Scott Kellerman

Thanks to Jimi's drunken directions once we got off the train, by the time we finally get to the party, the lofty detached house is booming, pulsing, with music and coloured lights pouring out of the countless windows, and teenagers sprawled and dancing across the large pebbled driveway in various states of intoxication.

I'll admit, I don't always jump at the mention of a party, but I appreciate a good night when Jimi drags me out to one. To me, arriving mid-party always feels something like an IV, or an injection or whatever – bypassing the slow-building beginnings of a good time, and administering a rocket-fast stream of energy to my bloodstream.

Barbara opens the door in more makeup than I've ever seen her in – the louts in our group whoop and holler accordingly, before she graciously lets us in with a smart answer and gentle blush.

"Happy birthday," I smile as I pass her on my way in, extending the bottles in my hand to her – a pale-coloured bottle of Shloer in one, and an icy Smirnoff in the other. "I wasn't sure, so thought I'd cover both bases."

The guys have staggered in already, so it's just she and I in the doorway. She blinks at me a few times with a studious stare, and a tiny voice in my head says: 'Too obvious, Scott, Jesus! Why not just write 'I'm trying to make a good impression on my crush's best friend' on your forehead?'

I cock a playful brow, pretending to withdraw the drinks and turn away. "I'm happy to knock them back myself if they please not the birthday girl..."

Barbara grabs the neck of the Smirnoff bottle and cracks a smile I can tell she doesn't mean to.

"They please." She nods behind her, to the kitchen table, bearing solo cups and a depleted supply of cocktails and beers. "Stick them on the counter... Thank you, Scott."

I wink humbly and make my way to the kitchen with the victory of a knight who's gained access to the castle. I squint as I navigate; all the main lights are off, and the only ones lefts are the ones that flash – blue, green, on, off – shedding bursts of light on writhing bodies and elated faces as they strobe.

My group quickly dispersed, but I hear familiar laughter among 'the kitchen crowd': the congregation of those with one goal and one goal only – drinking any and everything put in front of them, in order to be off their faces as fast as possible.

No sooner than my Smirnoff taps the countertop, Dion Leclerc, the leader of the crowd of Eton lads we came with, picks it up again, clapping me on the back.

"Oi oi, Scott! That's what I'm bloody talking about," he grins, hoisting the glass bottle in the air.

His gleaming white grin damn near glistens as he pours himself and those closest to him a generous helping of the potent clear drink, including his petite girlfriend, Cara, who seems content with staying in his brawny arms as he boozes and banters, never raising her own cup to her lips.

He spots the little red cup in my hand, and, assuming its contents are the same as his, he nods at me, pointing in approval as he knocks back his second dose. I smirk as I join the 'salud!' and down my mine – secretly Shloer-filled – and slink away to talk to some kids from class before the next doling out begins. Hey, somebody's got to be sober enough to remember how to get to the train station.

Dion was already 3 sheets to the wind when we got here, and by the looks of it, Jimi's becoming a less and less reliable guide by the minute. I catch sight of him fucking around in the garden, running about jabbing sticks at some other partygoers – mostly girls, of course. When he spots me, he beams before charging towards me, twig in hand.

"Kellie boy," he slurs gleefully, and I excuse myself from my current conversation. "How you doin' this fine evening?"

"I'm good, Jimi, uh," I point a questioning finger from the outside scene he's just run in from, "what the fuck are you up to? Sword fighting?"

"Duelling. Shit's fun; you should come join! Hannah still doesn't have a partner..."

Looking him up and down, from the grass stains on the knees of his jeans to his panting face, I stifle my smirk.

"As fun as that sounds, J, I-"

"Ah, I get it – you're on lookout."

"Huh?"

"You're slinking about like fuckin' Joe Goldberg, on the lookout for E-F-C, aren't ya?" Jimi winks, patting my shoulder sagely, and I'm grateful that he's waaay too drunk to properly take the piss out of me.

"What? Nah nah, I'm just- I was just talking to some of the guys from Physics," I say, gesturing vaguely to the group I just left, who helpfully smile when Jimi waves an unsteady, eager arm. "No Joe Goldberg-ing going on here."

"Oh okay," Jimi says with a dramatic frown, a performer even drunk, "'cause I saw her just a couple minutes ago, and I thought you'd wanna know where. But since, as you say, you're not looking for her..."

Prick.

"Aw, look at your li'l lost puppy face!" He laughs, scowling when I shove him. "She's in the living room, man."

I shrug, nodding once with nonchalance. "Cool, cool. Uh, don't you have a duel to get back to?"

He smirks, casting a look outside at the tournament of girls before he starts to back away towards the door.

"I do... but you better make a fuckin' move, Kellie. And I mean actual words that you actually speak to her actual face. It's go time, my guy. I'm watching you!"

I flip him off with a laugh as he sprints off again. Watching, I sip, and wait until he's far out of sight before casually moving in the direction of the living room, swiping a bronze can of ginger beer from the drinks' table for as much Dutch courage as I can get whilst still being the Designated Director™.

The living room is the games room tonight – the lights are low but on nonetheless, and the room's population has arranged itself in a misshapen circle, with intent eyes on a little green bottle spinning on the patterned carpet in the centre.

Then, one set of eyes raises to meet me. Her eyes.

True to Jimi's word, Evangeline's sat in the circle, perched on her knees with a gently fizzing wine glass in hand, and when I first spot her, I almost lose my breath right there.

Evangeline's always been beautiful in a way you can't help but be hypnotised by once you notice it – strawberry blonde waterfall waves, pouty rose lips that make seeing her talk as enjoyable as hearing it. From then on, you're enamoured, enchanted by new things every time you see her – at least that's how I felt. Tonight, she's held her long tresses up in a sleek ponytail (save for a few cute tendrils I suspect came loose over the course of the night) and she looks like a wax figure of a continental movie star.

Yet she's adorably real – I wonder if she's tipsy when I look closer and notice the sustained warm flush in apples of her cheeks, and it's then, whilst I stare unashamedly, that I realise she's staring right back. Only she's not just staring – she's waving, beaming, her pouty rose lips saying my name. I think. The 1975 is blaring too loud for me to actually hear her, but suddenly she's up on her feet, shakily, and making a B-line to... me?