How the Party Ended

Gina Thayer

8:43 PM: The party has nearly reached full swing when Eric pushes Jenna, fully clothed, into the pool. He doesn’t know she cannot swim. He is trying to be flirtatious.

8:44 PM: Jenna flails. Eric’s chest floods with realization of his mistake. As their classmates stand by the pool and gape, Marian dives in and drags Jenna out.

8:46 PM: Jenna and Marian hurry to the bathroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints in their wake. They shoot angry looks at anyone who stares. When the bathroom door is closed behind them, Marian brushes a curl from Jenna’s cheek and tucks the dripping lock behind Jenna’s ear.

9:07 PM: Jenna calls her mother to come pick her up. Marian yells at Eric in the foyer. In the backyard, their classmates exchange awkward glances. They shuffle their feet. They nibble their snacks.

9:38 PM: The party is over. The patio is empty, chairs tipped sideways, plastic cups and streamers strewn beside the pool. Eric is alone. He kicks a paper plate and it goes nowhere.

9:52 PM: Eric has had too much time to think. The night is a failure. The party, a failure. The house’s windows are empty pits of light. Eric jumps into the pool.

9:54 PM: The water is warm, and Eric is a strong swimmer. He holds his breath below the surface and tries to imagine what it would feel like to drown.

9:55 PM: Returning home from another fruitless date, Eric’s mother drops her keys on the entryway table. She strides out to the patio where the party has ended. She sees her son suspended in the deep end. Her stomach drops. She does not hesitate. Her sundress billows midair as she leaps. She thrashes through the water and hauls Eric out.

9:57 PM: Eric and his mother lie face-up by the pool, water streaming off their clothes. Both are breathing heavily. Both turn their eyes to the stars, catch their breaths, think of the people they have disappointed tonight.

10:01 PM: Eric stands and mumbles an apology. He trudges to the same bathroom in which, less an hour ago, Jenna and Marian made a vow—they would never settle for less than they deserved. Eric peels off his sodden clothes. He avoids his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

10:14 PM: It is too early to sleep, but Eric crawls into bed. His damp hair splays across his pillowcase. He closes his eyes. The light from the pool shimmers through his window onto the wall above him like he is drowning in his dreams.

10:19 PM: Eric’s mother is still lying on the patio, the pea gravel poking into her back. Her dress is plastered to her skin. Her favorite black wedges are swelling on her feet. She is thinking about parties from decades past, the dizziness, the infatuation. She thinks of Eric last night at the table, his head down, his food pushed around on his plate. She thinks of her date—another faceless suitor she let down easy, another halfhearted evening of empty talk. She looks at the stars. They blink at her meekly from light years away. She knows their fires are already snuffed out.

Gina Thayer’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Barrelhouse, Cotton Xenomorph, Five South, Lunch Ticket, trampset, Orca, Bullshit Lit, and HAD, among others. Gina holds an MFA in writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts and is currently working on a collection of strange and speculative stories. After several years in the Pacific Northwest, Gina now lives in Minneapolis with her partner and cat.