Your Parents Are Going Out Of Town. Host The Party Of The Year!

Your Parents Are Going Out Of Town. Host The Party Of The Year!

July 31, 2017 | More from Food Trends | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Your Parents Are Going Out Of Town. Host The Party Of The Year!

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! coos your alarm clock, like a shrill lover.

Its the time of day Morning, and high schools going to happen any minute now. The sleep falls from your eyes like eye-scabs.

Are you ready to get out there and learn?

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! screams your clock again, but later now. Does it hate you? Yes.

Anyway, probably time to get up, right?

You keep hitting snooze, and eventually, your clock gives up, because humans will always beat machines in the end.

You sleep for a long, long time. You dream about gliding over a small island nation ruled by batteries, and about French-kissing your cousin with the two lazy eyes. You manage to lucid dream for a little while too, but, like, barely, if that makes sense.

Suddenly, someones shaking you awake.

An ancient, weather-beaten man stands over you, crusted with the gunk of eternity. His lips part with a crackling torrent of flakes, and the clacking of his hard, black tongue against his last two teeth dislodges one, which clatters to the floor. His voice sounds like the flutter of wax paper in a wind tunnel.

My child…oh, my child…finally, you wake…so long…so long….

The light leaves the eyes of the man who was your father. Hot wind whistles through the ruins of what was your house. The sky glows red-black with bone ash. There is no going back to what was. Time, as always, is the final victor.

Bam! Youre up and moving. Shower, shit, shave: You tackle em all with the bright-eyed ferocity of youth. Obviously, you are a good person.

From downstairs, you can hear your parents going through their morning routine.

Your beautiful white parents greet you, radiating love and self-importance.

Child! says your mother.

Our child! says your father.

Take your gut medication and listen upwe have an announcement.

Heres the deal, says your mother. Its our 25th high school reunion this weekend.

Our beloved principals been sitting pretty in hospice, says your father, and theyre going to euthanize him in a cream-filled pool at the center of our old gymnasium and loose black doves right there in the gym.

It is what it is, says your mother. Point is, starting tonight, well be away all weekend.

Youre welcome to have a few friends over, but dont you dare forget our Three Major Rules.

Major Rule One: Dont even touch our sprawling collection of tiny airplane liquor bottles. We flew far and wide to amass them.

Major Rule Two: Our bedroom is completely off-limits, no matter what. We know exactly how many coins are in our beds Magic Fingers box; youre not getting one past us.

And, of course, Major Rule Three: Dont invest in wearable tech. Its nothing but a losing bet.

Remember, says your father, we dont make the Major Rules. Were just trying to keep the family curse from befalling you, as it befell us.

Anyway, theres sorghum in the freezer and a few bills scattered around the house if you want to order a rice dish, says your father. Have fun, and we love you!

Your parents embrace you. They smell like a cave.

Phew! You manage to slip into first period while your teachers back is turned, and your classmates let you know that theyre not going to rat you out. The Truants Crown stays put. Were all we have in this fucked-up world.

All through class, your thoughts keep turning to your empty house. With your parents gone, there are no limits on what you could do. You could quietly watch a movie by yourself, quietly read an atlas by yourself, rearrange furniture, or even…

No.

Could you?

Yeah. Yeah. There hasnt been a good party in this town since Chet Dwyhers summer thing where Emelia Barlow full-on yakked in the saline pool and gave the whole debate team staph. Kids are craving a rager; you can feel it in the hallways.

Youve got the means, the motive, and the opportunity. Its finally time for you to commit the perfect crime of throwing a big, fun party for young people in your home.

You bounce the notion off of a few of your chiller classmates, and theyre nothing but enthusiastic. Time to get the word out.

But how?

Sure, yeah. You spend the rest of your school day bothering nobody, then book it home to shut the door to your room and tinkle out Oh! Susanna over and over again on your chintzy little crank box. Over and over and over. The sun dips and you nod off, hand on the crank. Then dawn breaks and youre back up, awake and cranking. A couple times a day, you creep silently out of your room to do a little gnaw-work on a curry-flavored popped rice patty, but mainly, youre cranking. Nobody calls you; nobody texts.

