Chapter 1

Author’s Note: I originally published this story on SOL for a Halloween writing contest. It is one I have been contemplating longer than I’ve known Beth. The contest seemed a perfect opportunity to finally put words to electronic paper and get the story started, particularly with the hook that came to me as I sat to write. The story did poorly, but at least one commenter seemed to get it. I named the original story what I did because it focused on a single party. Oddly ... or interestingly, most of the bits and bobs I’ve imagined for this story over the six or seven years I have pondered it also revolve around parties, so the title remains.

“I hate him!”

It was not the first time I had screamed that exclamatory sentence in my mind. No, it was very far from the first time, and I cannot see any way that the future could provide me with a route to a mental place in which I did not hate him.

You might ask, “Why don’t you scream it out loud? It’s more cathartic that way.”

Unfortunately, the walls have ears. In this house, that statement is almost literally true. I suspect that you’d think this house a large, airy, light edifice, despite its relative age. If this guy wants a house to exude something, it does so, or by God, there will be hell to pay. The same goes for:

1. business partners

2. cars

3. competition

4. nosy reporters

5. wives

6. commercial flight timetables and

7. daughters; yes, even daughters.

Okay, he probably cannot get commercial flight timetables to do his bidding, but the others are all certainly true. I am trying like Hell to be like those timetables, but he has what he has because he’s very hard to outwit, witness all the results those business partners, competition, nosy reporters, wives, and daughters have managed. Of course, cars can be sold, sent over a cliff, or simply blown up, removing their tendency to disappoint.

Okay, the cars bit is certainly hyperbole. At least I’m pretty sure it is. I think. While I would not put those punishments past him, I cannot imagine him going to such efforts to show a car its rightful place in the world. Humans, however, are a different story. Humans do what he wants, or else it is:

1. death or ... no, just death

2. see the above

3. death or not having a pot to piss in – the latter being, by far, the most satisfying result

4. death or the subject of ridicule and/or not being able to obtain a position with a news organization any larger than The East Buttfuck News and Gazette

5. the loony bin

6. see the above

7. screaming “I hate him” at the top of my mind’s lungs three or four times a day.

Okay, deep breath here, Girl. Step away from the ledge. You know he’s had no other...

Well, I’m reasonably sure he’s had no other wives or daughters. Well, thank God, at least some people were lucky not to be related to him in any fashion ... or living in the same city ... or same state ... or, like the luckiest people in the world, the same country.

Okay, another deep breath here, Girl. The death thing is probably a stretch. While you have no absolute proof, just as for various police forces and districts attorney, you know what I know, even if you and I cannot prove it.

Yet.

You might ask, “Do you always converse with yourself as if you were two people?”

Nearly all the fucking time.

The rage in my head this time was due to something completely inane that my father suddenly wanted to happen and “I mean right the fuck now.” At least, that’s how he put it to the ... let us just call him the estate manager. I do not know if the guy has an actual title, as he is just one of that a-hole’s employees who live on the property who gets told to do things that might fit under the job description of “estate manager.”

Does he truly believe that going gangbusters on his brilliant idea will earn him brownie points, public esteem, or the love and dedication of the unwashed masses? I mean, a Halloween-style presentation in the front yard and some decorations on the ... terrace – what is outside of the front house entrance is more than any fucking front porch! I ask you, what does the guy think that will do? Get him a key to the city? Fuck some gigantic, gaudy, faux gold key that could open nothing and does not need to open anything, as he already owns the fucking city.

Okay, yet another deep breath here, Girl. Admit it. You’re dropping the F-bomb far too much, and your mother would scold you for that ... if she could.

Well, who the fuck cares? Apparently, I do, because the pain of my mother in a mental facility (how ... sanitary that term is) still cuts deep. Why would she do it? Why would she suddenly choose to use LSD?

Girl, you know very well what happened. You know she did not ... choose.

“I hate him.”

At least I got him to agree to my requirement for my full cooperation with the inanity that is a Halloween party writ ridiculous, since I was the one who had to present the invitations ... personally.

Oh, all recipients of the invitations know who I am and, more importantly, know who my father is. Since the only time I see any of those people is in school, I had had to hand them-- the invitations – personally to the recipients of the invitations to “my” party, my ridiculous, overblown, farce of a party. The invitations went to the kids of “important” people. The kind of important people that could afford or had the pull to send their kids to private school but wanted to present the image of being a “regular” person, the sort that had no choice but to send their kids to the public high school at which I matriculated, because that is where I matriculated. And, of course, I cannot simply “go to school,” I must matriculate.

Fuck. Those kids are all snobs. I have little doubt that they hate me, but because I am my father’s daughter, they cannot actually say that they hate me anywhere it could be overheard. I would rather they tell me exactly that rather than deal with all the oiliness. I feel I need a Tyvek jumpsuit anytime I’m anywhere near any of them.

