21

                                    

                                              
That afternoon at Seth's left me a mixed up jumble of emotions. As soon as I got home,  I stomped into our front door, yelled, "I'm never drinking again!" and locked myself into my room, leaving my parents free to pat each other on the back for the great job they were doing raising me for the rest of the evening.
                          
Seth kept his word and never hit on me again, just went back to flirting with everyone but me. Which was totally fine! It was what I wanted, after all. After about a month of  reminding myself this every time he wandered off in chemistry to talk to girls instead of helping with our work, I hardly even felt like breaking flasks or setting stuff on fire anymore.
                          
Good thing, too. Suppressing the urge to destroy other people's property turned out to be a life-saving skill.  Lately, we'd been partying with Adamson kids in their home turf almost nightly and if I broke even one teacup at those houses, my parents would probably have to sell our house to pay for it. 
                          
I had thought that after the events  at the riverbank, the guys would have nothing to do with Adamson kids and vice-versa but the opposite proved to be true. Off-Kilter was more popular than ever, and if any word of the fight or girlfriend-stealing did come out, it just made their presence more sought-after.
                          
It boggled the mind what some people found desirable.
                          
Off-Kilter was just schmoozing, and not playing at tonight's party. These days they were showing up to more of these things not as entertainment but as guests-of-honor and half the time didn't bring their equipment with them anymore. Mostly, they just stood around, letting people take pictures and videos with them.
                          
I wasn't sure how that worked. Did they get paid? Was it just for free publicity? Asking the guys the guys didn't make things any clearer. Either they had no idea or were keeping it a secret from us outsiders.
                          
Didn't matter. Adamson kids knew how to have a good time and at the drop of a hat threw epic, out of control, end-of-the-world kind of parties (sometimes several of them, all in the same night) that would normally get broken up by cops in any other neighborhood. Even though there was no live performance, this party was still one for the books. 
                          
I, however, wasn't much of a party girl even when I was drinking, and after having endured basically the same thing several times in a few short weeks, the effect these events had on me had greatly diminished. 
                          
I would've stopped tagging along ages ago if not for one saving grace: 
                          
Anyone who thought that a non-drinker at an Adamson house party was missing out in any way had obviously never tried the food. 
                          
"Holy crap, a sushi boat!" I squealed, and made a beeline for the refreshments.
                          
It was a magnificent sight: three feet long, right at the center of the buffet table, by the pool, outside a huge mansion owned that was supposed to be owned by some big deal software developer. I quickly grabbed a set of disposable chopsticks, a plastic container of prepared dipping sauce, and a plate, which I loaded with at least one of every kind, popping some pieces in my mouth every so often.
                          
"Hey Adrian. That any good?"
                          
It was Ethan, coming up to the table. I handed him the clear tongs I was using to fill my plate so he could see for himself. "Try it and then tell me that's not the best sushi you've ever tasted."
                          
"And only," he pointed out. "So . . . there's no basis for comparison."
                          
"How have you never had sushi? I know it doesn't feel like it most of the time, but this is California . . ." I gave him a bewildered stare, which he returned.