And so you spend the weekend like every other weekend before and like youll spend all your weekends to come.

Share Your Results

At lunch, you track down Theo, hunk supreme. His popularitys undeniable; hook him and hell bring everyone worth partying with. Plus, hes secretly your everything.

Per usual, hes at his favorite brooding spot by the school koi pond, dictating Medium article drafts into Evernote. Your heart pounds as you approach. Better play it cool.

Oh. Hey, says Theo, flicking on his shades with sexual grace. Then he does the thing where he makes his voice sound like a DJ: Wicky wicky what up.

Your hearts leaping out of your throat. Maybe he forgot to turn off dictation and this whole conversations going to end up in one of his Medium articles. Those things pull down 40, 50 likes, easy.

A party? At your place? he says, gears turning in that beautiful goddamn head of his. There hasnt been a good party in this town since Yonis Halloween sangria thing where Buck Dades hand got fused to that bottle of Mexican Coke he microwaved. That ruled.

Yeah, all right, he says finally. Im down. Expect me at midnight.

He doesnt crack a smile, but he does give you a long look. Like, almost a pre-sex look, kind of?

You spend the rest of the day in a blur of pedagogy, consumed by fantastic visions of the party to come. Games of Flips Cup…popular inside jokes…sexual reckonings…. Also, the stupid fucking word debauchery keeps popping into your head.

Whispers and glances follow you through the halls. Looks like words spreading fast. Could this party truly be all that?

At home, you spend hours painstakingly prepping a sumptuous tandoori buffet. Just as you light the last chafing dish, the doorbell rings.

Of course the first ones to show up are freshmen. And of course its exactly 8 p.m. They giggle in some dog-whistle register and twirl their youthful forelocks. One offers you a handful of cheddar popcorn from her pocket. Jesus, these kids.

Oh, well. Parties need bodies.

They scuttle past you and start climbing into cupboards and drawers in search of sweets and dampness, gibbering in their larval patter at a breakneck pace. It makes you shudder to think you were once one of them.

The doorbell rings again. Looks like the varsity wrestling teams here!

Hanging their heads, they scuttle off the porch and into the night in search of sweets and dampness, gibbering in their morose larval patter at a breakneck pace. It makes you shudder to think you were once one of them.

The doorbell rings again. Awesome, looks like the varsity wrestling teams here!

Go Feral Children! they trumpet, hailing your schools universally despised mascot. The volume makes your parents liquor nip collection clatter in the next room. They roll in a glass keg of cranberry juice and set up shop on the stairs. Okay!

Kids are arriving steadily nowsome you know, many you dont. They track mud on your Brazilian cherry floors and probably have diseases. Youve never felt so free in your own home.

Theres a knock at the door, loud and powerful.

Whoa, damn! College kids! Probably from the local Inland Coast Guard Academy. These guys absolutely radiate cool, and their effect on the vibe is palpable.

We heard youre having a party, they say. Their breath smells like unsmoked cigarettes. No such thing as a party without several college kids. Glennon, Dashley, James, Turrell: lets lurk.

They breeze past you with barely a nod. Damn.

Things are finally heating up. Some senior brought his own DJ equipment and plugged into your houses intercom system, and a dance floors picking up in the basement. The ESL kids are setting up Flips Cup in the dining room. And out in the backyard: groping!

The only thing that would make this more fun is if you had any friends at all in the whole world. Oh, well.

Where will you hang?

Contemporary music envelops you as you descend the stairs. Human sweat chokes the air, but its the good, consensual kind of choking. Your basements been transformed from your dads furtive jerk-off nook into a roiling discothque.

Time to get busy.

Whoa! Whoa!! You landed it! First try! A front flip! Right on the dance floor in front of everyone! People are screaming, howling, crossing themselves. What an absolute high point of your young life.

Another! the other kids bellow. Again!

You get 180 degrees in before whatever beginners luck you were riding runs out, and you eat shit head-first against an unyielding floor. Your neck crumbles like a stomped-on sandcastle. Somewhere very far away, your peers are shrieking. Youre suddenly very, very tired.

