Another writing entry draft.

The night is fuzzy and muggy, partially from fireworks, partially from cigarette smoke, and partially from the drunken haze of those inhabiting it. Its summer in Kalamazoo, and something other than determination and fog is hanging on the air. It might be desperation. The night has been electric since sunset. Through the car window glass, the yellow house with yellow lights looks even hazier. People spill out of the house’s orifices and congregate around them. It’s a youngish crowd, all twenty something, mostly kids from the big public university. The latest additions to the crowd are definitely young, all barely twenty or newly twenty-one. A car door opens and black and grey three-inch curvy platform sandal with Velcro straps touches the weather-cracked asphalt. The second sandal, two pairs of sandals and one pair of sneakers do the same, and four silver doors slam in unison.

Approaching the house, the idle chatter increases a mild roar. And inside, it gets even louder, people packed shoulder to shoulder chattering away. Beer is everywhere. Beer by the keg, beer by the bottle, beer by the cupful, beer by the puddleful. The crowd pushes through the larger crowd, platform sandals in the lead, scanning for people she knows. They finally locate the host, the mutual friend of everyone at the party. Liam was just one of those guys, his round face, framed with long blond hair and a large fuzzy beard is flushed from the night’s festivities.

“Layla! Heyyy, you made it! Great to see you guys,” Liam greets everyone with hugs and handshakes, his voice deeper and more gravelly than she remembered. “There’s a keg in the basement, if you guys want beer. I think the band is starting soon. Donny’s selling cups, but tell him I said you guys were good.”

Layla smiles in response, still giddy from the hug and the demi-rockstar recognition that comes from being at a house party primarily populated by English majors. She was finally among her people.

This is what she had missed for the last four months dating George. She thought they were a beautiful affair, he an artist from the suburbs of Cleveland complementing her big city Chicago journalistic sensibilities. Which was why his phone call two months ago declaring that he just couldn’t do this anymore was at the very least a little devastating. That was his only explanation. Nothing further. That was why tonight became so important. She wanted to prove to herself that it wasn’t her, it was them. It was always them. Liam was the main target and she was locked in.
She kisses Liam on the cheek and takes her friends toward the basement. Beer is procured, and gossip is traded. The night wears on. The point in the night comes where Layla needs to take herself out of the house for a cigarette. She leaves her beer with her friends. The front porch is jammed with bodies, as well as the areas surrounding the side and back doors. She finds an open and unobstructed spot halfway down the driveway close enough to the revelry but far enough away to not feel so claustrophobic. One of the neighbors is setting off fireworks, letting everything shimmer and sparkle then explode and fade. “Wind, water, heart,” Layla murmurs to nobody in particular, as she lights her clove cigarette.

“By your powers combined,” a male voice chortles in the smoky fog, and Layla tries to see where it’s coming from. A tall shadow emerges.

“I am Captain Planet!” Layla shouts, half giddy from her beer and cigarettes and half giddy from the opportunity to impress a stranger.

“Oh my gosh, do you remember that dumb little cheer at the end?”

“You mean the one where they go ‘we’re the planeteers! You can be one too! Cause saving our planet is the thing to do!’?” Her chants punctuated with exaggerated cheerleading movies from high school.

“That’s the one,” the stranger laughs, then extends a hand. “I’m Cory.”
Layla introduces herself, smiling even though he probably can’t see her face either.

“I have a really weird question for you, Layla,”
She replies with several m’s from her throat and an invisibly raised eyebrow.

“Can I take a hit of that clove you’re smoking?”
Layla hands it to him. “Finish it, I was just finishing it to get my money’s worth. There’s like a couple drags left. Just don’t smoke the filter, that shit can be brutal.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine, Cory.”

Cory finishes the cigarette and escorts Layla back inside to the party. They find their way through the throbbing masses to the only quiet corner of the house, which is also where her friends happen to be hanging out. Introductions are made, beers refilled. Inside, with better lighting, they get a better look at each other. He’s still tall like he was outside, but it’s now apparent that he has café au lait skin, glasses and caramel colored dreadlocks. Layla and Cory dominate the conversation.