As James carried Martha along the dark road, the sound of drums and distorted guitars grew and light from the party began to peek through the branches. "Are Camisha and Calvin coming?" he asked.

"Nah," Martha answered without lifting her head from his shoulder. "Calvin said it's going to be a bunch of either 'corny 90210 wannabes' or 'dudes in flannel, smashing their skulls together.'"

"Too bad. But he's not wrong," James said as he turned down a winding driveway lined with pagoda lights.

Three lives ago, Martha had more or less agreed with Calvin and she and James had stayed away. Tonight's hostess, Nadia Wagner, had left the invitation open to any grade in all neighboring schools, intent on packing her mansion for 'The Party of the Century' while her parents were away. There would be dozens to hundreds of people Martha didn't know or didn't like. But since reaching James, her answer to life had been 'Yes.' And with the threat of social rejection holding as much danger as children playing cops and robbers, her once daunting social anxiety was gone.

The driveway made a final bend to the right and the gaudy property came into view with all its garish magnificence. The massive chateau style home felt ripped from a fairy tale. The steeply pitched rooflines were dotted with spires and chimneys – because who should have to share a fireplace with the rest of their family? As the driveway reached the manor, it widened to wrap around a working, Parisian fountain. Manicured bushes and flowerbeds framed the estate and floodlights cast a glow upon the stone exterior, ready for its closeup.

"Are Nadia's parents Austrian royalty or something?" Martha asked.

"No, her step-dad's an offensive lineman for the Bears. So, Chicago royalty, I guess."

"Wow. Being good at pushing people sure pays well."

Others were making the same pilgrimage as Martha and James and they waved to some they knew. They began to pass a line of cars parked in the single lane driveway leading down to the circle drive, itself a disorganized, makeshift parking lot.

"How are people expecting to get out of here?" Martha said. "That's going to be chaos."

"They won't. And it will," James confirmed. "Lots of people will be spending the night here whether they like it or not."

"So no Double D's at this party?"

James let out a chuckle. "No, that's a three year undertaking costing a ton of political capital that I failed to earn this life."

"Well, either way, it's a good thing my boyfriend had the foresight to park at the top." She bit his ear then jumped off his back.

James smiled, rubbing his ear. "If nothing else, I'm good for that," he said as they weaved through the helter-skelter lot.

"Oh my God, you're here!"

From the other side of the fountain, Steph Jenkins came running around to greet them. She wore a black skirt and turtleneck with a cheetah print vest and a black straw hat with a giant sunflower pinned in the middle.

Martha sighed. "Hey Steph."

"Like, oh my God, this party would have totally sucked if you didn't come." She looked at James with an eager smile. "Hey Jimmy."

James stared at her blankly, then to Martha. We're not really going to hang out with this witch, are we?

Martha rolled her eyes. Oh, you'll survive.

Steph looked from one to the other expectantly, then finally said, "Anyways, most people are like, around back."

"Lead the way," Martha said, then Steph complied.

While much of Adams High School in this life had been identical to what Martha remembered, Steph Jenkins' gracious adoration had been a bizarre variation. It didn't take long, however, for Martha to identify the cause. It was James.

Or, rather, the lack thereof. Steph's obsession with Jimmy Quinn in Martha's first life – and in most lives – had made Martha a threat. But this time around, he'd been Creepy Jimmy Quinn, so Steph had aimed her scowl elsewhere. A small part of Martha still saw Steph as the villain smirking at the edge of their prom dance floor, but that was long past. The girl walking with them now had been defanged, declawed, and extinguished – a harmless girl to be pitied, not feared.

As they followed her around the side of the house, Kurt Cobain's scream faded into Pearl Jam's "Evenflow" over steadily growing chatter, whoops, and laughter. "So who else is here?" Martha asked.

"Like, the whole world," Steph answered. "People from Naperville... Aurora... even Elgin. Gross."

"You're prettier when you're not a snob, Steph," Martha said.

"Really? Thanks!" Steph beamed, missing the point.

They took a right at the five-car garage and the backyard, swarming with teens, came into view. Though the only way this is a 'backyard' is if your home is a Vegas resort!

There was another fountain – this one with a couple of boys inside, splashing each other like idiots – and rows of tables with liquor bottles, beer kegs, and catered food. There were a pair of jacuzzis – seriously, one wasn't enough?? – and deck chairs flanking the olympic sized swimming pool. Its water had been drained, however, and replaced with teens – shoulder to shoulder, mostly male, mostly wearing flannel, and all smashing their skulls together in the makeshift mosh pit as Pearl Jam transitioned to House of Pain from the hidden sound system.

"See what I mean," Steph said as they came to a stop next to a faux Grecian statue.

