Birthday Girl

IT'S MY EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY. And I'm having a party. Correction—the party. There are plenty of boys. Twice as many girls. Anyone who's anyone in EastCreek High is here. Insta's on fire. Phones are up in the air. Selfies. Ussies. Half these people are just faces. I have not the faintest idea who they are. Ninety percent of the freaking school is here. The football squad. The cheerleaders. The student representative board. People. Actual people. At my party. But I know they're not here because of me. If it were left to the Invites I dished out myself, the only souls that would grace my humble abode would be the Mathlon team. My own band of nerdy merrymakers. The reason for such popularity of my otherwise normal party stands by the staircase, casually leaning against the bannister, his tall stature making him stand out, his falling blond hair turning heads, his icy eyes pulling in the crowd, his sexy laughter dropping panties.

He stands in a flock of girls. And boys.

Lancelot effing Grimm. The hottest boy to ever walk the planet. My heart-throb, and the only reason I'm not solving puzzles right now with my five-man Mathlon competition team.

Those around him form a crescent circle. Listening. Smiling. Crushing hard. He is Michelangelo's David, and they are art-loving voyeurs. A healthy doze of sexuality is his calling card. Make that a full plate serving. Lance is the whole package. The motherlode.

He is not speaking, just quietly paying attention to those who find it a thing of beauty to be by his side. They do the speaking. Mostly the girls. Blushing and playing with their hair when he smiles at something funny they'd said. For the boys, being with Lance offers the macho vibe. His Alpha energy rubs off on them. That, and always being around him offers a steady supply of chicks. It's a win-win situation.

These people... All of them are here for him.

Just the mention of his name.

I can vividly recall handing out my painstakingly hand-designed invite card to one of the cheerleaders. Within the three seconds to which she granted me an audience, she'd whipped her perfumed mane of hair into my face, just before interrupting my stuttered invitation with the famous words,

"Would Lance be there?"

A shaky "Y–yes," on my part later and she was already off to tell her other equally hot girlfriends, a spring in her step. Half the school was invited by lunchtime—and not by me. Some of these people don't even know whose birthday party it is. It's weird.

In the deep recesses of my mind I know this is a dream. My mind can tell it by merely looking at Lance. A sort of saintly halo frames his person, making his golden hair and blue eyes stand out. A Norse god. Making him luminous is something my eager imagination would do. It's not that all these didn't happen in real life. It did actually, every single scene. But in my thoughts, Lance is a daydream. Almost too good to be true. And so if my mind decides to attribute some Olympic qualities to him, so be it.

Though this is a dream, this is me remembering a time before waking up in the Dead Empire. What is was like to just be with Lance and his boyish charms, not worrying about crazy girlfriends dealing death blows. This is one of the last beautiful memories I had with him before prom night. It's kind of sincere that this is the one my mind would conjure after blacking out to the Inquisition Spell. It shows just how deep the waters run. Everytime spent with Lance is engraven. Hieroglyphs of a girl's longing. Because I have loved Lance forever. All of him, in the past, and always. And though I can easily open my eyes, blink away the sleep and dream, and return to a reality where it isn't Hot Lance Summer, I don't. I indulge the dream fully. Because it's not a dream at all. It is a memory. And I'm grateful for the chance to relive it.

I turn my eyes from Lance and the people drinking him up to stare out at the crowd spill into the frontyard. There are many inside the house and equally dozens out. Two large silvery bins had been strategically placed at the sides of the mowed lawn but displaced cake foils and plastic cups still dot the area. Highschoolers being themselves. Young, full of energy, and releasing it in the only way they know how. Sex. Underage drinking. Partying like crazy. And the occasional ashy nose. My birthday party is an excuse for one—if not all—of those times. I don't mind. But am I grateful that Lance suggested we use his house? Uh, hell yeah! It was more like him saying in his solid timbre,

'The party's gonna be at my house.'

And me like, twirling my fingers, shyly saying, 'Okayyy.'

But you get the point. My parents wouldn't have lasted a minute of the Generation Z youthful exuberance.

As if to butresss my point, I spy a lanky fellow relieving himself against the Grimms white picket. There you go. My mum would've taken up her handy garden shovel, wielding it like an axe and cussing for the first time. My dad...well, the boy would probably choose to piss himself than anywhere near the house. It's not like my dad will say or do anything. But his eyes. My dad went through a LaVeyan phase when he was younger, and has the scars to prove. He cleaned up his act, becoming religious to the bone, but those Luciferan dagger eyes remained.

I step out the cloud of music booming Rihanna's Rehab into the frontyard. As I move down the front steps, something whitish falls over my eyes, nearly hitting my cheek. I look up immediately, seeing a guy with his pants down at his ankles. His right hand is bobbing up and down between his legs. His eyebrows are furrowed in deep concentration. His forehead is sweaty.

Oh no! He isn't. He wouldn't dare?

Jerking off at my party? Fuck you, perv.

I hurry around the once tidy lawn to the back area, seeking a moment of less hedonism. It's no better.

A couple of shirtless boys are splashing about in the pool, glassy-eyed with beer cups in their hands. Their solid chests heave under exertion. With one glance, I can tell they're jock bros. Their shifting abs bear a sixpack witness. Their laughter is thunderous as they move a ball between a squirming female in their center. I walk closer to the pool's glittery edge, peering in. A flash of soaked brown hair, inky from water. Wet fair skin. A skimpy Victoria Secret bikini. Long gazelle legs. Like a swan, she sweeps through the water. And then slowly, she lifts up. I see her eyes. Hazel and bright.