Oh, no, you think dully, a chill youll never shake settling into the parts of you that still feel, I ruined the party.

And guess what: Its true.

You flop your developing body around in a way thats hopefully not sickening, and you know what? It feels pretty good! Lyrics wrap around you as you groove:

There is a place
Called Rhythm
Where my familys got a condo

Youre flying now. The beats in your spine, in your fingertips, driving you on and on.

Theres only two beds,
But the couch pulls out,
And weve got air mattresses,
Child

Youre so cocooned in rhythmic bliss that it takes you a minute to notice someones tapping your shoulder.

Its your lab partner, Nico something! In your basement! Incredible. What a party. Whats up, Nico?

Hey! he says. This dance floor sucks. Your party sucks. Everyones dead sober and afraid of each other. Everyones too busy thinking about the bad choices theyve made in their lives to make more bad choices. Fix itwith alcohol.

Please, he adds, I need this.

Nico was right. Not half an hour later, the party is sputtering out painfully, like a botched execution. Agonizingly self-conscious and throbbing with frustrated desires, your classmates abandon the punctured submarine of your failed rager to go privately paw each other in guest rooms or smoke pot through dryer sheets. Youre left alone in your dark, trashed, empty house.

On Monday, you learn that your new nickname is Brigitte Bardot because no one can quite believe youre not yet dead.

The dining room scene is way less fun up close. Flips Cup is fully assembled and polished, and the chalk lines are all drawn, but nobodys playing. The ESL kids are all kind of standing around silently.

Your state defunded its ESL programs to keep young people who dont speak each others languages from radicalizing each other in English, so when they see you, the ESL kids can only gesticulate meaninglessly, trying to make themselves understood. Its hard to watch.

The ESL kids stare at you with pleading eyes, gesturing frantically and pointing to Flips Cup. Christ, they just sit in silence all day in their bare ESL classroom, dont they? Cant understand each other, cant understand their classmates, confined to their immediate families, imprisoned in their own heads….

Youre so wrapped up in your rhapsody of woe that it takes you a minute to notice someones tapping your shoulder.

Its your lab partner, Nico something! In your house! Incredible. What a party. Whats up, Nico?

Hey! he says. They want alcohol. Everybody does. Your party sucks. Everyones dead sober and afraid of each other. Everyones too busy thinking about the bad choices theyve made in their lives to make more bad choices. Fix itwith alcohol.

Please, he adds, I need this.

The odorless night air is shot through with the comingled sounds of the human grope-sperience. Three, even four couples are out here, straddling your parents demodernist patio furniture, getting at each other with hand and knee.

This must be what Greece was like, you marvel.

Somebody unmistakably a sophomore saunters your way, introducing himself in a throaty voice as Ulrich. Like a perfect gentleman, he asks if youre in the mood to grope, light as you please.

Things are still bumping. Still no friends.

Where will you hang?

With a gentle hand, you flutter your fingers up and down over Ulrich, lingering here and there, ministering to sensitivities over his fabrics. The steady clacking of the several Halls in his mouth sets the tempo. Dulce, he breathes.

After the standard two minutes, Ulrich gives your shoulder an appreciative pat and offers to return the favor, in grope form.

Ulrich swallows one of the Halls in his cheek and cracks his knuckles. His finger-touch roaming your body feels like the sure, agile scrambling of a circus raccoon. He manages you and your this-and-thats with the practiced ease of a street magician. Its nice enough for Friday night.

The standard two minutes up, he thanks you generously for your time, turns, and walks into the swallowing dark of the yard. Bye, Ulrich.

Reminiscing about just now, youre caught off guard by a tap on the shoulder.

Ulrich swallows one of the Halls in his cheek and cracks his knuckles. His finger-touch roaming your body feels like the sure, agile scrambling of a circus raccoon. He manages you and your this-and-thats with the practiced ease of a street magician. Its nice enough for Friday night.

After the standard two minutes, Ulrich gives your shoulder an affable pat and offers to let you return the favor, in grope form.

