Date: Sat, 19 Jan 2002 01:29:38 -0500
From: Mustapha Mond <XfragmentofanangelX@hotmail.com>
Subject: Blues of Summer - Part 3

Note: Although I imagine those of you originally so eager for new entries
on my part have probably long since forgotten about this little piece of
fiction, in case there are some who have not, I regret to inform you that
this will probably be the last installment of BOS.  I started this story
actually last summer, at a time when I was very lonely (stuck in a lousy
suburb that was, assuredly, not NYC).  At the moment, I have found the most
wonderful boyfriend, school is going great, and I'm an all-around happier
guy; whatever emotional state originally propelled my pen has since
departed.  However, if the archivist allows some experimentation on my
part, I would love to write some much less ambitious (in terms of length)
and much more unusual stories.  As my writing has always been tremendously
belabored, I seem not to have many other choices if I wish to enrich our
online community, which I wholeheartedly do.


Blues of Summer
Mustapha Mond
III)

	Megan's house is huge, and gorgeous.  If we lived anywhere near the
west coast, I would point my finger squarely at a daddy (or mommy, to be
fair) in the movie industry; however, as we live in the sprawling suburbs
of DC, a bribe-fattened congressperson seems more likely.  Cars are parked
all up the driveway and on the lawn, which I imagine will spell trouble
when Megan's parents return home and find less grass than tire tracks.  We
park down the block a ways, on a street whose name - Mapleleaf Drive -
seems much less ironic than the thousand other arboreal avenues I've been
up and down: this street is canopied by huge, ancient trees.  Shade must be
in no short supply during the daytime.
	Two hundred feet away, the noise of pop techno begins like a
whisper, and by the time Mark knocks on the front door, it seems to have
swallowed up all other sounds of the world.  Someone apparently could hear
us, though, for a nice looking girl with black hair spiked in every
conceivable direction lets us in.  She gives us a look suggesting we were
hardly worth getting up for, and turns back inside.  By now, the music has
somehow faded into the background - either that or the deafness has set in
quicker than I like to think - so I say to Mark, "Guess she's not one of
your friends, huh?"
	Mark laughs.  "In all honesty, I'm not much better known here than
you."
	Inside, the party is exactly like I expected it to be.  Although I
do like socializing, and am far from shy, the cacophony and plain phoniness
of such events can sometimes get to me.  Dozens of people mill around,
jumping from conversation to conversation; here, a bong passes from hand to
hand, filling the air with that fresh scent like earth and hay; here, a
girl and boy make out unabashedly against a mahogany banister; here, drinks
are handed out and a dirty joke makes everyone burst into laughter.
Self-consciously, I stroke my chin.  The darkening peach fuzz there just
doesn't match up to the robust beards and side-burns these guys are
sporting around me.  I feel very, very small.
	Mark, though by no means a campus icon, is well enough known, and
his moment of awkwardness passes quickly.  He heads off into another room
with a few kids dressed all in black; I tactfully flick him off for leaving
me.  Dammit.  In such a situation, a lesser man would panic.  However, I am
blessed with charisma that those lesser men only possess in their most
intense dreams of conquest.  I clear my mind and float into the music.
Although I am not a fan of club music per se, a thumping bass line gives me
just what I need to drift around, room to room, seeing faces pass like in a
fog.  Someone, taking pity on such a young kid obviously lost, hands me a
beer.  I take a sip, just for show.  I have nerves of steel.
	Eventually I find Mark again.  He's apparently found his way into
Megan's inner circle: they are bunched around a few couches, in what seems
a spacious living room.  A fire is blazing pleasantly in a giant marble
fireplace.  Mark has an uncharacteristic all- American glow to him; his
earth tone wardrobe is almost flashy among the tight black clothing, black
hair, and black glasses of the theater set.  On his right is Megan, in a
plush armchair which she fills with regal authority.  No one could see her
and doubt this to be her party.  Her blood red hair, in large spikes, falls
asymmetrically around her head like a post-modern crown.  They are all
giggling like much younger kids; empty wine bottles scattered around the
central table suggest a cause.  Mark leans over and whispers something into
Megan's ear.  She explodes into laughter, then rises rather unsteadily in
her chair.
