November 8, 2019

The following story is part of my collection of personal essays called The Menial Stories of a 21-Year-Old. It portrays my own interpretation of how events have played out in my life— take it as you will. 

November 8, 2019. That's the date I threw the most chaotic house party of my life– a plethora of puke all over my black leather couch and into my toilet, my unstained little brother drinking for the first time, my best friend Allie sprinting down my neighborhood street with her bare feet blackened with dirt. Although I've always been the control freak event planner of my friend group, hosting a variety of paint wars, game nights, and sleepovers in the past, I decided that the night of November 8, 2019 should mark my entry into the adult leagues of party hosting. That meant shots of cheap vodka, beer pong all night, and clumsy drunk dancing with a friend circle of several 17-year-olds and 18-year-olds, whom the majority had rarely consumed a shot or two in their entire lives. We've been very well-behaved, studious kids, after all. It was our last year of high school, our precious senior year, so even the goody-two-shoes kids had to go all out.

The idea for a Project X type of party entered my mind in early September, when my parents had just told me about their plans to visit my grandmothers in Jamaica. “Out of town” and “a couple of days” were the only phrases I needed to hear to start envisioning my friends and I as crazy drunken fools in my living room swaying our arms and hips to music we don't even know the lyrics of.

“So…what days are you guys thinking, then?” I had asked my mother, pretending to not be too interested in what she'd have to say next. Don't blow your cover, Jena. She can't know…she'll literally murder you.

My mother took no notice of my curiosity about her upcoming trip and quickly picked up her android cellphone to scroll through her digital calendar. Success. “Hmm…so we actually already booked our flights for…November 6th through the 10th.”

“Ah, okay cool,” I said indifferently. I coolly scrolled through my own IPhone's calendar to see that those dates crossed from a Wednesday to a Sunday. Through my opportunistic teenage lens, I saw that as enough time to buy all the necessary alcohol and food supplies, throw a rager, and clean up everything afterwards. I immediately knew Friday, November 8 would be the perfect party date. It's time to shine, baby. My perfectionist self started to plan right then and there, two whole months before the night would come. Not a thing can go wrong.

The first thing I determined was a guest list, which I filled with every single friend of mine from Pembroke Pines Charter High School— debate kids, Varsity football kids, some stoners, and a few lovely people in my classes whom I believed to be my friends only because we were in the same class. I was willing to approve plus-ones too, except for some guy's ignorant girlfriend whom I genuinely didn't like. I physically can't stand dumb people with dumb values. So, why would I let one of those in my home? That guy hasn’t talked to me since.

The first thing I determined was a guest list, which I filled with every single friend of mine from Pembroke Pines Charter High School— debate kids, Varsity football kids, some stoners, and a few lovely people in my classes...

Then, I came up with a sort of finance plan. With a hope to provide six bottles of 1.75L hard liquor, a beer case or two, lemonades and sodas as chasers, some Cheetos and Doritos and Publix cookies, Jell-O mix for jello shots, jugs of water, and a ton of red solo cups and shot cups, I needed to find some way to finance the party's bill. And so, for that, I decided to charge each of the 50 or so expected guests $5 for entry. And that was nothing to ask for, honestly. That entry charge would also leave me with a little extra pocket money to take my little brother out for a Thai dinner, a bribe I offered him in exchange for not telling our parents about the pending disaster in our home. We turned out to have some pretty good panang curry, by the way.

Finally, the last and longest part of the party planning was the music. My taste in music was questionable back then, so I kind of had trouble determining a set of songs people would enjoy listening and dancing to. Should I go for a “Caroline” by Aminé vibe or add more white people music? Reggaetón? Trap? I had to get some help from my guy friend/crush Matt, who at the time had been an experienced party planner expert in my eyes. Also, maybe I just want to get his attention for a little bit, too. Now that I think about the party almost four years later, though, I realize that perhaps the majority of my guests were a little too drunk to remember the horrific playlist I had curated.

Once the night of the party arrived, I was sooo prepared. Hours before, I had previously gotten assistance from six lovely friends to move all the heavy furniture around. One of the girls I had invited had dropped off around five free boxes of Papa John's pizza earlier that day, too. God bless. I was also able to secure all the alcohol I needed from a cool 30-some-year-old I worked with at a Greek restaurant in Miami. What a real one. I hope he's doing well today. Everything seemed to be working out, like I had meticulously planned.

Everything seemed to be working out, like I had meticulously planned.

Clara, a vibrant curly-headed light brown girl, was one of the first people to arrive at my front door. She was pumped— this was going to be her first alcohol-infested party ever.

“How're you doing? Are you readayyyyy for this party?” she asked. Clara excitedly pumped her fist into the air.

I giggled. Her excitement made me excited and actually relieved my beginning-of-the-party nerves a little bit. “I’m a tad nervy, but it's nothing,” I replied.

In response, Clara naturally went into big-sister mode. “Oh girl, don't worry. I'll make sure everyone's shit is together tonight. I got you.” She playfully winked at me, gave me another hug, and cheerfully strolled inside. To be honest, I felt even more at ease because of what she said to me. I just didn’t know how terrible her fate was going to be that night.

Pretty soon, more and more people ushered into my house, and I lost track of the count. It was knock after knock after knock. I eventually made the executive decision to just leave the door open. Not a very Jena-like thing to do. Especially with every Tito's group shot that I decided to join with others in the kitchen, I became less willing to want to greet every single guest at the door. I mean, why would I refuse a shot from a friend? I was getting drunker by the second.

As for the party's order of events, everything's a bit foggy. This is what I do remember, though:

1. Several people arrived at the party already stoned. Not surprised. Our high school is certainly a stoner school. I still proceeded to offer them my strong-as-hell Jell-O shots, anyway.

