Perfectly Wrong || Luke Hemmings

2

I start after her, waving goodbye to Sydney when she breaks away from us to return to the guy sitting on the porch. He makes dramatic hand gestures and everyone erupts with laughter.

Tori hauls open the front door, holding it open for me to follow her.

Inside is where the party truly is. Multicolored lights pulse to the beat of the music, washing everything in their bright glow. White shirts glow in the darkness as people dance, shrieking in excitement every time the beat drops.

A girl clad in a short silver sequined dress peels apart from the crowd, striding over to us.

"Hey, girl!" the stranger calls, eyes locked on Tori.

My friend rushes forward to embrace the unfamiliar girl, her auburn hair swaying back and forth.

"Glad you could make it," the girl continues, breaking away from Tori. "Who's your friend?" she adds when she sees me.

Tori steps back to put a hand on my shoulder. "This is Izzy. I thought I'd bring her to a real party, show her what she was missing."

Turning to me, she adds, "Izzy, this is Maggie, the one who's throwing this stellar party."

"The snack table is over there," Maggie says, pointing through the crowd. "And the bathroom is just down the hall, the third one to the left. If you need anything else, come find me."

Smiling sweetly at me, she leaves and dives back onto the dance floor, squeezing up next to a guy dressed in a tight green V-neck shirt.

Tori glances at me. "How about we check out that snack table? I don't know about you, but I'm hungry."

I shrug. "Sure."

She takes off, weaving in between people on the outskirts of the room talking and self-consciously bobbing to the music. The snack table is where Maggie said it would be, pressed up against a wall. A plastic tablecloth is thrown over it, the pattern featuring little penguins wearing party hats. Bowls and plates of the classic party snacks are set out; pretzels, popcorn, grapes, cheese and crackers, punch.

Tori picks up a paper plate and begins to pile food for both of us on top. "Want punch?" she asks me, jerking her head toward the bowl of red sticky liquid.

I shrug and fill up two cups, gripping them tightly as Tori weaves her way through the mass of people to find a place to sit. Finally, she chooses the room farthest away from the dance floor to eat in.

I can hear the music pounding out of the speakers, can hear people talking and singing along. But I can't see them. A group of three boys are already in the room, talking, sitting on two couches. They cease their chatter when we walk in, glancing up. I'm relieved to find that I know one of these boys.

Michael grins up at Tori, patting the empty space beside him one of the couches. "Hey, come join us," he greets.

His hair, which he constantly dyes crazy colors, is red today and sticks everywhere in messy spikes. But the style works for him.

Tori squeezes in beside him on the couch, balancing the plate of food on her legs. I set the two cups of punch down on the little coffee table placed in front of both of the couches, taking a seat on the other couch where one of the unfamiliar boys sits. The other one sits in front of him on the floor, resting his back against the couch.

Slyly, I examine them without trying to be weird. The one on the floor has gorgeously tanned skin, artfully inked tattoos decorating his left arm and collarbone that are exposed by the tank top he wears. His dark hair is casually pushed to the side, curly yet straight at the same time. The one sitting next to me is blond, dozens of bracelets displayed on his wrist. There are rubber ones featuring charities and organizations, friendship-type ones, ones displaying superhero logos, paper-like ones from amusement parks and such. A thin black ring is pierced through the edge of his lip and I wonder if it ever bothers him. Does he get food stuck in it sometimes?