	"Can I have everyone's attention!" She yells, much too loudly.
Someone turns off the music.  The house is eerily quiet as people shuffle
in from various rooms.  Megan giggles and the kid on her right nudges her.
	"We've decided that, as so many of us have graduated, and shall
soon fall into the clutches of adulthood, one last shining moment of
adolescence should be had.
  To this end, we shall be holding a spin the bottle game, to begin as soon
as I have finished speaking.  I cordially invite you all to join us,
regardless of your place on life's great highway – my friends young and
old, we are united here in this moment, in this last great night of our
youth, and, if you allow me to quote the Bard, we..."
	"Less talk, more lip lock!"  Yells someone from the back.  I must
say that is a sentiment I quite agree with.  Rumors of Megan's ego were
not, I see, exaggerated.  She shoots a hateful look in the direction the
voice came from, clearly pissed at the spotlight being stolen right before
her climax, then shrugs and collapses back into the chair.
	Some kids begin clearing a large enough space in the center of the
room for everyone to play; others, muttering "déclassé" under their
breath, leave the room to talk of Michelangelo and wish for cocaine.  I am
torn.  On the one hand, spin the bottle brings back some painful memories
of middle school, when the closet felt less like a doorway and more like a
cell, not to mention I don't know a soul here but my brother, not to
mention I'm a good two years younger than everyone else, from the looks of
it; and yet I certainly can't just leave, and the other rooms hold no more
promise for me.
  And there's something about the fire in the fireplace, dancing over the
faces around me, filling me with a strange heat; it compounds with the heat
already coursing through me from being in a foreign place, among strange
people.  In the crackling flames, I am drawn to the circle.  I take my
place.
	There must be fifty other people sitting with me, some still
sipping at beer, others smoking gently.  I am clearly an outsider, but
looking at the faces around me, no one seems to notice, or care.  The room
seems to expand.  I think I am getting sleepy.  I look at their faces and
see how beautiful some of them are, these boys with nonchalance and glee
painted across their mouths in firelight.  Although I am a link in the
circle, they are so remote as to seem in another world entirely.  They
carry a presence of maturity, while I feel myself so small and mundane,
still in highschool, still struggling with the minutiae of petty tasks and
naïve concerns.  Their faces are so alien, like some higher order of
being, except for one kid, exactly opposite the circle, who looks almost
like...
	Oh my god.  My jaw drops.  It's Tad.  He sees me just as I see him;
the same shock plays across his accentuated features.  How could I have
missed him here?  What is he doing here?  Then I remember: his sister,
Irene, a boisterous lesbian, ranks among Megan's best friends.  There she
is, off to my left, chatting with the girl who let us into the house.  But
Tad is no more attached to Megan than I, and he seems to be the only other
person who has yet to graduate from school.  I raise my hand slightly, and
he replies in kind, a smile breaking out on his face.  I smile too, mostly
at the absurdity of the situation.  One of my closest friends, here, at
this completely random party.  Fate is playing funny games today.  A dark
cloud passes over my brow at this thought: I remember the chat room for the
first time since I left the house.  But Club180 could not be Tad.  He is as
true a technophobe as I can imagine; he can barely maneuver around the
simple confines of AOL or MSWord, and likes nothing better than a weekend
spent camping, someplace that smells of pinesap and where all traces of
humanity are absent.
	On quick reflection, he seems even less well suited for this party
than I; I at least know how to interact at social events, how to move
around, how to mingle; he is like a fish out of water.  I think I like him
so much (as a friend) because he is utterly free of pretension: all the
more reason why Megan's party is the last place I'd expect him to be.
	  Cheering breaks me out of my thoughts.  Megan has spun the bottle
– I suppose it makes sense she would be the first to do so – and I
find myself hypnotized by its blurring spiral, and the fire glinting madly
in a thousand directions from its glass surface.  The rotation slows, and
finally stops.  To my surprise, it points at none other than Mark; he looks
as pleased as punch, and as though he had been expecting this very turn of
events, gets immediately to his feet and walks to the center of the circle.
