First English House Party

Friday, October 8, 2010

9:00pm

Boy who drew me the map: “So why didn’t you come to that really awesome party Friday night?”

Me: “I was making vegetable stew.”

Boy: “So you had a dinner party?”

Me: “No, just me…making vegetable stew.”

Boy: Silence

Lamest excuse ever.

8:30pm

I am sitting in the holding room for the Henry V callback when a girl turns to me and says, “Hey, you should come to the party tonight.”

“Yeah,” a guy from across the room calls out, “you should come.”

Images of awkward staring at people I do not know flash through my head.

I smile in acknowledgment and then lock my eyes onto the Chorus’ monologue in my hand.

Internal dialogue:

“I can’t go to a party tonight. This is my first free night to make that vegetable stew I have wanted to make all week.”

“It’s Friday night. And it’s not free anymore.”

“I don’t know anyone.”

“Get to know people.”

“I’m scared.”

“Shut up.”

I walk over to the boy who called out from across the room. He has a kind face, and I don’t feel uncomfortable talking to him.

“So tell me about this party.”

“Hi. Well, it’s a costume party, but the theme is anything. It’s the first big drama party of the year, and the first time everyone will be together since spring, so it’ll be really great. Here, let me draw you a map.”

I hand him a piece of paper and a pen.

“Thanks,” he says, turning around and starting to draw…and keeps drawing. I am starting to worry that the party is in a different county when he turns back around. “Here you go.”

I take the paper from him.

It is beautiful. Labeled streets in a perfect grid bisect the page. Tiny shops with little signs on top line the roads. Little arrows point the way along the streets and end at the house circled in dark ink. *44 Trivet Lane.

“Thank you. Wow. Thank you.”

“So I’ll see you there?”

“No promises,” I say with a smile.

“Anna Rose for the Chorus,” the director calls from the door.

“Thanks again,” I tell the boy who drew me the map, and then turn around, take a deep breath and walk towards the audition room.

9:00pm

Walking to my flat, I pull the map from my coat pocket. He drew you this beautiful map. Can you really tell him you were making vegetable stew?

9:20pm

I get to my flat and lay the map on the kitchen counter. It is quiet. All my flat mates must be out.

I pull out onions, carrots, bell peppers, lentils, potatoes, beans, tomatoes, and spices. After soaking the lentils, I begin chopping the onions, tears blurring my vision.

Slice—straight across my thumb. Red spurts over white onion. Shit. I stick my thumb in my mouth, warm metallic hitting tongue. Now, I definitely cannot go. I am injured and unfit to engage in social activity. The burning of onion acid in my open wound feels like relief.

I imagine a new conversation:

Boy who drew me the map: “So why didn’t you come to that really awesome party Friday night?”

Me: Holding up my blood-soaked, bandaged thumb, “I was attacked with a knife and had acid poured on my wound. The lost of blood and pain sent me into delirium. I was lucky to survive.”

Boy: “Oh my God! Who attacked you?!"

Me: "Um…me?"

Boy: Silence

First, you are lame. Now, you are crazy. The sting of the acid turns back to fire.

I wash my thumb, bandage it, throw away the bloody onions, and continue with my stew, feeling the map staring at me.

10:15pm

Slurping the remains of my stew, warm and spicy, I congratulate myself on making the best vegetable stew I have ever had. Then looking around the empty flat, my eyes land on the map. I wash my dishes and stand in the kitchen. I am feed. The kitchen is clean. The dishes are washed. It is 10:15. It is Friday night. My eyes land on the map.

“Do something every day that scares you,” I say out loud, grabbing the map off the counter. I throw on my coat and scarf, and as I’m reaching for the door, I remember, I don’t have a costume. I came here with two suitcases, filled socks and toothpaste. I can’t go. “Shut up, Anna,” I tell myself, slamming the door behind me.

11:00pm

Loud music blasts from behind a stained glass door darkened with silhouettes wearing Native American headdresses and top hats. Above the door I read, 44 Trivet Lane. I look at the map in my hand, 44 Trivet Lane. I keep walking.

Five houses later, I turn around.

And keep walking.

Five houses later, I turn around.

And keep walking.

After ten minutes of walking up and down the street, I realize that I am going to get arrested for stalking.

“Do something every day that scares you,” I whisper, gritting my teeth and walking up to the door, knocking three times, loudly. “Find the guy who drew you the map, thank him, and ask him to introduce you to people,” I am telling myself as the door opens.
Ten heads turn.
Silence.
My intestines shrivel as I step inside. The door closes.
Silence.

“A fresher!” screams a girl three inches from me, shattering the palpable awkwardness.

“No, I am in my third year. I am an exchange student from the United States.”

Silence.

I keep walking.

At the end of the hall, I make a 360, and do not see anyone I know. I peek out into the garden, and do not see the boy who drew me the map. I turn around and walk straight out. This time, the people in the foyer are not silent.

“Where are you going?”

“I just came to look for someone.”

“Did you look in the garden?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll help you find him.”

“No, he’s not here. Thank you.”

Bang. The door closes behind me.

I walk away, telling myself, “At least you can’t say you were making vegetable stew.”

*Address changed so you, too, will not be arrested for stalking.

(For the record, I have gone to many parties since this particular night where I have actually stayed longer than thirty seconds, interacted with people, and started to think that I might not want to leave in June.)