Cheyenne Vespers.

Lance's girlfriend. Cheerleading captain. Envy of Eastcreek High.

She's playing with boys. In water. In fucking lingerie! What could be more intentionally risque?

And she may or may not be a little drunk.

She shakes her hair fantastically, adopting a model poise like it's nothing. And then her twinkly eyes meet mine. We both freeze. Her in the water. And I by the poolside. Her playful grin fades and she regards me with a new set in her jaw. Her fine lips curl. Cheyenne had always disliked my friendship with Lance. But try as she might with her slyness, she couldn't make an outright statement against me. Lance would dump her on the spot. We both know it. What Lance and I have is beyond simple ties. We are a livewire together. He gets me. I get him. No one else does. Cheyenne had seen this from the start of their relationship and knows that Lance can never fully be hers with me in the picture. She needs to get rid of me. I understand this.

She gives Lance subtle nudges, insinuating, plotting behind the scenes. She doesn't push though. Else he'll leave. This thought alone annoys her above the rest. I am the wedge between them. The curse in their happily ever after. I always will be.

Cheyenne throws threatening hazel eyes at me. The jock bros in the pool with her notice her new stoicism and follow her gaze to me, the birthday girl. A particular muscular one with a red ponytail smirks at me. I don't recognize him. He looks to be about the age of a Senior. Like myself and Cheyenne. Or perhaps, older. One of Lance's college friends maybe. A frat boy. His grin stretches as he takes me in, licking his lips appreciatively over my little green shorts. His eyes. Cheyenne's eyes. It's too much. I turn around and start back to the house, feeling my back pierced by a dozen stares. The frontyard is full of perverts and alcoholics. The backyard is full of hedonists and green-faced gals. So the house it is I guess.

Lance is still by the high stairs when I walk in. Unsurprisingly, the crowd about him has grown. I wonder if I should tell him his girlfriend is by herself at the pool, spilling ass and cleavage to a bunch of fit players. He probably knows. Cheyenne is nothing if not the jealous kind, and with a soul like Lance, she can be a bitch about it. It's clear that playing in the pool with a bunch of dudes is Cheyenne's way of getting back at Lance for organizing my party. He doesn't seem to care though. Lance probably really likes Cheyenne but he also cares about me. He wouldn't get in the middle of a catfight over throwing a birthday party for me.

Sorry Cheyenne, but being emo doesn't work on Lance.

He is mature. An old-farrant.

And sometimes I think he was born in the wrong century.

When I picture Lance, I see an arena, a battlefield, a galloping army. I see swinging swords, blood-stained capes, war cries. I see a gilded warrior, a cloaked terror, a mighty legend. He must see this too on some level. Perhaps that's why he's so broody all the time.

He sees me standing some distance away and flashes me a smile. It uproots all my convictions about being okay with being just his best friend. I could be more. Eff Cheyenne! Under his brilliant smile, I zone out for a second. He could be more. A loud tapping sound brings me around and I look towards the source of it.

Lance stands at the head of the crowd, before us all. He is tapping lightly on his booze cup, commanding the attention of the whole room. It's an entire house full of rowdy, hormonal, drunk teens. And it's a big house. Still he commands it. Everyone falls out of their various conversations, gazes sweeping to where he stands at the foot of the stairs. The DJ lowers the music to a dull thrum that teases the ears. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see Cheyenne walk in with her bikini, a towel sexily wrapped over her hips, tied at the side to a perfect bow. Her skin still bears the shimmer of a shower. Even she can't resist Lance's appeal. He is more than just blue eyes and a god bod. It's just him.

Everyone is raptured and silent when he stops tapping. Cerulean eyes level over the entire room, managing to meet everybody's gaze.

"Allie, if you please." He offers his free hand.

I take it quickly, afraid it'll just vanish if I wait too long.

My heartbeat triples as I step up to his side. God! He's so tall. I feel...little. He smells so good. Like London orchards and fresh rain. Because of him, everyone is looking at me too. So this is what it means to be under the spotlight. I lift a hand to push up my glasses.

"Bellisima." Lance leans down to whisper in my ear.

I shiver at his proximity, my chest welling up with a lot of repressed emotions. He called me beautiful, in Italian. I'm wearing nothing sexy. Not like Cheyenne. I'm in green shorts that reach my upper thighs, a huge black Cardy that says Eastcreek Honey; the monicker for the school's Spelling Bee team. It drops down to my hips, nearly swallowing my shorts. And my legs might've shown if not for the gunmetal thigh-high boots that ride up my calves. I look like I'm wearing alligators on my feet. The only thing I feel remotely attractive about is my natural bleach-blonde hair done up in cute twin braids. My mum's stellar handiwork. Knowing Lance has a preference for the sweet valley type, I had braids just for him. And still, he called me beautiful.

I watch with wide eyes as the redhaired frat boy from earlier wheels in the cake on a dressed table. It boasts three steps, is silvery as collected moonlight, and one hell of confectionary magic. So that's why the Ginger frat had been smirking earlier. I look up at Lance and he beams down at me. I'm unable to form words at the moment but I hope my eyes do the talking. Peering back out into the stricken awed crowd, Lance raises up his red plastic cup,

"To the Birthday Girl!"

And I wake up with a start—and a fresh smile.