Page 44 of I Can’t Even Think Straight

Saturday: Great Expectations—Obi’s House Party

I expected Obi’s house party

would be more like a frat party

in an American teen movie.

I expected music to be blasting

from a massive sound system

as I stepped onto the gravel driveway

with Matt and Vass flanking me.

I expected there to be red Solo cups

and perhaps a beer pong game in play.

Instead, there’s a slow record playing

on an old-school record player.

I expected Jenny to greet us enthusiastically,

since she knows all three of us,

but she waves without getting up.

She’s seated in the middle of a group

of eclectically dressed individuals

on sofas and floor cushions, and

I can only assume this is The Coven.

This reminds me of Nicky Anderson’s house party,

but whiter, posher, and more witchy.

To the left of Jenny and The Coven

there’s a massive bookcase

the height and width of an entire wall.

I feel myself pulled toward it.

I want to read the titles

and the authors’ names

on the spines of these books.

Perhaps I could

pick one to get lost in

for the whole evening.

Obi holds me back with one long arm

around me, and another around Vass.

Obi wears a Sex Pistols band T-shirt

with the words “God Save the Queen”

over the eyes of our former monarch.

“I’ll give you the tour before

I introduce you to The Coven,” Obi says.

“The Coven?” Matt asks

as he backs away from us.

“They’re harmless,” says Obi.

“No need to look so alarmed.”

I give Matt a look that says Be cool.

“Let’s have this tour,” says Vass,

to break the tension between us.

“Righto, off we go,” says Obi.

“This is the lounge, that’s the kitchen,

and this is the guest lavatory.”

Obi turns the door handle.

“ Ocupado ,” says a high-pitched voice

behind the locked door.

“Sorry, Hugo,” says Obi.

“No worries, Obe,” says Hugo, in a deeper voice.

“Follow me,” Obi says to us.

We follow Obi up the stairs:

me first, then Matt and Vass.

“Mother and Father are the top floor.

They’re both out of town tonight.

My brother and I share this floor.

That’s his bedroom.” Obi points to a closed door.

“And we share this bathroom.”

When Obi opens the bathroom door,

a hint of lavender and a steamy mirror tells me

one of them has showered recently.

“Is your brother home?” I ask Obi.

“No,” says Obi, now nervous. “He’s, erm,

staying with his boyfriend tonight and, erm,

speaking of which, this is my bedroom.”

When Obi opens his bedroom door

I expect to see his guitar and amplifier,

posters on the wall and clothes on the floor.

But I see only a perfectly made bed,

a light brown, new-looking wooden desk

with a matching chair of the same wood,

and a mirrored built-in wardrobe

the height and width of an entire wall.

It looks like there’s a mirror world.

I look into my own eyes and wonder

what might be different on the other side.

“It looks like a showroom,” I say,

unable to mask my disappointment.

“And where’s your guitar?” I ask.

“Do you keep it in the wardrobe?

Are you a closeted musician?”

I joke but no one gets it.

I guess it wasn’t as funny

to them as it was to me.

“Wait and see,” says Obi,

with a hint of mischief.

“This isn’t the last stop of the tour.”

He takes me by the hand.

“I always save the best for last.”

He gives my hand a squeeze.

Maybe it’s just in my mind,

but it seems a bit suggestive.

Obi keeps hold of my hand

and keeps smiling back at me

as we trail him downstairs

and through the kitchen,

to the far end of the garden

where there’s another building.

“Welcome to the studio,” says Obi proudly.

Obi points up to a green neon sign:

“This is where the magic happens.”

On another wall, his band’s name,

FRSH MNT T, is scrawled in lime-green

graffiti writing with a black outline.

“How do you say that?”

Matt whispers to Vass.

“Fresh Mint Tea,” Vass whispers back.

“But it’s giving brat,” they add.

“You into Charli XCX?” they ask Obi.

“Not really,” Obi answers.