Do I make it seem like there are loads and loads of these ... toads? Ooh, I like that. Loads of toads. My school’s LOT. Or LoT. Either way, I was wishing for that jumpsuit when I handed the dozen invitations to a mix of seven girl toads and five boy toads.

Aside #1: Do biologists have different names for girl toads versus boy toads? You know, like colt and filly and stupid words like that.

So, no there are not huge loads of toads at my school, but since those existing toads are the “cream” of school society, few of the other ... matriculators ... have big-enough balls to buck them.

Aside #2: I know that “balls” in this sense is a metaphor, but girls don’t have balls. Should I use the Spanish term, cajones, just to make it seemingly less guy oriented? Even though it’s the same thing? And you say you’ve never considered how even our language is male chauvinistic? But, of course. Ovaries can’t be nervy. Can they? {Eyeroll.}

I also handed invitations to two normal, everyday, middle-class kids ... who were not toads, not even toad-ish. Or even frog-ish or any other kind of amphibiesque-ish beatie. Those two boys – Ian and Kyle and apparently inseparable best friends – are both blond-haired, tallish, and reasonably smart or, at least, reasonably successful students.

And cute.

And have melt-your-heart smiles ... at least for those having hearts that are not irretrievably frozen solid. Perhaps my heart is not at zero degrees Kelvin.

I’ve had them both in classes a few times, both last year in 9^th grade and this year. I had never had only one of them in a class, and I did not know of anyone who had. Apparently, they completely coordinate their class schedules, taking all the same classes. That seemed a bit ... squiggly to me, so I held them a bit beyond arm’s reach, although I’m always pleasant to students that do not go out of their way to be snotty with me.

I had recently been ... getting interested in ... being interested in them, but my experience with classmates has not been wonderful. In fact, it has been bad-ish, mostly because of who my father is. But that is nowhere near all of the reason, damn it. Since I do not truly want the school depopulated ... and because I hate him, I’ve never complained to my father. Besides, I’ll admit to some blame for that ... bad-ish-ness, but even that portion is indirectly due to my father. At least, that is what I tell you when I’m talking to myself.

I lost focus and all ability to understand words, even English words when they both immediately said something after opening the invitations. I shook my head to clear the miasma that had descended upon my brain ... or ears ... or something.

“I apologize,” I told them. “My synapses must be misfiring, as I did not understand your response.”

Ian apparently repeated his answer, but only when Kyle immediately parroted Ian did I understand that they had both said something like, “Yes. I look forward to it. Should I bring something?”

Since my synapses still seemed burned out – at least the ones between my brain and my mouth, I simply shook my head. Suddenly, all was unexpectedly righted in the electric pulses in and on the way to my brain, which enabled me to blurt, “Great! This is not the sort of party at which you should be fashionably late,” putting a slight emphasis on the second-person pronoun, “and you don’t need to bring anything.”

“Thanks, Annah.”

My given first name is the somewhat pretentious Savannah, given me by my father, but I have spent years getting teachers to use the name I prefer, Annah.

Go ahead, you can guess who else called me that. I will give you a gross times pi guesses, but only the 17^th guess counts.

Shouldn’t I already know that?

Of course. How can you not, being me?

Am I slipping too far into this dual personality?

Of course not. Are we not two?

Should that be, “Am I not two?”

Deep breaths, now, Girl!

Can you believe that there are only two days to Halloween and the coming atrocity? Hell, the yard looks like one of those massive Christmas displays that cost the house owners $10,000 for a couple of weeks of electricity, only done in autumn colors and lots of pumpkins and ... stuff. And, yes, the long walk to the terrace is lined with faux jack-o’-lanterns lighting the way, set just so, but not paired, as that would be far too common. No, there is probably some weird algorithm that describes the variable distances on either side of the walk between consecutive lanterns. That algorithm probably involves the distance of the walk, how much money my father raked in during the last fiscal quarter, and the gravitational constant of the universe.

That, or the “staff” placed them randomly.

Or haphazardly, but the powers that be ... re: my father ... would not countenance such, so it’s either an algorithm or randomness.

I was ... surprised when Ian and Kyle stopped me in the halls today, apparently only to tell me that they’re looking forward to the “party.” Even odder, they walked me to my next class, which I shared with them. Halfway through that class, I requested a hall pass so I could hit the bathroom where I took off my ... shirt to make sure there wasn’t a “Kick me” sign or some such taped to it.

Aside #3: Why do guys get to wear just shirts while girls have to wear “tops?” Is not a top a little kid’s toy? Most “tops” don’t differ in any significant manner from the shirts of guys, except our “tops” button the wrong way. Or, for lefties, which I am not, the right way.

Upon returning to the domicile after matriculating for the day, the male parental authority insisted on conversing with me, breaking a run of three days in which we had not enjoined in that pleasure. Is that too much? Of course not. I’m simply utilizing the superior vocabulary that is expected of me. I mean, I am matriculating. But, yes, much too much.

