Four

'Christ- it's like the undertaker's Christmas party!'
I'm inclined to disagree- I'm fairly sure any silence at an undertaker's Christmas party would have these undertones of sex, lies and deceit.
J sits at the centre of the table, ironic party hat perched on her blonde hair, gorging on our Indian feast of rices, naans, pokoras, chicken and curries across the spice spectrum, and doing her darndest to preserve the happy birthday atmosphere. Her shag-of-choice is banished to a distant corner of the celebrations, looking on sulkily, and doing his darndest to keep himself to himself. The reason for his sulkiness, his ex I, sits near us, a vision of pixie-cut hair and midnight blue silk, doing her darndest to pretend that she doesn't want him back. In the centre of the celebrations, several girls with similar dark mid-length hair, similar big belts and skinny jeans, and similar floaty tops simmer at the boy quietly- out of 'loyalty' to I, they haven't spoken to the boy in question since they broke up in the autumn. K flirts shamelessly with the boy in question- well, other than my squeeze, he is the only boy in the room- not that dating me stopped H flirting with him earlier in the evening.
The squeeze and myself do our best to circulate, see every face, keep out of the mess that well inevitably unravel if alcohol gets involved. Fortunately, only one bottle of champagne is involved in the night's revelries, so chances of an alcohol-fueled bloodbath seem all but impossible.

The end of the night brings with it a sigh of relief.
Throughout the chatter and clatter and the indian cusine, everyone seems to have aged. They each say their goodbyes, wearily embracing the rest of the group and exhaustedly placing expensive coats on heavy shoulders. For me, however, reaching 11pm without any argee-bhaji (ignore the pun) should be considered a minor miracle. There is a certain spring in my step I gather up my coat, kiss my goodbyes and head for the door. The streets are cold, and my flimsy Topshop dress does little to keep me warm. Luckily, as always my squeeze is there, arms around me, dashing in and out of lamplight right next to me. We reach my house near midnight- our breath is crystalline in the air, merging together.
'That could've gone better.'
'It could've gone much worse,' he assures me, wrapping us both in his hoodie.
'Thank you for coming tonight. Sorry for dragging you into that mess.'
'Glad to do it, beautiful.' He smiles.
'I love you, you know?'
'I know. I love you too.'
A brief embrace, and he's retreating into the murky darkness- probably in search of the nearest chip shop, knowing him.
Running into the warmth, I realise that my relief is tainted with disappointment- four and a half months later, and things still aren't any more united on the friendship front.

Common

I'm lying on my back, but not for the reasons you're thinking.
I'm lying on my back in our college common room. The inspectors are in, so waltzing into town to optimistically buy Solero's in tiny skirts, floaty tops and oversize sunglasses is strictly off the menu for a day. Instead, it's ruffle collared shirts, floating skirts or wide leg trousers and flats. Then again, I wear flats all the time- usually more flamboyant than my black Primark ballet pumps, admittedly.
We're packed like sardines into the common room, trying to keep from the rising heat. We're usually off adventuring, not all squashed into one place. How I managed to get two chairs to lie down on to myself is a small mystery, but I'm not questioning my blessings. Girls swan this way and that, uncomfortable in so many clothes, squinting to inspect the small-print calorie count on their pasta pots. K sits at the computer, selecting the perfect shots for her portfolio (modeling is her latest craze to boost her flailing self-esteem). The girls around me compare notes on the functions of the legislature for Politics next period. Of course, the room hums with the background chatter of who's shagging who, who wants to be shagging who and who wishes they hadn't shagged who. Someone's discussing the merits of Watchmen (which, of course, I've championed all along), and whether or not Dr. Manhattan is a detached superhero or just a big blue womaniser at heart. The board almost sags under the weight of the list of the fortnight's events- someone's dragging us to see their play, someone's organising a road trip to the beach (even though they may freeze in the process), someone's going out for a chinese- all are welcome.
And I just lie there, considering whether or not I can blag politics, letting all the chaos fall around me, and realising that our strict, all-girls affair isn't such a bad set up. Of course, an impromptu dance session starts in the middle of the room- a crazy mix of Those Dancing Days and the Jonas Brothers- and I have to abandon all thoughts of politics and school sentimentality to join in.

Phoenix

K grabbed my wrist and dragged me down the corridor; past a parade of superheroes, cartoon characters, rave kids, rock stars and showgirls.
'What is it?' I ask. Maybe she can't hear me over the music, maybe she's just ignoring me- either way she doesn't answer. She yanks me up the spiral staircase; the parade of costumed teens swirl below me,as if in a kaleidoscope. I suddenly snap back to attention as K pokes my rib.
'Look!'
We appear to be in a hallway full of couples making out. I scan the room for something noticeable; a showgirl grinding against a vampire; two rave kids heading for a bedroom; a schoolgirl removing a boy's shirt.
Oh.
A boy I had seen stroking K's hair less than an hour ago.
'Shit...'
Before I can say anything else, K is dragging me back downstairs, past a group of topless dancers, past the towers of cans in the kitchen and straight outside. She lets go of me suddenly, running into the night, arms flailing behind her like tan streamers. 'Fuck!' I her hear curse as she comes to a stop still. She sits on the wall at the top of the drive, drunkenly swaying.
'I thought... he was...' half-formed words spill for her mouth, the ends of sentences shrouded in alcohol. 'She's probably fucking him right now'
I hug her. It's all I can do. We sit in silence, mascara-streaked tears silently falling down her face. I can't tell what is drunkenness and what is heartache.
K is a complex creature- depressed, drunk, slightly anorexic- if there's a disorder she;s probably had it. But, like a phoenix in the flames, she always seems to rise above her internal dramas, turning up to a party looking more fabulous than any of us thought humanly possible. The one thing she really can't rise above is boys- she is essentially a hopeless romantic. Once she sets on them, that's it- she's theirs, irrevocably, even if they don't want her. Heartache in such instant attachments is almost inevitable, but can usually be drowned by masses of vodka and a new target.
K notices I'm shivering- I am, after all, only wearing a badly-thought out Ann Summers ensemble.
'Go fetch my bag.'
'Why?'
'I'm going home.'
I sigh, agreeing to her demands. Back inside, the heat and smell are suddenly overbearing. I crawl all over the house- how hard can an orange vinyl bag be to find?- but no sign. I ask around, but mainly just get blank looks or casual gropes for my trouble.
There's only one room left- the room which the boy just disappeared into.
No choice, I guess.
I throw open the door unabashedly, still worrying what i might discover.
No need for such worries, it seems- the room is full of people, the schoolgirl he was embracing nowhere to be seen.
'Is K alright?' someone asks.
'I saw her disappearing into the bathroom earlier- she's not bulimic again, is she?'
'Umm... no, no i don't think so. She's just... she's leaving.'
'What? Why?' The boy looks up, curious. Everyone waits for an answer.
'Not now,' I usher, 'Have you seen her bag?'