The Spaces Between Your Fingers

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This was how my mom described her high-school experience, she said,

The clock strikes 2:30 and the ear-piercing ring of the school bell alerts, all students that the day has concluded. “Thank god it’s Friday” Leslie and her friends exclaim, as they flow out of Maple Newtown Highs main entrance like a flock of birds evading a storm. Fridays in Maple Newtown meant one thing, and one thing only, parties on Sutton Avenue. 

With the setting sun came an orange and golden light that encouraged everyone to take advantage of this day. As the blackness from the night intensified, the vehicles began to arrive. The growling of Sandy’s 1964 Dodge Charger nearly over compensated the volume of her conversation. Spitting fumes and charcoal colored smoke, Sandy’s car never let them down despite its brittle, rusted frame and suffocating exhaust. Turning aggressively onto Sutton Ave, they pull up to a gorgeous three-story home blaring music. “This is Leslie’s house” Sandy proclaimed, “I told you it was Awesome”. There she was, sitting at the main entrance greeting everyone emphatically as if it were a family party. “Are Leslie’s parent’s home?” asked Barbara, “Trust me, it doesn’t matter” stated Sandy. 

The ignition turns off, and the obnoxious roar of her 64’ Charger resides. The car doors squeal in the distance as they shut behind them. Immediately upon entrance to this beautiful home, they are not only greeted by Leslie, but by Leslie’s mom as well. “Hey girls don’t have too much fun tonight”, the overwhelming aroma of rum filled the air from Marge’s few words, almost making it challenging to breathe. The robust clicking noise from her heals emphasized the marble slated floors we all trampled on. Following down to the basement, they are welcomed by a fully stocked bar and a full keg. The fresh ice melted in her glass as left-over beer trickled from the beer tap onto the surface of her wooden bar. “Want a drink?” said Leslie, her group of friends respond with a resounding yes. The party has begun.

In the corner of the room stood a man with great stature, a strong facial structure and broad shoulders. His name was Rick; this was Leslies man. He was suited in a thinly pleaded leather jacket that seemed to shine underneath the minimal light in Leslies house. The stereotypical bad boy representation is the ideal description of Rick. Sitting in the driveway was his matte black 1948 Harley Davidson Panhead, the perfect match to his rugged exterior style. Slowly drifting towards their friend group, he politely interrupts Leslie mid conversation by slithering his arms underneath hers, picking her up as if she was weightless and kissing her on the cheek. He then leans forward and says “Hello ladies, it is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Rickie.”.

As the bass from the music slowly fades, and people begin stumbling out the front door, they decide to call it a night. Strolling through the house, their feet splash on the spilt beer and the crushed red solo cups. The night finally concludes and as the girls cross through the front door barrier, they drunkenly mumble to each other, “Thank god it’s Friday”.

Parties on Sutton Ave

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