We knock people out of the way trying to get through. Carolina’s house is full of black lights and lava lamps and other funky stuff, and the music is really loud, especially the rumbling bass. Dancing actually seems like a good idea all of a sudden.
We get to the table and she pours me some punch. Then she looks around and pulls out tiny bottles from inside her costume. “Don’t let Carolina’s parents see, but it’s better with this.”
She pours the contents of one little bottle into her drink and the contents of another into mine. She hands me a glass of punch.
“Cheers!”
It burns my throat, and then my stomach. The alcohol itself, though, is tasteless. All I can taste is the punch with its artificial fruit flavors and a little bit of orange from the slice floating in the cup.
“What is this?” I ask her. I feel loose.
“Vodka,” she whispers in my ear, bumping me with her potato costume.
“You are one hot potato,” I tell her, my voice husky, looking her straight in the eyes.
She smiles and flushes a little. “Let’s dance, funky mummy!”
So we start to move on the floor. I can’t get close to Meredith in that costume of hers. She knocks people out of the way as she shakes herself around.
I look my part of the funky mummy, dancing to the hip-hop with slow controlled movements, doing some robotic mummy shtick. A few hip gyrations every once in a while, but mostly just freezing myself every other second. My mime training from sixth grade summer camp is coming in handy. And that dance class my mom had me take last summer. I just need some more punch; my throat is parched.
“I’m going for some more punch,” I tell Meredith, and she nods at me with a smile.
People are talking behind me. “Who is that guy? Did you see him dancing?”
A guy says, “Freak.”
“I thought it was cool,” says a girl. “It’s hard to dance with a baked potato.”
But for my ego, the damage is done. I stand in front of the punch bowl for a moment, and get a cup. Someone taps me on my back.
I turn around. It’s Carolina. I think. She’s got this big dragon costume on and her face is painted green.
“Are you enjoying the party?”
I nod.
She squints at me. “Who are you, anyway?”
My voice is a throaty rasp. “The funky mummy, they call me.”
She laughs.
“We’ll unmask you soon enough.” She pulls a little bottle out of her costume. “Here, have some of this.”
More liquor. I hold out my glass of punch and she pours it in.
“Thanks for dancing with Meredith. She was really upset before. People just don’t find baked potatoes appealing.”
“It’s not the baked potato that makes the woman, it’s the woman that makes the baked potato.”
I’m not really sure if that came out right. Carolina just stares at me.
“I think she looks wicked cute,” I continue.
Carolina shrugs. “Anyway, thanks. She was kind of despondent.”
I’m not sure I remember what “despondent” means, but I’m glad I can be of help. I take another sip from my cup. The punch cools my throat, and I’m beginning to feel very pleasantly numb.