"How's the corner?"

"Same as always."

* * *

"You've always seemed to me the epitome of a wallflower."

* * *

"Not to be mean or anything, but it must suck to be afraid at parties."

* * *

She leaves and dives back into the crowd. Everyone else seems to have this ability to move into the middle of a group, like water in and around rocks-gliding through seamlessly, not disturbing a thing. I, on the other hand, feel like a rock in a pool of water-breaking everything up: heavy and dull.

Everyone's gathered around French at the piano, and Mac's got his guitar. "Breakfast at Tiffany's" is the song, and there's ten or so of them singing, with Mac and French playing. They sing it like death is tomorrow; like that song is the last thing they'll ever do-it's euphoria and depression, amalgamated into a giant wad of quivering energy. That, I believe, is the mark of my generation-perhaps others, too, but I can only speak for one. Lots of people listen to or play punk and ska-music crammed with energy. They're all trying to siphon out their excess energy, trying to release is somewhere, anywhere. Right now, it's spilling out from "Breakfast at Tiffany's". I can't sing. I can't step forward just two feet. All of those backs…I know them all. Two, especially: Kelly and Dean. Kelly in her flowered shirt is incapable of leaning on the windowsill like me.

"Snap out of it," she's said.

Dean, with a back like no other, is hardly much different. I'm his joke.

The backs are friendly, and there are even spaces between them-spaces for a rock. Sometimes, there are fronts instead of backs. People are so nice. The girl, Daisy, comes to talk to me. She's the prettiest I've met. And then Leo, who looks utterly enraptured with whoever's talking to him.

"Oh, really? You like that?" his jaw lingers open in a fascinated smile. "I'll do it again."

But Dean…

He hugs me and says, "Try to be social at home."

It's a joke, you see.

If I weren't a little in love with him, I'm sure I'd hate him a bit more.

Kelly has her heart in the right place, at least. As the others are chomping carrots and tortillas and holding plastic cups of diet soda and singing and laying on each other's laps, she foregoes it all and sits with me.

"Snap out of it."

But she stays. And never says she hates me for it, and I truly believe that she doesn't. One by one, they've detached themselves-not Dean, though-to try to pull me in. They're so wonderful. Nothing but me is keeping me on the windowsill. The glass is so cold.

Music: "And I said, 'What about Breakfast at Tiffany's?' She says, 'I think I remember the film, and as I recall, I think, we both kind of liked it.' And I said, 'Well, that's the one thing we've got'."

Like death is tomorrow. Maybe it is.

Daisy and Mya talked to me.

"Yeah, that's what Leslie told me. I had no idea."

"Who was it?"

"Claude. He's such a…"

"I know what you mean."

Mac can hardly contain himself. His strumming gets louder and he's swaying, with a giant smile lining his face, almost enveloping his eyes. So depressed, they say. So depressing. But look at him escape it. Perhaps his depression is that energy. There's nothing to do. The only way to escape the nothing is to… The world-everything is just so bad and there's no way out. It's like a box or a fish tank, filled with fish that are busting with energy; energy garnered from living in a bowl. Look at Mac smile. Music, drugs, sex, drinking-how else can they get rid of it? It seems so painful.

I wish I had it.

I have to leave before the song ends because I'm on the verge of stupid tears. My back is so cold.

"I love you," Mya says in her sing-songy way, like she always does. "It must suck to be afraid at parties."

"Well, Mya didn't help any," my parents would say. But she did. It's no worse than, "Oh, come on. Just get up." It's better, even. At least she gets it. Dean doesn't get it. Dean never gets it. He just laughs and walks away.

But no one's mean. Look at French's face. It amazes me that everyone here knows the words. I know the words.

Music: "The only one who knew me, but now your eyes see through me. I guess I was wrong."

Kelly gives me a glance and rolls her eyes with a smile: silly girl, sitting in the corner.

Dean gives me a glance and rolls his eyes with a frown: stupid girl, sitting in the corner.

I once asked a friend what makes a girl desirable. He told me energy and volume, but at an appropriate level. I wish I could get wrapped up in the sung, swung up into Mac's next chorus. Sing-alongs… This sure beats "Old Man Tucker" or something. Wasn't it nice then, though? Everyone five and out of key. Who cared? But even then no one was nice to the smelly boys in dirty sweatpants-even me. Maybe there never was a nice age.

Energy and volume, but at an appropriate level. Small waist, with long thin legs and an ass just big enough to grip, but not to get your hand lost in. I've even been told the best way to style pubic hair. What a ridiculous world… A racing stripe?

Music: "It's plain to see we're over, and I hate when things are over, and so much is left undone."

"Hey, Kelly…I'm going to go…"

"Oh, that's fine. I'll just get a ride with Dean."

Goodbye.

I disappear unnoticed. Funny…I appeared unnoticed, as well. But I have to give Jillian a ride home. Where is she?

"She went to Kyle Johnson's house."

Oh.

I walk to my car alone. It's parked in a store parking lot, next to Dean's. I want to leave a note on his car, but Kelly would read it. And it's raining. What would I say, anyway?

As I'm backing up, Jillian's rushing for my car, apparently back from Kyle Johnson's house, and someone must've told her I'd left. Wow. Someone noticed. Or maybe she just saw my car. I roll down my window.

"Are you going home?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"Can I get a ride?"

"Yes, but Cathy said she'd bring you home if you wanted to stay later…"

"Okay, great! Thanks," she says, and runs off back towards the party.

I roll up my window and turn off my stereo. Twenty-five miles per hour is all my foot is willing to go, and I take the longest route home. I still have an hour until my curfew. It occurs to me that I could go to Wal*Mart or some restaurant and just sit or something. But I don't. There are people at those places, and I want to be alone. Forever. But never again. I feel like death is tomorrow, but I can't act that way. All I can act like is as if death was yesterday.

I go home.