Elma Frost felt bad for the boy. Maybe it was something in the way he sat at the far edge of the couch, his lanky figure hunched uncomfortably over his crossed arms. Every now and then, he would pull out his phone, looking a little bit too engaged in what his friend apparently had to say. When his phone was out of his hands, his eyes wandered the dimly-lit and crowded living room.
Elma could tell that at one point, Mabel Lawson’s living room had been in pristine condition. Mabel had the kind of anal parents who were so afraid of dirtying their space that they barely used it. Everything about the house felt un-lived in. She was surprised that they hadn’t yet sealed all of their furniture in plastic. Antiques and large tomes lined shelves on the walls, and perfectly-trimmed houseplants sat in corners.
However, on this particular Saturday night, the room was in alarming disarray. Abandoned red plastic cups were strewn across the tables and floors as their contents stained the white carpets. The normal smell of potpourri and multi-purpose cleaner had been replaced by a strong stench of what smelled like Axe body spray, marijuana, and probably what Kurt Cobain meant when he said “Teen Spirit”. Music blared from the speakers in the kitchen, and Elma’s peers, in various stages of intoxication, filled every available inch of floor space. All the while, Mr. and Mrs. Lawson beamed out of carefully placed picture frames, completely unaware of their daughter’s penchant for throwing house parties.
The drink in Elma’s hand had gone virtually untouched since she had received it fifteen minutes ago. It was mostly out of courtesy that she’d accepted it, but it was a good prop to give the impression that she was having a good time. She didn’t even know why she’d shown up, really. After her brief party phase in the summer after junior year, she mostly tried to avoid the things. It was a fun lifestyle, but not a sustainable one. Elma prided herself on that understanding.
In between mimed sips and efforts to look like a pleased partygoer, she made eye-contact with the boy, whom she had now dubbed as “Sad Couch Boy”. He was not a good-looking boy, Elma thought. In fact, he was kind of ugly. He was continuously pushing his unruly hair from his small eyes, and acne plagued his forehead. Nevertheless, Elma kept looking back. Sad Couch Boy met her gaze with a nervous smile, but Elma quickly turned her back and tried to rejoin the conversation.
Dee, Elma’s good friend, was telling a story about the time she’d been grounded and tried to sneak out of her house. On her way down, she fell from the roof and broke her leg. The best part was how she explained it to her parents. Her story was that she thought she’d seen some rare bird and climbed out to get a better look. Dee’s parents were ornithologists, so they actually bought it. It’s one of the most frequently recited stories in Dee’s repertoire, so Elma virtually knew it by heart. The others in the circle, who Elma did not recognize, laughed heartily as she chuckled politely in all the right spots.
The night wore on, and for every sip that Elma faked, Dee took three real ones. As the words in her friend’s stories slowly grew incoherent, Elma’s patience with the party waned. Her ears throbbed from the pounding music, and she regularly excused herself from her friends to wander aimlessly throughout the house. Upon returning from one such trip, she discovered Dee slumped over the arm of a chair, out cold, with a small puddle of vomit to her right.
Although Elma probably should’ve been annoyed with her friend, she mostly felt relief. It would have been much harder to convince a conscious Dee to leave. After enlisting the help of a few friends to haul Dee to her car (while carefully avoiding the vomit), Elma returned to the house to grab her bag. The retrieval was no small task. Elma was fairly confident that she’d discarded the bag on a couch which was now occupied by a couple who most definitely did not want to be interrupted. Many pushes and ‘excuse me’’s later, Elma resurfaced triumphantly with bag in hand. She exited the house and jumped down from the creaking porch, eager to get home, but her foot caught on a heavy shape at the bottom of the stairs, startling her.
A yelp escaped Elma’s lips and the shape (which she immediately realized to be human) grunted in pain as it rubbed the back of it’s head. As he turned around, Elma recognized Sad Couch Boy. She was a little surprised to see him. Earlier, as she listened to Dee and her friends talk, she had taken a lot of (what she hoped were) discreet glances in his direction. But at some point in the night, between Elma’s glimpses of the couch area, he’d abandoned his post. For some reason, the idea of his early departure from the party disappointed her. But clearly, he’d never left, as he now squinted up at her from the Lawson’s immaculately groomed yard.
Elma apologized hurriedly, but Sad Couch Boy just waved it off.
“No, no, you’re fine. I’m the one who’s sitting on the ground in the dark,” he said, smiling, as he took three failed swipes at the hair over his eyes before finally clearing his vision. Elma thought he had a good point, but she was too polite to say so.
“Are you sure you don’t need ice?” Elma saw he was still rubbing the back of his head. “I’ve got a pretty strong leg, you know,” she jokingly boasted. His mouth twitched into a smile.
“I’m good. Really,” he avowed. It was the perfect time to break off the conversation and return to her car, but Elma’s feet did not comply. A few beats passed. Sad Couch Boy opened his mouth as if to speak, but quickly closed it, holding his breath. He tried to mask the false motion by pushing his hair once again from his eyes, but Elma saw.
“Alright, as long as you’re okay,” she said slowly as she began to recede.
“Actually, wait!” he blurted. The words seemed to escape his mouth against his will. He tilted his head to the side and began to scratch his forehead. Elma halted her footsteps and watched Sad Couch Boy think. “You’re leaving, right? I mean, are you using a car? To leave, I mean.” He spat out the words apprehensively, watching her expression. Elma had make a conscious effort not to laugh. She exhaled with a smile.
“Yeah, do you need a ride home?” Sad Couch Boy’s eyes glazed over with relief.
“Yes. I mean, yeah, I do,” he said coolly. “The guy I came with disappeared with some girl, and I doubt he’ll be back anytime soon. That’s why I’m sitting here actually,” he said, making eye contact with Elma. “I didn’t really know anyone inside, but it’s actually pretty nice out here. It’s a good place to wait.” Sad Couch Boy laughed to himself, embarrassed for over-sharing.
“It’s okay,” said Elma. “The party sucked anyway.”
Sad Couch Boy revealed his real name to be Foster while the pair walked to the car. He sat in the back, as Dee (still unconscious) occupied the passenger seat. Elma pulled onto the main road and flipped the radio on. The only working station in their small town was WYKP 54.8, a station DJ’d by a man who operated under the pseudonym “Clint Gold”. Although the station’s motto was “Every genre, every day”, Clint exclusively played 80’s pop tunes. In between Duran Duran and Billy Idol, he told bad jokes in a grating voice, guffawing to himself exuberantly after each.
Elma, Dee, and Foster listened quietly as the car cruised down empty roads, lit up only by headlights. After another tedious joke from Clint Gold, music resumed. As two familiar notes of synthesizer burst from her car stereo, a grin appeared on Elma’s face. She had memory after memory of her parents dancing to the Soft Cell song “Tainted Love”. It had become something of a joke in the Frost family, and Elma’s grin broke into a giggle as she thought about her parents feigning seriousness as they sang along in the kitchen.
Foster didn’t even ask what was so funny. He began to laugh right along with her. He had a laugh that rose straight from his stomach. It was a warm, hiccup-like sound that made Elma laugh even harder. Her hands shook so severely on the wheel that she was forced to pull over. The pair tried to subdue themselves, but every time their laughter slowed to a sigh, it would pick up again, even more vigorously than before. It was only after the song had ended that Elma was able to collect herself, put the car into drive, and take off into the night, still smiling.