reminded of Mr. Smith’s face with the expression he’ll make when you turn it in a month after it’s due. It wouldn’t be the first time. There’s a large crescendo in the noises outside, and one guy—or girl, it’s hard to tell—shouts probably the loudest in his life. You find that you tend to think a lot on the days where everyone around you isn’t thinking at all.
After a few minutes of basking in the weird peaceful limbo of lonely and alone, a fist bangs at the door. You hear a few shouts from a guy, and then from a girl (you can tell the difference this time). You don’t know what they’re on about, but it’s urgent. Lifting up your body, which despite feeling light all night, suddenly feels like a thousand pounds. Your hands feel new and dry; the skin is tight at the fingertips, like you don’t seem to fit your body right. You realize your nose has been running and you wonder if you’ve contracted something from someone here. Maybe it was the person you made out with. Maybe it was the guy out there who reminded you of your dad. Or maybe it was Mom, who gave you a disappointed glare after you told her you didn’t want to live stepping within her footsteps that she pressed into the crunching snow, walking up the driveway to a house she didn’t love. Maybe you’ll never know. You turn the cold tap on and running water has never looked more appealing. The shouting is still happening at the door, but the whole world seems to disappear when you throw water at your face. One splash, twice. The crispness reminds you of your baptism. You can’t be bothered to dry off as you step back out into the darkness, shoving your body between loud, angry people.
You pretty much hate it here, but you already know what’ll happen next Saturday night. You’ll be stuck in the same bathroom, sitting on the same cold, tile floor, waiting for the hate to end.
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