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Still, another sensible
part of me rebels, sending practical thoughts into my head; things
like how am I going to survive until my first paycheck comes through?
Will I have to sell my art tools? Mentally, I flip through everything
I own. It's meager, but I quickly conclude I can do with a couple
less shirts and my comforter. I might be able to get ten dollars for
everything. I'm good at stretching money. It'll last me a week, and
then I'll have to figure out what to do next after that.

"All right."
My words come out fast because I'm close to changing my mind, and if
I don't get my reply out quickly, I'll turn back and make the lonely
walk back to our dorm room. I gesture ahead. "Lead the way."

The house is gigantic,
with a curving driveway that I imagine fancy cars driving through,
opening to reveal equally glamorous women inside. I brush away any
grass debris that might be on my jean bottoms, and follow Nat to the
front door. We don't talk. The noise is too loud for that. Instead, I
take a deep breath and step after Nat as she enters.

A winding staircase
greets us. It would be majestic looking if there weren't two dozen
young people on it. A few are sitting on the stair rail, dangling
their feet above us. I see at least two couples making out, oblivious
to the noise and the walking spectators passing by. Nat and I had
taken a quick tour earlier, and I remember the place having six
bathrooms. Six! It seems like a giant waste of money to me, but then
a lot of things seem like a waste when you grow up as poor as I did.

There were several
bedrooms upstairs, but the doors were closed during our tour and we
were told to stay below. There are two living rooms with one speaker
in each room, and an informal DJ spinning tunes from people I've
never heard of. It's crowded in each room, and that's probably why
people have spilled out onto the staircase and the foyer, dancing
like they're in a club.

Nat gestures that we're
going to take another shot. She probably sees how wound up I am. She
takes me into the kitchen where a self-proclaimed drink "scientist"
is concocting cocktails and mixed shots for guests. I watched him
earlier. There was no science to what he was doing. He closed his
eyes, pointed to a few bottles and poured them together into a
cocktail shaker. He takes his role seriously though. There's a pair
of goggles hanging around his neck, and his dark hair is spiked up to
emulate a crazed scientist.

"Two of the
specials for her and me," Nat tells him once we reach the
kitchen island. She winks at me.

He grins. "Coming
right up." His words sound a little slurred. I almost want to
ask if he's okay, but I doubt I'd get a coherent answer. I watch him
take a bottle of vodka and a bottle of something dark.
Rum,
Nat mouths to me, careful not to disturb the scientist. He pours both
into two red plastic cups. Then he adds juice. A second later he
opens a can of Pepsi. Nat sees the disgusted expression on my face
because she tells me not to look. She covers our eyes until we hear
the words "Done!" When she lifts her fingers, I see two
glasses brimming with a dark liquid.

The scientist sticks a
pink straw in each. "For color," he says.

Nat nudges my shoulder.
She picks up one cup, and waits for me to grab the other one. Her
eyes are bright. I want to ask her if she's okay, too, but I know
she'd laugh and swipe my concern away. Sometimes I wish I could be
like her. I'd be able to laugh at my problems, and enjoy the warmth
of the sun instead of worrying what will happen when the clouds take
over.

Nat lifts her cup. "To
trying something new- even if it does look hazardous to our health,"
she laughs indicating her cup.

"To trying
something new," I echo.

We touch the edges of
our cups together. Some liquid spills out, but I don't lick it off. I
bring the cup to my mouth and squeeze my eyes shut as I prepare to
swallow. Even if my mind is telling me this isn't a good idea, my
body wants this release. It wants the stress to uncoil with every
ounce of heat created by the alcohol. I don't pause to take a breath
as I lift my head up, chugging the drink as if it's water, refusing
to allow myself to feel the burn down my throat even though I'm
convinced fire is erupting inside me. When there is only ice left, I
set the cup down, pushing it away. My fingers cover my mouth until
I've swallowed every last drop.

Nat watches me with an
impressed look on her face. She takes longer to finish, but when she
does she wipes her mouth, grinning. "Are you sure this is your
first time drinking? You look like a pro."