"Yeah," Martha humored.

"Totally sucks, right Jimmy," Steph asked.

He stared death at her for a moment, then looked at Martha. "Vodka tonic?"

Martha smiled flirtatiously. "How did you know?" Then she raised her eyebrows at him and nodded toward Steph.

James rolled his eyes and said, "Can I get something for you as well, Steph Jenkins?"

"Oh... um. Can I have a... vodka tonic, too? If it's not too much trouble."

He grinned wide enough to make his insincerity clear. "No trouble at all!" Then he kissed Martha on the cheek and left for the bar.

"I don't think your boyfriend likes me," Steph said with a nervous smile.

"Oh, he's just grumpy sometimes," Martha said. "Grumpy like an old man."

"Yeah. Right." Steph saw something and gasped. "Oh no she didn't!" Her eyes suddenly assumed full scowl.

"What's wrong?"

"That bitch, Kathy Conners, is here."

Martha turned to see Kathy laughing with a pair of friends next to the dessert table. Kathy had been dating Jason Walters – this life's 'Jimmy Quinn' – for the past two years.

"I heard she and Jason broke up," Martha offered.

"No, that was just for like, a day. God!" Steph crossed her arms violently. "I hate that stupid, perfect bitch."

"Kathy Conners is not perfect," Martha said.

"Yes, she is! She's naturally blonde and her skin's like, always perfectly tanned. And her body's perfect and she's like, always smiling and-"

"Steph, Steph, calm down," Martha said, patting her on the back as she continued her glower offensive. "Hey, don't look at her. Look at me." Steph turned to her with a huff. Martha continued. "Listen – everyone on the face of this planet has a reason to feel ugly. And at the same time... no one has a reason to."

"That doesn't make sense. What are you talking about?"

"Well... Everyone – you, me, Kathy Conners, world famous supermodels, older sisters..." At this, Steph swallowed and shifted her weight nervously. "Every one of us has a reason to envy someone else – straight hair, curly hair, taller, shorter, bigger boobs, smaller boobs... Maybe you feel like a freak. Maybe you wish you didn't look so plain." Martha paused for a moment as the memories rushed over her. "But none of it is real. We all just make it up. Sure, scientists say symmetry is an objective measure of beauty, but Cindy Crawford's got one mole, not two. And maybe someone who looks healthy is universally more attractive than someone who looks sick, but then how the hell do we explain Kate Moss? But it doesn't matter. The point is that anyone can look in the mirror and choose to feel ugly or choose to feel beautiful."

Steph frowned as if struggling against the pep talk. She turned back to Kathy. "Yeah. Her ass is pretty flat, I guess."

"Steph!" Martha said, then grabbed her shoulders and shook them. "Forget about Kathy! What about you? You are beautiful."

Steph smiled bashfully. "Really?"

"Really and truly. And you want to know which part of you is the prettiest? Your eyes. They're soooo pretty! Except when you do this." Martha gave her best 'Steph Jenkins Scowl' to its namesake.

Steph laughed. "Shut up, I don't do that."

"You do that all the time. You were doing that like, fifteen seconds ago. But when you leave them open enough for us to see... It's like the sun sparkling off the ocean. And that! That's the second most beautiful thing – your smile. You should definitely do that more often."

Steph's cheeks followed the suggestion, stretching as wide as they could. "I'm so not gay, but I like, totally love you."

"Steph..."

"Don't worry. I'm totally not gay."

"I know but..."

"Oh look there's Jimmy."

"...it's not a disease." Martha shook her head in defeat. If it's not one thing with this girl... She turned to see James walking towards them, holding three plastic cups.

"Ladies," he said, offering the drinks. They each took their vodka tonics leaving James with his swirling brown and milky beverage.

"Yours looks so cool. What is it?" Steph asked.

"It's a White Russian."

"Wow. How do you know how to make such like, classy drinks?"

"He's been around," Martha said, then raised her cup. "To the fall of objective beauty." James smirked slightly in confusion, then shrugged his shoulders and the three drank.

Steph's face scrunched. "You like this?" she asked Martha.

"Yeah," Martha said. "By the third cup, you won't even taste the alcohol."

"Oh. Well then... race you there?" Steph said and took another drink.

Martha leaned close to James and whispered, "We're driving her home tonight."

He nodded his head and sighed, admiring his girlfriend's charity. "I figured as much."

Author's note:

Thank you for reading!

I'm as guilty of envy as the next person, but I agree with Martha wholeheartedly.  We completely make up what is beautiful and what is not.  So why not ignore the influencers and define yourself and the people in your life as beautiful?

Any veterans of the mosh pit out there?  Not me.  Too cowardly (or smart, depending on your POV).