Mess To Be Made

61

            Mimi had outdone herself.

Not only had she completely transformed the living room into an open gathering space, lined with two banquet tables sporting a full buffet, but our backyard was practically unrecognizable. Between the photo booth tucked away in one corner, the bar in the center, and the faux linoleum platform laid down over the grass with a rented stereo and two large speakers... it was everything she could ever imagine. A loud, memorable party.

And it was packed. Which was no surprise, seeing as her invite list was two pages long. Despite the occasion being my graduation, there were too many people here that I hardly knew. Not just the neighbors and old family friends, but seemingly every person Mimi had ever come in contact with in this God forsaken town. Most of whom only knew of me. It was hours of forced smiles, awkward hugs, and the most repetitive small talk.

The only guests that I cared about were already tearing up the dance floor. Lindsay, Rachel, Sean, Chad, Brian.

Liam. And Scott. Even Cory came.

They were all grouped together in a circle. Laughing together. Dancing together. Like they'd all been the best of friends for years, when in fact, only less than a year ago, most of us barely knew Cory Bernard. All of us definitely didn't know there was a Scott Wheaton in our grade.

As I stood on my back porch, overlooking the entire backyard, I witnessed Rachel attempt to dip Lindsay, nearly dropping her flat on her ass, causing everyone to burst into laughter. Maybe it was seeing them all together, happy, that had the corners of my eyes moist and heavy. Or maybe it was just the reality of the finality setting in.

Because this was it. Tomorrow morning, I would wake up and high school would be past tense. Four years I'll never get back. Four years that changed me, shaped me.

Four years that broke me. Then rebuilt me.

Four years that helped me—sometimes forced me—to realize that life is fucking painful.

And it doesn't matter who you are or what you've been labeled to be.

It doesn't matter if you're known as the Queen, like Rory.

Or the jock, like Blake.

Or the Golden Boy, like Sean.

Or the sweetheart, like Lindsay.

Or the partier, like Landon.

Or the bitch, like Rachel.

Or the nerd, like Scott.

Or the joke, like Cory.

Or the asshole, like Tyler.

Or the slut, like me.

It doesn't matter how people see you. Or, even sometimes, how you see yourself. None of it really matters. Because the truth is, life is just fucking painful. But, despite that pain, maybe even because of that pain... it can still be beautiful.

It can be fucking beautiful.

So I stood on my back porch watching my friends, who each, in their own way, gave me a fragmented piece of glass over the past four years. Pieces of glass that, when put together, built a window. So I could actually, finally, look out of the box I'd locked myself into and see that beauty.

The weight of my gratitude for them almost had my knees buckling underneath me.

Almost. If it wasn't for the hand that slipped around my waist from behind, making me gasp a combination of surprise and relief. The asshole I now referred to as my boyfriend used his grip as leverage to pull me into him until our bodies were flush against one another.