I make an incredulous
sound. "Yes," I say. "Very much, yes." The liquid
is traveling down my body. I feel it in the pit of my stomach. I even
feel it in my head, a tingly sensation like the flutter of a moth's
wing inside my skull.
To new things,
I repeat to myself. Nat
takes my hand, and she looks happy she's here with me. I wasn't her
first choice. Her friend bailed on her at the last minute, and since
I was around she asked me, practically begging me when I hesitated.

"I don't want to
go alone," she wailed, touching my fingers. "Come on,
roommate. Pretty please?" Eventually, I succumbed, laughing when
she made her eyes puppy wide and threatened to go on all fours. I
like Nat. There's no second-guessing. She wears her thoughts on her
face. She doesn't ask a lot of questions. She's never still enough to
think about them.

Nat pulls me into one
of the living rooms. There's no furniture except two large barrels
for trash. A mountain of empty red cups is inside, and the smell of
alcohol permeates the air, filling my nostrils. I wrinkle my nose,
but the smells are so strong I'll never be able to get them out. A
disco ball shines in the center. People are swaying, jumping up and
down, throwing their head in the air like beach balls at a pool
party. I move in front of Nat, and she starts dancing, turning around
several times, giddy with the rush of spinning. I watch her, awkward,
but then I imagine I'm a dove flying and my arms feel lighter. I lift
them up and sway gently to the hard music.

My head feels lighter,
so light I'm afraid I'll drift away. When Nat catches my hand, I know
I'm still grounded. She pulls me closer and when she jumps, I do too.
Soon, I feel nothing. I'm a mass of air and hair, hovering close to
the ground, but never quite touching it. We go up, up, up, and I'm
not attached to my troubles anymore. I'm flying.

There's a drum inside
my head. Every time someone shouts the drumbeats become louder, more
obnoxious. It doesn't feel heavy, but it's distracting.

"What?" I ask
again. I sway, and whomever I'm talking to, catches me.

"Your hair is so
rad. There's like peacock feathers in it." The man's voice is
low and groggy.

"Huh?" I
touch my head. I don't feel any feathers.

"Oh, man." He
stops, gazing intently to somewhere over my hair. "They just
changed colors! Dope!" I watch him watch me, unsure of what he's
seeing.

"That guy's
stoned!" Nat shouts in my ear as he suddenly turns to walk away.
I watch him walk into a wall. A feminine giggle escapes my lips. The
sound is so foreign and high pitched, I try making it again, suddenly
laughing hard when I realize it's possible to sound like a cackling
middle-school girl after all. Nat's shaky laugh mingles with mine
until we're both giggling uncontrollably.

"You want to do
something spontaneous?" I shake my head, but somehow it turns
into a nod. Nat crouches forward, bending toward my chest. I watch
her with a detached gaze, almost as if I'm outside of my body looking
in. Her fingers are on my shirt, but her head is blocking what she's
doing. When she looks up again, she smiles. "Ta da!" She
sounds proud. Even my alcohol-ridden brain recognizes that, so I
don't expect to see what I see when I look down.

I blink several times
because it takes many moments to register what she's done. The first
five buttons of my white shirt are undone, and anyone with eyes can
see the lace from my cream-colored bra poking through, almost
glistening in the dim light. I gasp. "Nat!"

"I'm sorry,
Jules." She doesn't sound sorry at all. "But you were
looking like an eighteenth- century school teacher or something with
your buttons going all the way to your neck. Now you look cool and
hip!" She burps when she says "hip" so it sounds like
"bip", but eventually her words register in my head.

"Nat!" I
protest again.

"You don't look as
stern. Even your mouth is relaxed." She puts an arm around me.
"Your milkshake brings all the boys to the yard…" she
starts singing the song we were just dancing to, forcing my body to
sway with hers as she continues her exaggerated dancing.

With my shirt half , I
feel less constrained. Nat blows air onto my face and I feel it
travel to my chest, resting there before disappearing. I fan myself
with the hem of my shirt, and the burst of air feels freeing. A
second later, a layer of sweat and heat resettle over my body.

"And they're like…
it's better than yours…" Nat's still singing, but I only hear
my own breath.

