Saturday, April 6th, 12:02 a.m.
The windows are the color of the ocean floor flashing in shades of blue that speak a truth one does not want to hear. The sudden wail of a siren clashes with the constant pattern of music, screams, and laughter. Voices echo and a mass of moving shapes escape through the back door. Shadows jump over the fence never to be seen again.
The Po Po knocks at the door and I can assure everyone they are not here to say hi. My best guess is someone snitched about the whole thing. I mean what neighbor wouldn’t complain about a party starting at ten? Especially in a small town like this: Ackerford.
In defense of us―the guests―the after party is to celebrate reaching high honors. Though, most of us have come to have fun because 1, Willow David has a pool, 2, there’s free food, and 3, it’s a party. But I can’t account for all fifty of us, especially not the “cool kids.” Some of the honors kids really took high honors to a whole other meaning.
My reason for coming: the free food. A buffet of snacks is exactly what I need. Basically a dream. The David family: total rich folks. They hired a ton of catering for this event. My favorite option available would be the frozen dessert section.
I take a seat on a reclining leather couch, frozen treat in hand, and watch as chaos pursues around me. People still scatter around the building to hide from the Po Po even if they had done nothing wrong. No matter the size of the crowd it would not distract me from the beauty of my triple chocolate fudge froyo.
To my amusement, the speakers still emit music that sounds like something from Spotify’s top hits. I wave my arms in the air to dance. When there’s a bowl in your hand and a carved plastic spoon that screams “I’m rich” in the other your only option is embarrassment. Nonetheless I’m keeping the spoon; it’s pretty.
The second best part about the party is the fact that we all have to wear masks. For once you can be yourself without anyone to judge. No one knows who I am under the mask. I feel free. I also secretly enjoyed designing the mask but that’s not important.
Last Thursday I bought a royal blue mask at the craft store and bedazzled it with silver sequins. I didn’t expect to design something nice (being as I have zero skills in art), but I will admit (to myself) that I am proud with the finished product. I thought the shade complimented my dark hair and eyes.
Across the room from where I am, the door―which was locked the whole time―is kicked open like they are in those action movies. Wood splinters from the hinges, flying all over the place. C’mon man, you just couldn’t ring the doorbell?
A tall male steps through the fresh, gaping hole in the wall and scouts across the room. He reaches in his black army jacket and pulls a shiny badge that he holds to the crowd.
I expect him to announce he’s searching for something illegal, but he says what I least expect.
“Detective Wesley Sloan,” he says as he lowers his badge back into his pocket. “I’ve been informed of a dead body.”
My froyo hits the floor going in all directions like the people around me. I sit on the couch while the clock holds every future second in a state of chaos. Time’s crown shines and humanity can’t help but bow before it.
People are constantly moving.
Someone is screaming.
For once I don’t know what to do.