It was the first birthday party of the summer, for the Musical Theatre majors. I admit, what constitutes a birthday party in my mind is cake, presents and singing, still. What it truly is, for most at this age, is a tumultuous affair full of all possible illegalities. Today the birthday girl was Bethie, but Sophie, being the more hard-core one of the two, took over as hostess. She poisoned a watermelon with vodka, brought ‘Cards Against Humanity’ to be turned into a strip/drinking game (anything could be turned into a strip/drinking game, given enough effort; that was her motto) and of course, as with all parties, she invited her brother and all his college friends.
Much to my surprise upon arrival, the first face I saw was that of Andrew Voracopova. The boy was notorious around our High School, and I knew of him far before I knew him. He achieved this feat by being pedantic and nerdy and an over-achiever to a fault. I would never have guessed he’d manage to infiltrate a party like this, I was surprised enough that people like me were invited, let alone him. Regardless of my shock, I was happy to see him.
He always managed to be unintentionally funny: he made complicated references to Russian history out of everything, spelled out the 28-part historical fiction novel he wrote to anyone who listened, and would go out of his way to turn even the most simple surface conversations to the topic of politics. I figured his presence at the party was on the same level as mine, there more for the company than the illicit conduct.
I was wrong. Drastically. He said he wanted to celebrate since he did such a splendid job with the school year. I don’t think he’d have it in him to fail a class, but he convinced himself that he was deserving of some sort of extra reward. The barely five-foot-tall boy swaggered up to the table of sickly sweet vodka and grabbed the bottle of Jelly-Donut-flavored alcohol.
We began a game of strip ‘Cards Against Humanity’ and I began to regret just wearing a dress, since it’d count as one loss when it came to taking clothes off. Andrew was decked in his usual layers of cardigans and dress-shirts, despite it being in the midst of summer. There was no way he could lose. He was too smart for the game, anyways. He began to analyze the implications of answering: “Why does my butt hurt?” with the card “Eugenics.”
Sophie’s brother and friends got annoyed that we were playing a stupid card game, when we could be playing a drinking game. Andrew jumped right on the bandwagon, suggesting a trivia game. We all agreed, since we had nothing to lose.
He began to set up the game. Although drunk, he was still very eloquent. He decided it’d be like Jeopardy, but with simple right and wrongs, and for every right, one got to drink. The topic he chose was Russian history, of course. The frat-boys reluctantly agreed to the high school junior’s rules. He was undoubtedly charismatic to them, in spite of brandishing his academia. The game began.
“Lets start with an easy one,“ Andrew snickered, “Who was the Czar in 1917?”
No one answered. I inferred, since he claimed it was easy, that it’d be the only Russian Tsar in the bank of my brain.
“Nicholas Romanov?” I questioned, figuring even if I was wrong I wouldn’t seem dumb. Andrew was the equalizer; next to him, everyone seemed dumb.
“Yes! Well Nicholas Romanov the second, but still… Yes!” Said Andrew jubilantly, sending a sloshing red cup up to my face.
“No thank you.” I said sheepishly.
The frat boys began to scoff at me. I heard hints of “She’s not fun!” and, “Why’s she here if she isn’t going to drink?”
“I have Convergence in the morning, otherwise I might. Thank you, Andrew.” I added, hoping to seem less like a drag if I provided a justification.
The game continued. Considering the height of Russian history I had in my brain at that moment came from the kid’s movie ‘Anastasia’, I couldn’t continue any more rounds than that. This left Andrew merely answering the questions he posed to us, and drinking accordingly.
The frat boys eventually lost interest and headed down to the basement, where they knew the drugs were hidden. Andrew stayed on the dirty maroon couch. He looked pleased with himself, though he became dazed.
I continued to talk with anyone who came near my sedentary spot on the floor. Possibly due to a secondhand high from the wafts of weed smoke permeating through the house, I hadn’t the slightest interest in getting up from my spot. I talked and listened to anyone near by.
Every so often I looked up from my perch, to see how the pedagogical Andrew was doing. Each time I looked, the boy was dazed. He focused his attention to the porch outside, or a spot on the ceiling or a freckle on the nose of a portrait. I figured he was all right; he was in his own world, entirely, but really, when wasn’t he.
In his dream he was some brilliant Russian monarch. Ladies of the court swooned upon hearing the various slices of wisdom he’d impart. His Russian world was so beautiful, as his brain swam in Jelly-Donut flavored Vodka.
Something compelled me to look back up at him, just to make sure he hadn’t choked on his own sharp tongue and died, or anything. I’ve seen people in worse stages, but I felt like Andrew needed protecting. It suddenly occurred to me, what if this was the first time he’s ever had a drink.
Suddenly I diverted my vision back to the boy. Andrew remained staring out into space. His big naïve goody-two-shoes baby-face stared into the empty atmosphere that surrounded me. He gazed blankly for ages longer. I waved hesitantly at him, in hopes he was still somehow cognizant. It had become painfully obvious that, yes, this was his first time being drunk or high or anything! Upon finally seeing me, Andrew jolted back on the sofa.
“Where did you come from?” he squeaked.
“I’ve been here all night, Andrew.” I ensured.
His fat black eyebrows rose.
“No! You just popped up!” He demanded.
My maternal sense made me feel for the poor boy.
“It’s alright, Andrew; everything’s fine.” I cooed.
Andrew then stumbled off the sinking couch, his sneakered feet fumbled beneath him. I heard him crash down the wooden stairs to the well-lit basement. I heard his cracking voice prevail over the din of chatter, attempting to initiate another round of his beloved historical drinking game.
It was so surreal to see the most stoic, nerdy, know-it-all I had ever known continue to hold his own against the frat boys, who partied, drank and smoke as if their lives depended upon it. Little Andrew was all about Ivy-League colleges and well-filled resumes. But in this juxtaposition, those who knew him well, like me, found humor.
Still, I couldn’t help but be a tad worried for the boy, but I knew, regardless of how posturing and boisterous as the frat boys might be, Andrew was safer with them than with most. I got the sense that the college guys had that same spark of naivety and exuberance as Andrew had. Though, of course it’s much cooler to seem worldly and apathetic. From the strangers I talked to, as the night went on, I heard stories of how much some of the supposedly thick-skulled frat boys loved gender studies, sociology and theology. I trusted that tiny little Andrew Voracopova was in good hands, as long as they stayed on their sofas and got some sleep.
I hope Andrew dreamed of his glorious Russian world, wherein he has fleets of boisterous compatriots. They spend eternities together at salons, drinking the finest Jelly-Donut Vodka and debating about politics, theology, sociology and gender-studies. He was the king of this usually polarizing atmosphere, even if only for a night.
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