My Champagne Problems

1: Dom Pérignon

Words...just random letters compiled to produce sounds that convey a message. But not necessarily always the same message you want to convey.

Words lie. People lie. But actions, expressions, the sudden fear that dawns over the eyes when someone lies...that's true, it's genuine.

Like the daunting shadow of anticipated dread clast over my gaze right now as I take yet another hurried glance at my wristwatch...hoping, hoping that by some miracle the hands of my watch turns back an hour or two...or perhaps twelve hours would be more accurate.

But alas, this is inevitable...

"Can you just chill the fuck out, you're going to be fine." These are the comforting words of my best and only close friend Graham Lecter, a complete dumbass if you ask me.

"What's up with that stupid curfew anyway? It's not like you were out partying all night," he continues his rant, expecting no response from me--he knows me so well.

"I mean yeah you did spend the night over and I did have some friends over, but it's not like your mum knows that," he says before snapping his gaze away from the freeway we are zooming down, and turns to face me for a fleeting moment. "Does she know that?" He asks.

I shake my head negatively and he sighs in relief. "Good," he nods. "It wouldn't hurt your reputation to contribute to the conversation from time to time you know," he adds to which I shrug in response.

Words, in my opinion, are a waste of energy, why bother with them? When you can get the same answer you're looking for by just studying the person instead, it's so much easier. No words no lies, no masks.

"Fucking makes me feel like I'm having a conversation with myself like I'm a motherfucking dumbass," he grumbles.

"You are," I finally choose to respond.

"Finally the queen speaks!" He announces sarcastically earning an eye roll from me before I direct my gaze to the window beside me and watch as we zoom past car after car driving like maniacs.

Wordlessly I point towards the speedometer, my eyes still fixated on the window. "Just li'l over the speed limit," he defends himself, clearly lying.

"You're 20 mph over the speed limit," I point out nonchalantly.

"Eh," he shrugs.

"Five minutes and we'll be there," he says, catching me glancing at my wristwatch again.

Closing my eyes I lean back in my seat, mentally preparing myself for the storm my mum's going to break up when I get back--I sigh.

"So you plan on attending Homecoming this year?" He asks and I shrug.

"Oh c'mon Liv, you know I can't skip it and I'm going to be so bored all by myself," he whines.

Of course, Graham can't skip Homecoming, his part of the football team, but a dance really isn't my scene; too many people, even more masks.

"Take Lena with you," I suggest, trying to get him off my case.

"My ex?" He deadpans.

"Fine, take Shannon then," I reply.

"My ex-girlfriend's best friend, really that's the best you can do?" He retorts.

"Do it yourself then," I roll my eyes.

"I did," he claims. "I asked you to come," he adds.

Sighing I turn to gaze towards him giving him the look I've given him every time he has put me in such a position--a look of apologetic refusal.