Megan is already there, and with no hesitation, they close eyes and lock
lips.  He draws her to him, and they kiss eagerly, with no lack of passion.
I see his hands roaming gently over her back, and hers on his.  After an
exceptionally long period of time, they break apart, staring deep into one
another's eyes.  They walk rather unsteadily back to their places.  Mark
cannot conceal the smile on his face.  I can't honestly say I'm surprised.
Megan is beautiful enough, and Mark is a lucky man for that kiss.  And yet
his eyes have a glint that tells a story beyond that; I suspect this is not
the first time they have been so engaged.
	Megan quiets the laughter and applause with a raised hand.  "Having
thus opened the ceremonies, I propose that we let the whims of fate
determine how the night shall now progress.  I will commence to spin the
bottle again, and whomsoever it lands on will then spin to find love's true
kiss."  The girl and boy sitting immediately to the sides of Megan look
nonplussed at this remark – I suppose they hoped they would go next.
She spins heedless of their dirty looks and the bottle finds its target in
Irene, Tad's sister.  Megan rolls it across the circle, and it is Irene's
turn.
	She spins the bottle, and while it inches to a stop, I feel a
momentary pang of empathy for her.  She is openly a lesbian, and I can't
imagine she will relish having to kiss some random boy just because a
bottle tells her to.  The bottle comes to a halt, pointing at a gorgeous
blonde girl who I don't know.  Redo, I think.  But Irene makes no move to
respin; rather, she casually stands up and saunters over to the circle's
center.  I almost don't believe this is happening.  Nothing in middle
school games ever hinted at the existence of homosexuality.  The blonde
girl looks around, rather confused.  She doesn't seem to know what to do.
Her friends seated next to her jab her and gesture with much laughter;
finally, smiling sheepishly, she gets up and walks over to Irene.  There is
a moment of hesitation, and then the blonde girl leans in and kisses Irene,
not deeply, but sweetly.  Irene places her hands on the girl's hips, and
the girl replies in kind.  Considering the girl hardly seemed enthusiastic
about the whole thing, the kiss sure goes on for a long time.  Finally,
they separate and find their places.  Irene looks smug; the girl has a
rather distant look on her face, and more color in her cheeks than before.
	All around, people are cheering.  I look around for any sign of
disgust, but if anyone was bothered by the proceedings, they are certainly
hiding it well.  On most faces people smile and laugh good-naturedly.
These are drama kids, I remind myself.  Perhaps I should have gotten
involved in drama at some point.  Then, I look at the clothes all the kids
are wearing, and remember why I didn't.
	Irene spins a second time, and when Tad is chosen, howls with
laughter.  His face goes ashen.  The bottle, sent by his sister, clinks
against his shoe; he hardly seems to notice.  I feel his terror even from
the other side of the circle.
	"Come on, baby butt," yells Irene.  He scowls at her and spins the
bottle with a particularly hard twist.  This is to demonstrate his courage,
I can see at once.  I can't imagine why Tad came to the circle in the first
place.  His first love is the woods and the animals; I don't think I've
ever heard him talking about girls.  Even in normal social situations he is
awkward.  The bottle spins on madly, like a flaming baton with the light
from the fireplace.  He shouldn't be so concerned, though.  Tad is quite
attractive, in a tall, thin way; he moves slowly, and pauses before he
speaks, like something ancient and wise.  I wonder if so much time spent
among trees has carved him to resemble them.  The bottle spins on, slowing.
Then it stops.
	On me.


Final Comment: Sorry to leave on such a cliffhanger, but when the road
calls... And a final note, which I add with much guilt at the sleaziness of
such a remark, but nevertheless this is how I feel.  I would consider
writing some more chapters of BOS, but only if I got some requests for it.
This sounds (to my ears as well) like shameless pandering for appreciation,
but the fact is, BOS has just lost interest to me; however, if there are
those out there who find something like inspiration in it, maybe even hope,
and hate to leave without resolution, let me know, and maybe I'll see my
way back to my poor, lovelorn hero.  XfragmentofanangelX@hotmail.com.  Take
care, everyone.