A phantasmic mist, like spidery hands, loomed over the front gates of the Bailey Estate, curling about the decorative ironwork. But this mist was not of any supernatural origin. It was pot smoke, billowing from a hotboxed school bus parked diagonally across the drive. The epic tailgate fizzed and snorted, inhaled and dabbed, swallowed and guzzled, and some 9th graders were asphyxiating themselves for the high. The Kahn triplets pulled up in a stretch Hummer, each in identical thousand-dollar black t-shirt and gold neckwear that brought to mind the pharaohs. Harley Gunn and her team of cheerleaders were lifted in, four to a palanquin, carried by the football team. They were dressed like vestal virgins and sprayed Brut on all those they passed. There was a cluster with a Burning Man vibe, outrageously painted faces and outfits that had taxidermical elements. A parade of glow-in-the-dark ravers followed a travelling DJ booth being towed by someone in a panda suit on a Segway. Packs, pods, troops, murders, and parliaments of partiers every which way. The first of many streakers had already circled the crowd. They all waited with rabid anticipation for the gates to swing open to Christophe Bailey's Last Ever Legendary House Party.

"Welcome to High School, fockers." Charlezz opened his arms, putting the scene on display for Nitin and Reed, "Stay close, you don't want to get lost."

Charlezz needled through the crowd, threading his young compatriots along. Reed could hardly believe his eyes. His brain was the rainbow wheel of death, processing too much and therefore nothing at all.

Unlike his bestie, Nitin was not awed by the scene, he was hyper focused, manhandling his brain to ignore the plethora of farcical vignettes. His goal was simple and singular: Find his babysitter - Sorry, ex-babysitter - and read her his love letter. Once, after he checked to see that the blue envelope was still in his back jean pocket, he caught in the corner of his eye two very attractive teens screwing on fairly high end suede love seat in the middle on the driveway while another guy was...

No.

The Babysitter. That is what is important. Ignore everything else!

"I can show you the light. Or you can be in the dark like Robin Day." Charlezz spun around to them, walking backwards through the crowd.

Reed asked, "Who's Robin Day?"

"Exactly. Not here. Doesn't matter."

Charlezz called out greetings to his classmates, most of whom returned a befuddled look, if they acknowledged him at all.

"For the next three years I am your god," Charlezz crowed, "And as your god I command that you Coke Moshe."

"What's Coke Moshe?" Reed asked, taking the bait, annoyed.

"What's a Coke Moshe!? You have so much to learn young padawan," Charlezz unslung his snowboarders backpack and unzipped it. He handed a can of Coke to both his wards, "Drink only half."

Nitin and Reed cracked their Cokes and did as they were told. Charlezz lifted a Micky of Everclear, which is a 190 proof grain alcohol that he bought on the internet. He cradled it delicately, "Careful, I saw a kid burn his face off because he drank this with a cigarette in his mouth." Charlezz unscrewed the cap slowly, careful that this weapon of mass destruction not explode, killing them all. He poured the liquor into their Coke cans, "It was invented by a guy named Dave Moshe. Hence, Coke Moshe."

"Nobody invented pouring booze in a Coke can, Charles. Are you a feeb?"

"You're the feeb, Feeb!" Charlezz cried, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one heard his younger brother diss him.

Charlezz attempted to revoke the Coke Moshe from Reed as a punishment, but Reed leaped away and chugged. Charlezz darted after him, but Reed hopped like a wily rabbit, eluding his older brother until he had drained it. Once he had, Reed dropped the can triumphantly and gave a celebratory burp. Charlezz reached out to throttle him, but stopped himself when Dave Hudacock walked by and Charlezz audible into looking super casual. "Dave! Dude! Party's going to be sick, brah!" Charlezz schmoozed. Dave seemed confused by the comment, but Charlezz reminded them of a time they funnelled a beer together.

Nitin felt this was the opportunity to pull Reed in for a confab. He pointed to the crushed Coke Moshe on the ground "Don't get too drunk. I need you."

Nitin was not messing around with the syzygy. Tonight was his only chance. He looked up to the planets, but could see only haze, which did not reassure him. Reed put his hand on his buddy's shoulder and comforted, "One Coke Moshe won't stop us from finding her, man."

Nitin grinned. He was comforted that Reed was with his brother in arms tonight, even if he had to play the HAVETO to convince him. When it came down to it, Reed could be counted on when it counted. And that's how friends should be.

"Keep your eyes open," Nitin said, scanning the crowd. Reed held his lids open which Nitin couldn't help, but laugh.

"Alright, let's find her and make you the future Mr. Babysitter." Reed was about to follow Nitin when a sweet as molasses voice called from a nearby electric Ford 150.

