I've held on to this story for forever, finally I'm all: SCREW IT! I'M PUTTING IT UP.
So tell me what you think ;]
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Alexandria Shields
PROLOGUE
This was going in my journal. It’d go like this:
Dear Journal,
This is a step-by-step series of events describing what not to do as soon as you step foot on Quincy property:
Step 1: Tell Natasha “It’s cool if you go on ahead, I’ll meet you inside the house.”
Step 2: Realize belatedly that it’s a freaking GIGANTIC house and Natasha is probably off with some guy already, therefore you are the last freaking thing on her freaking boy-crazy mind.
Step 3: Walk by some drunken douches playing limbo; they will accidently whack you on the side of the head with the stick, hence the adjective “DRUNKEN.”
Step 4: While your head is spinning from the hit, knock into someone with a Red Bull in his hand. Red Bull is liquid. Red Bull spills. Red Bull ruins shirts.
Oh, and Step 0 of what not to do would be LISTENING, TO, NATASHA.
With a sigh and a specific noun in mind for my cousin, I clambered up the marble stairs, getting constantly knocked around by my stumbling, drunken peers. I hadn’t been to a party in a long- and I mean in a long time, but I honestly didn’t remember them being this crowded.
But, then again, this was Olivia Quincy’s house, and she was the richest, most popular girl in school…so, yeah, I guess that explains it.
The Quincy’s were loaded. John Quincy was like a semi-amateur Bill Gates (which is saying a lot because, I mean, it’s Bill Gates, people!). His wife, Teresa Quincy, was a high-priestess of the fashion world or something like that. Their daughter, being the only child, was practically a princess.
What is with all these schools having these handfuls of super-rich kids? I mean, you have a party, and it just has to be at a goddamn mansion! It’s so cliché…
Well, cool- but in a cliché kinda way.
I managed to get to the second story without getting knocked over by one of these uncoordinated-by-intoxication teens of my generation and tumbling to my doom. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if someone did end up dying on these steps. I squeezed through the crowd as it went stumbling by, laughing like hyenas and making loud, obvious, and unnecessary exclamations:
“I love pizza!”
“WHOO!”
“Everything is awesome!”
“WHOO!”
“Ninety-nine liters of beer in my tum! Ninety-nine liters of beer! You gulp one down, you shake all around, ninety-nine feet of throw-up on the ground!”
“WHOO!”
Was it necessary to whoop after every statement? Seriously… Music blasting, teenagers screaming, things crashing… Did I hate this or like this? I wasn’t sure; it was hard to hear my brain telling me whether I wanted to leave or not with all the noise.
I held my wet button-up as far away from my body as the fabric would allow- which, wasn’t very far, come to think of it. Hopefully it hadn’t already soaked through to my camisole. Although it probably already had. I was just lucky like that.
I sighed mentally. I had to find a new shirt.
As a group of girls chased after a guy while yelling taunts, I slipped into the first room I saw.
Aaaand someone's on Team Jacob. My mouth fell partly open.
BAM. Tay-Tay posters.
BAM. Tay-Tay pillowcases.
BAM. Was it just me or was Tay-Tay's face being somehow projected in the lighting?
It was much less crowded in here. This had to be Olivia’s room. I mean, unless the Quincy’s had dedicated a purple-colored shrine-room for Taylor Lautner’s aura to reside in or something like that…
Will Princess Olivia mind if I take a few of her clothes? Well, I was gonna take some anyway.
I walked into the closet without getting much notice from the other occupants of the room. And that was a good thing. The whole plan was to: keep a low profile, don’t tell anyone my name, and stay sober so I don’t accidently forget to do the aforementioned contents of this list.
I had a Katniss wig on (Natasha’s idea). It didn’t exactly conceal my identity, but it didn’t matter cuz all these suckers were drunk or high anyway. And I was pretty proud of my wig. I was Katniss freaking Everdeen- minus the bow and arrow, cuz the combination of me and weapons would probably not make for the whole “low profile” thing.
I flipped the light switch and the room illuminated, allowing me to see… Ho-ly Prada.
A freaking walk-in closet. Fifteen feet in length, at least. Rows and rows of shoes. Clothes everywhere. …It was like a mini department store- minus the cash register. I guess that's just what happens when your mom works in fashion. I let out a low whistle as I looked around. I stepped toward the shirt section (apparently Princess Olivia was organized enough to put her articles of clothing into sections…or maybe they had a maid! Cool…).
I searched for a shirt that wasn’t too flashy or too…sequin-y. I wanted something normal. I was aaall about normalcy tonight.
I desperately wanted to be normal. Even if it was only for a couple of hours. This was the only party I’d been to all year. It wasn’t that people didn’t know who I was- in fact that was the problem. Everybody knew who I was. See, I… Let’s just say it has to do with an incident and the horrible churnings of the rumor mill.
Oh, that and the fact that people never seem to forget.
I pulled a blue shirt from its hanger to consider. At first I was excited because from the rack it looked like a non-sequin, normal old t-shirt, but then…I saw Tay-Tay’s face.
Face-palm.
Lautner-obsessed princess…
The sound of quickly-nearing laughter caused me to look back, and some guy shoved his friend into this vast closet with me. What the- The shove-ee blinked in partial confusion, partial amusement until his eyes found mine, and he stopped.
I stared in utter shock at this boy as the height of one end of his mouth started to slowly increase in a relaxed but handsome smile. And before my stunned brain could smack me into realizing that I should probably cover my face or something…the door, freaking, closed. There was a click of a lock.
Son. Of. A-
“Seven minutes in heaven!” the shover called out from the other side of the door.
What the HELL?!
My closet-mate realized as I had that the clicking sound from a second ago was not a good sign, and his free hand went to the handle (his other was holding a can of Pepsi) while my eyes went huge in horror.
He jiggled the knob, but the door wasn’t budging. “Connor!” he called out in an unfazed voice, “Yo, Conman, you locked the door, bro!”
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
“Connor?”
“LET’S GET DRUNK, BITCHES!”
And the crowd cheered. Of course it did.
This night was going way worse thought it would.
YOU ARE READING
21 Things To Do While Stuck in a Walk-In Closet
Teen Fiction“I stared in utter shock at this boy as the height of one end of his mouth started to slowly increase in a relaxed but handsome smile. And before my stunned brain could smack me into realizing that I should probably cover my face or something...the...