Mi padre wished to know how he could make the upcoming fiasco of a party – of course, he did not use those terms, I am editorializing – more enjoyable for me. I admit that his query flustered me. I obviously could not tell him that canceling it would be the best way, and with that ... flustering it took me more than 1.94 seconds to come up with an alternative response: “No. It’s great (adding subvocally, ‘for you.’).” I was somewhat astonished that he did not let that slide.

“Truly, Savannah, I want you to enjoy this. What would make it better?”

“What would make it better would include you using the name I prefer; you un-inviting those toads that you invited; and let me spend the day far away from this fucking domicile!”

Okay, that is what I shouted in my mind. My voice told him, “Dancing.”

I have no clue how and why that came out of my mouth.

In bed, I tried to figure out how the hell I could get out of ... fricking dancing. Of course, being the daughter of the man who provided half of my DNA, I had taken dancing lessons when I was younger. Mom even approved of that and was the one to take me to every lesson. You can probably imagine the sorts of children that took dancing lessons when they were not much more than ten. You also can probably guess what percentage of the children were boys. That did not help, as the instructors provided somewhat older boys as partners, but they were boys that actually liked dance and were getting free lessons in exchange for leading us younger girls around the floor.

It was ... all right. The boys actually in the class did not know what to do and were afraid of cooties. Is that still a thing? Cooties? My mom told me almost every time on the way home from the lesson that I had done well. I did not see it, but I got to where I could lead my partner into leading me correctly. Is that good? I know not. I have not returned since my mom went ... Just went. Three fucking years ago!

I did not see a way out of this fiasco within a fiasco. He had asked, I had answered, and he would not at all let me out of that, particularly since the ... larger fiasco would begin in less than 43 hours. I banged my head, softly, on the wall above my headboard. I had to moderate that action because I had previously been admonished for doing it loudly. I cannot even bang the back of my head on the wall in frustration. It is so ... frustrating.

Less than a day until the start of the leading contender for the title of 2021 fiasco of the fall. The Vegas line has us at 5-4 odds. Not leading by a landslide, but there is still another fall holiday on the calendar, so betting is probably still light, and might stay that way until at least some of the Thanksgiving weekend entries have taken place. What am I saying? I have no concept of how betting odds are made or calculated or however they are done.

Are you still here? Still reading? Why? Do you enjoy the ravings of a girl that would gladly trade her father for her “mentally unstable” mother? Is madness that interesting? Or heritable?

Am I mad? Crazy? Certifiable?

Honestly, I have no idea. Words spill out onto the screen as my fingers move on the keyboard. Am I writing to you ... who is me?

I lightly bumped the back of my head on the wall. How bad could it really be, this upcoming fiasco? It will have begun and ended within five or six hours. I have certainly endured many, many such stretches of abominable existence in a world I did not create, nor want. Oh, I am not suicidal. At least, I think I’m not. I would, for once, like to enjoy a day, a single day, from the time I wake to the time I close my eyes at night. A day where my father or, worse, the unseen, looming avatar that is my father’s oppressive impact on my life, is nowhere to be seen or sensed. Where I can be me, the me that can enjoy a simple time far away from this dark, dank, dungeon of a house. Where I can bounce the back of my noggin off my own wall without threat of ... threat.

The thing is, I have no clue what I would do with such a day. Would I spend it tapping out more of my existence on the screen before me, or would I actually do something? That is ... one of my problems. I have no real clue as to what I want to do. I’m reasonably good or proficient at scholastic tasks but, to date, none of the subjects has called to me. I did not do sports when I was young because ... well, because dancing was a suitable “sport” for a girl like me. Who or what is a girl like me? My mom told me I moved well on the floor. Does that imply at least some athletic skill? How different is ballroom dancing from ice dancing or gymnastics or ... Or I don’t know.

That was odd. I heard what I thought was the house phone ring. It’s odd because with everyone but everyone having a cell phone for which some people need to take out mortgages to afford, the landline here almost never rings. Why do we still have it?

That. Was. Weird.

The call was for me. I believe I could count on one finger the number of phone calls that have come to the landline for me, but only if we include today’s call in the total.

It was ... Ian and Kyle. Both. Together. Should I start calling them Ian-Kyle? Perhaps I could shove the two names together ... Iankyle. “I-ann-kill-lee” I slowly enunciated. I tried again: “Eye-n-kile.” No, I guess not. Oh, they wanted ... I have no idea what they wanted, or why they called. They asked a question about suitable apparel. I informed them about dancing.

The response was, “Bitchin’.”

What? Is “bitchin’” still a thing? Are Ian and Kyle ... Or is IanKyle – a throwback? Hmm, I may need to reconsider the IanKyle mashup. It looks a bit better with two capitals, but with the squiggly red line under it, I know that the screen does not like the mashup. I don’t care, screen, what you think is abominable or questionable or even just a little odd. Keep your red squiggles to yourself!