2. Clara seemed to have formed a drinking union with one of my lifelong best friends, Val, and this really abnormally tall Varsity basketball player, Chad— this means that whenever one took a shot, the other two did as well. Of course, I cheered them on. What a trio.

3. A hyped group of top-tier debate kids arrived together, although we all knew they had a debate tournament to win the next morning. They're so cool.

4. Clara and I were clumsily relay-racing in my backyard with football training equipment. Was it my idea or hers? The loser had to drink…and that loser was certainly not me. Even as a drunk, I’m competitive.

5. A die hard stoner from AP Calculus BC class was unashamedly flirting with my childhood friend who goes to school in Cooper City. I couldn't tell if she was laughing at him or with him.

6. One of the very few times I saw my younger brother during the party, he was taking the very first shot of his existence with Chad in our kitchen. I was so proud.

7. I talked to Matt for a bit on my patio. I think I was gossiping, but God I don't remember exactly what I had said to the man. I only remember being very giggly.

8. Apparently, Clara threw up all over my black leather couch. My drunk self gets angry really quick, so after deciding to gather the Lysol and clean up her throw up right away, I commanded some friends to get her out of the house. “She needs to get out, get some fresh air or something. Just get her out,” I said furiously.

9. My best friend Allie decided to sprint out through my front door and down the local neighborhood street without any shoes on or telling us where she was going. What in the bloody hell. A baseball player and a football player left the house to chase after her— the perfect men for the job. Then, I believe she did it again.

10. A group of people, including Chad, Val, and I, were drunkenly singing and dancing to “Tongue Tied” by Grouplove in the living room. TAKE ME TO YOUR BEST FRIENDS HOUSE, GOING ROUND THIS ROUNDABOUT, OH YEAHHHHHH!!!!

11. A friend alerted me that she and some others were going to take Clara into the bathroom. Apparently, she's barely conscious and doesn't seem to look good at all. “Alright, go ahead,” I said automatically. I didn’t think much of it. Is it that serious?

12. I'm back in the living room emotionally half-singing to “La Canción” by J Balvin and Bad Bunny with Matt, die hard stoner kid, and a couple of others. As the only gringa in the room, I only sang along to the chorus while the others certainly knew how to manage Bad Bunny's tough rapping parts. Que cantamos bien borrachos, que bailamos bien borrachos…

13. I find out that the rest of Clara's union is passed out. Still conscious, though. Thank God. Val was knocked out cold on a chair in my sister's bedroom and Chad was also in a chair but in my backyard. I'm pretty sure Chad had watered my grass with his vomit.

14. I saw Clara inside my bathtub, and I saw her terrible state. Her skin was clammy, her breathing was slow, and she was unresponsive. Her white blouse was trenched with vomit. One of my friends had positioned her to her side, just in case she would throw up again. That friend also mentioned to me that she was foaming a little bit at the mouth. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. That's gotta be bad. Someone in the bathroom crowd suggested calling the ambulance, but I told them to call her family instead. 1. An American ambulance would rack up a huge bill for her and her family and 2. I don’t want to get in trouble. Soon enough, around three of her siblings arrived at the house. One of them was crying, thinking that her sister was going to die. I didn't know how to feel. I was still a bit tipsy. Clara’s siblings dragged Clara's unconscious body to the car with the help of some of my friends, and they made their way to the hospital. The party was over.

I couldn't go to sleep right after that incident— I was processing the mess that had just happened. Maybe I should have called the ambulance? Will her family hate me? I should've been a better, more sober host and looked after her. Guilt crept from all corners of Mother Earth into my soul. Clara had always been a sweetheart, and she didn't deserve that sort of fate. What's going to happen to her now? I passively started to clean up the house and didn't stop until everything was exactly as it had been the day my parents left for Jamaica. I asked my friends who were staying over to help me— they definitely were not happy about it. We finished cleaning at around three in the morning.

The next Saturday afternoon, I had to play a club football game, and I was crying during warm-ups, during the game, and on the ride back from the game. After taking a long shower, I called a friend to get a status update on Clara: “She's okay,” my friend said, “but apparently the doctor said she was one drink away from a coma.” I cried some more. She literally almost left this world right in my bathtub.

When I returned to school on Monday, I saw Clara during our lunch period, and she was radiating the same vibrant energy that she's always had. What? When I had teared up, trying to apologize for what I had done, she then proceeded to say that it wasn't on me.

“It's not your fault,” Clara reassured me.

“But I…”

“No. Trust, it's not your fault.”

Okay.

Still to this day, though, I carry some sort of guilt inside for what happened to Clara that night of November 8, 2019. Whenever I'm going out to parties or clubs at college, I try to pay more attention to whether or not my friends are drinking way more than they can handle. I even get scared to cross my own drinking limits. Sometimes I feel like I tap out more often than I should for a 21-year-old. What a scaredy-cat. Overall, I think I learned to take better care of myself and my people.

But I also believe that the whole experience from that night had also taught me that things aren’t always going to happen as they were planned. Even as the control freak event planner of my friends, I’m going to have to confront late guests, a low supply of sodas and juices, and perhaps a girl who’s one drink away from a coma in my bathtub. There’s always going to be room for bad things to happen in life, no matter how much trust I put into the many checklists and agendas I make. So, for whichever young dreamer is out there envisioning an idealistic movie-like Project X party like I had, I'm not going to tell you to not do it because you're probably as stubbornly foolish as I was— I just wanna say to not be stupid when it comes to taking care of your loved ones and to be prepared to expect anything.

Also, to my mom and dad: Surprise.