Trying To Endure

Chapter Fifty-Six

SONG: Michael Buble - Feeling Good (slowed)

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Derek Matthews

The party is hosted in one of Mother's clubs. He arrived at Edgewater during my school hours whilst the Staff conveyed the chefs' cuisines to Larrea.

Seven in the afternoon, starlit decreasing, we are in a Rolls Royce Matte Ghost. Security rectangles us on the motorway as G-wagons, Range Rovers, and Cadillac Escalades, the typical surveillance chopper somewhere in the heavens. The cars scintillate in paramountcy. A melding of immoderate fragrances twitches my nose. Grandma was advised to stay at home as she wasn't feeling well.

Tanner is in a low-cut, transparent, laced, grey shirt, grey silky trousers, eyelids glittering, of silver chains and three piercings on his left ear. Luke — white trousers, the sleeves of his white shirt trundled to elbows and exhibiting his snakes — distantly ogles the whooshing trees. Uncle Thomas, tapping on his phone, is opposite me: similar attire to mine, excluding the orange blazer. Aunt Marlene, a blue dress.

The tiled opening is curvilinear — magenta as the sides, ultramarine as the hovers, black-and-white as the floor. The palatial staircase's rises are illumined alternating rainbows. The flamboyant club has recessed square downlights oscillating the convened-sequin strings, draped in waves. Skins are pomacing as the club's ear-splitting music vibrates our cardiacs, the ground pounding as if giants are walking. The predominant guests either serenade and sway on the flaxen dance floor, or fringe the ping pong and pool tables, or pack the nightclub booths of tuxedo, contemporary-modern, sectional and camelback sofas, and glass Scandinavian desks.

The lights were amended to dark-green. People wished me, patted my back, high-fived, smiled, waved and nodded. My friends and two others are from Edgewater Independent. The majority are celebrities and grand figures — I requested Aunt Marlene to invite them. I want to observe them, too. Security guards are positioned at each corner and silhouette, chatting to their comrades, earpieces on, unquestionably armed. Luke indulges in a heartfelt, good-natured conversation with the monarchy as Marlene embraces Andrew O'Doyle.

Jackson is in a long-sleeved, brown-and-black checkered shirt, roughly tucked in black jeans, a Louis Vuitton belt, an Armani odour.

Theo — fresh cut — is in a short-sleeved white shirt, printed of black squares, and Ralph Lauren white trousers. He punches my arm eighteen times. "For good luck."

"Did you make up that superstition?"

"Nah, just wanted an excuse, innit."

I rub my arm, sitting down, my pendulum chilling my chest. "Where are the girls?"

Jackson blows a raspberry. "Taking years to get dressed. Sorsha is coming."

I point to a footballer. "You should talk to him."

Theo inspects the public figure. "Wouldn't that seem desperate?"

"No," says Tanner. "Come on. Your dream is to be a footballer. Attract it."

"Seems like I'm chasing more than attracting."

I call the footballer over.

Theo enlarged his eyes, apprehensive, his right eyebrow slit crunching. "What the hell are you—?"

I shove my friend forward. He stumbles, glaring and grouche, "Dickhead." 

Jackson sniggers as the footballer shakes Theo's hands, sauntering away to converse, and we wait for the girls to arrive. 

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Derek:

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