"Hey! You!" The bed of the truck held a collection of jam band stoners. Wendy Nudelman swaying her legs off the back of the truck, pointed her joint at Reed. Wendy's small tie-dye Phish shirt was so tight it seemed painted on her bouncy figure. She pushed her dreads from her stoned eyes and let intoxicating weed smoke curl up from her lazy smile, "Yeah, you!" She directed at Reed.

Charlezz sidestepped, eclipsing his younger brother, "Yo, yo, Wendy Nudelman! What the what, chickadee?"

Wendy cocked her head, a motion that said hey, down in front, "Who's the cutie?"

"It's Charlezz!"

"Not you," she waved Charlezz aside, "Him."

Reed looked to Nitin confused, then nervously revealed himself from behind his older brother. He was immediately winded by Wendy's stoner cuteness. She had dimples at the edges off her lips, perma-pressed from her perma-grin. Her slim neck was coiled with beads that drooped into her memorable breasts that stretched the Phish logo in a way that dazzled Reed.

Charlezz felt a rush of panic. No one had ever called him out randomly from a crowd, unless it was to make fun of him. He had worked so hard to climb every rung of the social ladder and here was his baby brother already invited into a clique. He had never once been invited into a clique. Charlezz couldn't ignore his involuntary jealous reaction, but he he knew fighting it would look weak and may cost him a rung. On the other hand, if he rode Reed's newfound popularity wave, he could rise a rung, with the cool hippies no less.

"He's just my younger brother, but he's cool." Charlezz said, trying summon Matthew McConaughey energy. Wendy without malice, but certainly with indifference, ignored Charlezz again. She tied her dreads above her head like a bouquet with a scrunchy and asked, "Never seen you. You from Beachwood? What year?"

Reed forced his tongue back into his mouth and ordered it to speak. He mumbled out, "Fresh-Freshman."

"He's pre-freshman!" Charlezz stammered.

Wendy didn't seem to care. Her dreamy unfocused eyes were faeries dancing around Reed. She pat an orange bucket from Home Depot that sat beside her, "You wanna hit a bucket?"

"What's a bucket?" Reed asked.

Charlezz scoffed, "He doesn't know what a bucket is," but it was pretty obvious Charlezz didn't know either.

Wendy invited Reed over to give a presentation. She plucked a two litre soft drink bottle by the spout from the orange bucket that filled with water. The bottle was sawed in half, having its bottom cut away. Wendy placed a tiny glass bong bowl over the spout and packed it with fuzzy green marijuana, "It's fun and you'll rocket to the moon. Check it."

Wendy pushed the bottle down into the water. She lit the bowl and pulled the bottle back up. This created a negative vacuum, pulling air through the embers, filling the bottle with an ungodly volume of smoke. She removed the bowl, put her stretched pink lips over the spout, glancing at Reed, her eyes full of humour, acknowledging the suggestive nature of the action. Then she pushed the bottle back into the water, which forced the trapped cloud into her lungs.

"Holy shit!" Reed gasped, never having seen anything so sexy in his entire life. He wasn't sure when her got his massive hard-on, but he felt it was about to Kool-Aid Man right out of his jeans. But did he care? No.

"So, bucket?" Wendy smiled.

"Im so in, this is crazy shit yo!" Charlezz pumped himself up, trying to tamp down that he was very scared. He had experiences in excessive substance consumption in the past to earn respect, but it always wound up in a humiliating fail. Like the time Charlezz did century club, where you do one hundred shots of beer in one hundred minutes. He had projectile committed after number four. Which is less than one beer. That had been three years ago, but the video still circulated his peers feeds from time to time.

Charlezz pushed Reed out of the way and made for the bucket. Wendy packed the bowl for him, but kept her sleepy smile on Reed. Charlezz hit the super vacuum bong and coughed his lungs out. The other stoners chuckled, but then got concerned as his hacking verged on lung collapse. They gave him water and rubbed his back.

While Charlezz was recovering Wendy turned to Reed, "Your turn, bucket buddy."

Reed edged towards Wendy, until Nitin held his elbow and shook his head with an emphatic 'no."

Reed's eyes pleaded.

Nitin's eyes said what about the backing me up to find the babysitter to give her my love letter which you currently have to do due to the HAVETO — And yes, Nitin said all that with just his eyes and Reed understood perfectly, the way only best friends can.

The silent conversation continued until Reed broke the silence with, "Sorry, Nit, I'll catch up with you in a minute. I promise."

Reed slid away from Nitin and pushed into Wendy's haze and her bucket. She walked her fingers across his shoulders, "God, you are so hot-cute!"

Charlezz was laid out in the truck bed while another hippy was giving him air him with a tiny battery fan. Nitin watched his friend put his mouth over the super bong as Wendy tickled the hairs on the back of his head.

Fuck!