“I’m more into bands than solo artists.

Here’s our drum kit, keys,

guitar, bass, banjo, violin,

mandolin, trumpet, accordion.”

Obi points and names it all.

I notice a stack of battered notebooks

on the green music studio sofa.

“Are these your notebooks?” I ask Obi.

I’m much more interested

in these than the instruments.

“They’re the band’s notebooks,”

Obi answers nonchalantly.

“We share everything here.”

Obi must see the confusion

on my face, so he explains.

“It’s our punk philosophy.

Anyone can play any instrument,

and we write collaboratively.

Everyone mucks in with lyrics,

melodies—everything, really.”

“I can’t imagine sharing my writing

with anyone but Vass,” I say.

I turn to Matt and add, “No offense.”

“It’s cool.” Matt laughs.

“You can spare me your horny poetry.”

Obi looks at Matt, who smiles

mischievously at me and Vass.

No one knows how to react

to Matt’s inappropriate comment,

so we collectively ignore it.

In the next room, “Mixing desk.”

In the next room, “Kitchen.”

In the next room, “Lavatory.”

“You could pretty much

live in here,” says Vass,

“and just go into the house

to sleep and shower.”

“That’s pretty much it,” says Obi.

“I only sleep and do, erm,

homework in my bedroom.”

Obi slinks an arm around me,

and pulls me in possessively.

“For now, at least,” Obi says.

Matt’s and Vass’s eyes open wide,

like a pair of unfortunate deer

caught in our headlights.

I feel responsible for all of us

being here right now.

Technically, I was the one

who asked Obi out.

I felt embarrassed when Obi

didn’t move to me confidently,

but now that he’s acting confident,

I’m still embarrassed by Obi.

I expected to feel excited

in a moment like this:

Obi openly flirting with me.

I expected to feel butterflies,

but I’m drowning in

an ocean of emotion.

Obi is showing off all his stuff

and making suggestive comments

in front of my best friends.

I don’t worry when Matt or Vass touch me.

I trust their hands on me.

I don’t trust Obi as much.

Obi is handsome, charming, and disarming,

but I’ve got my guard up.

I think of what Obi is suggesting

we do in his bedroom.

I think of how lucky I felt

when I realized Obi liked me.

I think of how lucky Obi is

to have all this stuff.

I think of sitting on a swing set

with Vass at the far end

of Yiayia and Bapou’s garden

while Obi was probably

in this music studio.

I think of all the time we wasted

on a sun lounger in Larnaca,

waiting for Adonis to notice Vass,

while Matt was in London

boxing with The Boys.

I think of Vass being

sexually assaulted by Adonis,

and how Vass didn’t tell me

until weeks later.

I think of Adonis’s expectant smile

when he turned to me.

“And you are?” Adonis asked me.

I think of the possibility

of Adonis sexually assaulting me

and not Vass.

And then I think of me and Obi

naked in front of his mirrored wardrobe,

and what might be different on the other side.

I expected to feel butterflies,

but a tidal wave of anger takes me over.

“Obi, can you just chill out?”

I blurt as I shrug him off.

From the stunned silence I know

I’m the one who needs to chill.

Matt gives me the Be cool look.

I don’t know what to say or where to look.

I don’t know what about Obi puts me off:

if it’s his privilege or suggestive comments

in front of my best friends.

Matt—who I still fancy.

Vass—who was sexually assaulted recently.

It’s too much for me

to deep it all at once.

Obi reaches for the jade pendant around his neck.

He rubs it between his thumb and index finger,

like a voice inside that green stone

will tell him what to say next.

“Erm, I’m sorry, Kai.” Obi apologizes

for what feels like the millionth time,

like a broken record or a boring song.

I remember Mr. Ndour’s classroom

and Ms. Sarpong reminding me to breathe.

I take a deep breath in and out again.

“Don’t worry. It’s fine,” I lie.

“Can we go back into the house

and meet your friends?” I ask.