With a gentle hand, you flutter your fingers up and down over Ulrich, lingering here and there, ministering to sensitivities over his fabrics. The steady clacking of the several Halls in his mouth sets the tempo. Dulce, he breathes.

The standard two minutes up, he thanks you generously for your time, turns, and walks into the swallowing dark of the yard. Bye, Ulrich.

Reminiscing about just now, youre caught off guard by a tap on the shoulder.

Its your lab partner, Nico something! In your yard! Incredible. What a party. Whats up, Nico?

Hey! he says. Me and this one had to get out of there. We dont even want to grope. I mean, we will anyway, but either way, you should know…your party sucks. Everyones dead sober and afraid of each other. Everyones too busy thinking about the bad choices theyve made in their lives to make more bad choices. Fix itwith alcohol.

Please, he adds, I need this.

You turn to head inside and manage to walk straight into someone. Its your lab partner, Nico something! In your yard! Incredible. What a party. Whats up, Nico?

Hey! he says. Me and this one had to get out of there. We dont even want to grope. I mean, we will anyway, but either way, you should know…your party sucks. Everyones dead sober and afraid of each other. Everyones too busy thinking about the bad choices theyve made in their lives to make more bad choices. Fix itwith alcohol.

Please, he adds, I need this.

Woof. Nicos right. This party is sputtering fast. Conversations end before they begin. Tongues remain firmly locked in their respective mouths. Nobodys doing anything to anyone. Its sickening, frankly.

If this goes south, what little reputation youve eked out for yourself to date will be erased overnight, and youll get stuck forever with a nickname like Challenger or Columbia or Loose Stool.

Gotta do something to defibrillate your party, and quickly.

You head to the upstairs walk-in that houses your white parents miniature plane liquor collection and punch in the code. The door swings open.

Inside sits the product of decades of sober flying: hundreds of miniature liquor bottles from the world over. Your parents openly refer to this collection as their second child. Youve always resented them for it.

Surely they wont miss a few dozen of these. Your party needs them.

A shiver moves through you. Youve never broken a Major Rule before. You feel rambunctious and beautiful, like a pageant child.

You unscrew the tiny cap and shoot back the snake wine, little bitsy snakelet and all. The taste is completely different from the artificial snake flavor youre used tomore serpentineand it burns all the way down, but heres the thing: It burns so good.

Congratulations! You have unlocked your Snake Animus. This will definitely be invaluable to you during some future internship. Great choice; no consequences.

As soon as you return, alcohol sloshing in your arms, a cry ripples through the house and teen hands swoop down, picking your bounty apart. Theres a moment of profound silence while all available teen mouths are occupied in suckling down adult milk, and then, with a roar, the party roars back to life.

Through the crowd, you catch Nicos eye. He nods, eyes smiling, and fades, just like that, into a flutter of sparkling dust. Whoa….

A shiver moves through you. Youve never broken a Major Rule before. You feel rambunctious and beautiful, like a pageant child.

As soon as you return, alcohol sloshing in your arms, a cry ripples through the house and teen hands swoop down, picking your bounty apart. Theres a moment of profound silence while all available teen mouths are occupied in suckling down adult milk, and then, with a roar, the party roars back to life.

Through the crowd, you catch Nicos eye. He nods, eyes smiling, and fades, just like that, into a flutter of sparkling dust. Whoa….

The new vibe is out of fucking control. Kids are climbing on each other like furniture and fingering the furniture like pop culture taught them to. Shirts are practically flying off their bodies. Like, theyre not really, but they practically are.

If anything, its too out of control. What if someone gets dehydrated, or tries to incite a pogrom? This town definitely doesnt need another teen pogrom on its hands.

Maybe you should say something?

It accomplishes nothing. Your gut churns as you wonder if encouraging underage drinking could possibly have been a mistake.

Hey! yells a track kid, holding one of your monogrammed towels to a cut on his forehead. Who wants to play Not My House? There are no rules because its not your house! Everyone in earshot wants to play.

If only Theo were here. He knows how to command a room. He says fascism both repulses and transfixes him, and considers himself a future leader of men.

Wait, whats that police-sounding siren?