I put an arm around
her, bringing her close. "Outside. Need air!" She nods, and
we make our way out, navigating through sweaty, wet bodies. Along the
way someone grabs Nat's waist, and her laughter rings out like
musical notes as she sidesteps him. It seems like an eternity, but we
get to the foyer. People are milling about, moving in and out through
the door. I dash toward the front entrance, gasping loudly when I
feel the night breeze trickle over my skin. I straighten my spine and
open my arms out, wishing my skin were a layer of holes to suck in
air. The breeze isn't fresh; it's not what I'm used to growing up in
the countryside, but right now, it tastes as sweet as pie.

"This feels so
nice," Nat groans from behind me. "It was like a sweat
house back there." I nod in agreement, closing my eyes a little.
Something pricks at my subconscious, trying to remind me of all the
things I need to think about. Thoughts about Grandma and Braidon.
Thoughts filled with red. Before the color can devour more of me I
wave my hand out, pushing it away. Like dust, the thoughts scatter
into little debris that my buzz eats up greedily. I sigh in relief.

"What's going on
down there?" Nat's voice drifts into my ears.

My lids are still
closed. "Hmm?"

"Open your eyes
and look below." I do as she says. She's a foot away from me,
and moving further as she walks across to the edge. I almost trip
following her, and the lightness in my head returns. It makes my body
heavy though so I focus on putting one foot right after the other. I
have a sudden thought I should walk in a straight line. Sober people
walk in straight lines. I concentrate on doing that. My toes feel
nimble, graceful even.

"Nat!" I call
out. "Watch. I'm walking in a straight line." I spread my
arms out like I'm on a balance beam.

She laughs, guffawing
as she clutches her stomach. "That's not a straight line, you
goose! You're walking diagonally. Over here!" She gestures to
me. "Come over here!"

You're mistaken,
I want to say, but I watch my feet move and abruptly I realize I'm
going sideways. "Oh no!" I look up with wide eyes. I'm two
feet away from the edge of the hill. I'll fall down for sure. "I
can't stop. My feet won't stop moving!" My voice carries all the
panic I feel and for some reason that makes Nat laugh harder. There
are tears in her eyes when her gaze meets mine.

"Just tell your
legs to stop."

I look down at my
moving feet. "Stop." I look back up. "They're not
stopping!" Glancing sideways I estimate I'm a foot away from
possibly falling and rolling downhill. The sounds of footsteps bring
my gaze back to Nat as I watch her jog unsteadily to me. She clasps
my elbows, breathing hard. Suddenly, my body is still.

"Oh my gosh,
Jules, that was so funny!" She's breathless with laughter.
"'They're not stopping'" she mimics in a high voice as she
continues to giggle. She wipes a tear from her face. "You just
made me cry."

"That wasn't
funny," I say, but there's a smile on my face.

"We need to get
you buzzed every weekend. You're hilarious, woman."

She folds her hands in
mine and together we walk toward the edge to look below. There's a
green expanse of flat land. It doesn't look very large especially
with the crowd of people gathered below. Spectators have formed a
circle around some men.

"Let's go down."
Nat tugs my hand.

"We'll fall,"
I warn her.

"Not if we roll."
Why didn't I think of that?
It makes sense.

So we roll.

I drop to my knees,
falling to my side effortlessly. An image of an Egyptian mummy
crosses my mind, and I fold my arms across my chest. Taking a deep
breath, I squeeze my eyes shut and propel my body forward. The ground
is softer than I imagined it would be. From this perspective the
world is nothing but blue skies and green grass. It whips by so fast
I only manage to gasp before the sky is gone and an emerald lawn
greets my face. Suddenly, I wonder if Grandma is looking down on me.
Is she smiling right now? She always wanted us to "stop and
smell the flowers". We were never good at that although we
tried. It's hard to stop when the world doesn't stop for you, when
your next meal may never come if you aren't out there looking for it,
working for it.

My nose is squished
against the ground, cracking the perfume of grass and soil until the
odors drift into my nose like a pungent last breath. A strand of
grass is pulled into my mouth and I start coughing, trying to get the
sharp taste out, but the taste lingers no matter how determined I am
to push it out. Abruptly, I laugh. Rolling down a hill with grass in
my mouth isn't what Grandma had in mind, but maybe it's a start. That
thought sends shivers of warmth through me, and I roll down with
abandon, letting the rush of the moment wash over me.