In life, there were assholes.

The most utterly annoying about people was the fact that they judged too much. Hey! You didn’t know that maybe the person sitting beside you eating their cup of ramen was actually a total douche and stole garden gnomes from old people’s houses. The world had no limits, thus the reason why you couldn’t know if what the person’s true colours really were. The thing about assholes and douchebags was that this stereotype had the most numbers of people. It could probably be the barista handing you your bag of chips, the blue-eyed local librarian down the block, that security guard holding a vase of flowers; or in my case, the face I had accidentally hit with a fresh bottle of Arizona.

Just like I said, I didn’t know if this guy was as an ass; but at the second the bottle slammed down his pale face, exploding juice on his hair and around the nearest innocent public, I was more than sure that he was a capital-A asshole.

How would I know if he was an asshole? The answer would be directed to the moment he yelled the disgraceful word called “fuck” in this grandiose place of a playhouse, in which old and high-profiled people went to see actors perform on stage with absolute silence… not with tall, blond males cursing in exclamatory.

But as blondie stood up in utter shock, I couldn’t even think about the “asshole” matter I thought up in my head because I was too surprised at what my hands and my terrible, terrible brain were capable of.

“D-did you just… throw that Arizona at him?!” Brandon whispered-hissed in disbelief down my ear, jaw-dropped and feet planted beside me. I was slack-jawed and taken aback myself, meaning I could only stare down the crowd in shock.

The place murmured with a growing sound as the blond stood up holding his hair that was soaking wet. It seemed like I hadn’t closed the cap. From gravity and the way the bottle was thrown (courtesy to my right hand and a two-week baseball lesson from Mr. Einer back in North Carolina when I was fourteen), the tea-like apple juice-coloured liquid managed to soak four to six people around the initial target. How could a simple act of throwing a bottle be so damageable? My hands were prickly in shock as I realized the performers stopped scene 35 to see what’s going on. Even the black-suited guards with neon flashlights started walking in to check out what was happening.

“Hell naw, Billings. You just spilled over Mr. Hottie, the guy I previously pointed at.” Mr. Overly-gay Brandon clutched my arm in giddiness while bouncing up and down like a little school girl.

“He’s soo-“

“He also laughed at my play,” I huffed angrily, stomping my scuffed black converse on the ground. The black material that the highest floor was made of was unsurprisingly thin; therefore making the strong vibration from my feet wove its way near the table of water bottles.

Big mistake.

Brandon always told me I kicked really hard, especially when I was flustered. Honestly, I never really believed him.

Until now.

The heavy thump escalated to a degree that made fourteen bottles of water for all the lighting men on a tipped grey table swiftly rock, crash on the black floor, and roll near both of me and Brandon’s feet.

What the he- “Holy sh—get down!”

Before I could utter a “huh,” I was pushed down the floor with Brandon. My nose was thrust upon his hair—and honestly, it smelled good; but my ears were ringing and I was in total confusion.

“What the heck?” I clambered up, widening my eyes at him in misperception.

“SHHH!” He fussed.

Then, I could now comprehend on what he was thinking. “Blondie saw us?” I hissed in a pitchy voice, ten times higher than my normal octave.

He began nodding really fast, pulled out his index finger and swiped it across his neck. I glared at him and whispered-yelled.

“What the hell am I going to do?!”

“Okay, okay. Calm down… um, let’s not panic. After all, it was you who did it and totes not me. ANDImightormightnothavewrittenyournameonthelabel.”

I gasped pushing his chest really hard, resulting to his back bumping the floor. It earned us weird looks from Jazlyn the producer reading something from her clipboard a distance away with a lighting man named Carl (according to his name tag… but who would know? It could have been a fake name and he could be a spy for some important organization only Alaska and Zimbabwe knew about and—ugh, whatever).

“You wrote my name on the label. Are you crazy?! Do you want to end my promising playwright career because some Blondie was assaulted by a Arizona Green Tea named Cosette?!”

He looked at me, taking it all in. I was expecting an apology, however… “Uh, it wasn’t just Cosette.”

“Excuse me?!”

He slowly backed away in terror. “Uh, I might have accidentally-purposely written your full name. Like, on the bottom of the bottle.”

I could not comprehend what he just said, but I was forced to because my brain was super cool and all (I hated it, sometimes) due to its “literate capabilities”.

“Why would you write Cosette Billington on the label?! You could have just written my first name, or better: NOTHING.” In all honesty, I knew Brandon had his pet peeves. Like at our shared home when I accidentally left all my script papers in scattered numbers, but when I got home from my morning work he said he “accidentally” collected everything and chronologically ordered it with numbers and all, because he hated things that weren’t labelled. I usually ignored it despite the fact I liked my messy workplace, well, messy; but today was crucial. I was seriously going to get angry at him for his self-proclaimed annoyance of things unlabelled.






The play ended later than my mom expected, but far too early for my demise.

The guilt was creeping through my skin as I watched everything go back in place. The curtains opened once again subsequently Blondie sat down in frustration, refusing to say anything to the suited-guards for some reason (Brandon watched the whole thing play out, but I was glued to my chair the whole time because the labelled Arizona bottle that was clutched in his hand was too remorseful to look at). The time the actors came out for an ovation, I prayed to God that Blondie or whatever his name would immediately walk away from the playhouse and never return to Manhattan again. I knew it was just bottle-throwing but guilt was guilt, and I did not do well with guilt.

I was waiting for someone to burst through the doors in the highest floor we were staying and accuse me for what I had done, but none came. Even my mother, who usually blamed me for every silly slip-up that occurred during her time with me. She knew I was a rambunctious one when I wanted to be, more than now with Brandon by my side, but she never came even to congratulate me for my first play. I understood that because taking the stairs up was really stressful to everyone.

I couldn’t understand. This was my first production, I should be happy.

“Hey, Billings, it seems like you have journalists waiting.”

He piped up, peering down.

“Is the guy there?” I questioned in frightened falsetto, squeezing a crumbled programme.
He stayed still, moving his head to the left and right. After two seconds, he gave up a thumbs up sign. I sighed in relief and smiled, knowing only Brandon could feel my guilt because he was there the whole scene. Hopefully, this whole matter wouldn’t be newspaper-worthy and be out of my hair the next day.

After I said all my thanks and goodbyes to everyone who worked in the show backstage, I walked out with Brandon trailing behind me, slowly walking to the exit. The journalists were running after me but I decided to talk to them outside the playhouse so the I could get the feel of the sun and not the dark, roomy feel the Elswood playhouse gave; not to mention the memory of me throwing a bottle to a public viewer of my play (then again, he did laugh at the scene I worked very hard and that was totally bottle-throwing-worthy and ass-like).

I gasped at the sight before me. The pre-teens were still there, however in smaller numbers. They all held up posters of some four guys I had never seen before. Even if they were blocking my way, the journalists waiting outside still managed to scramble out of the small horde to talk to me. It was a funny sight, actually.

“Ms. Billington, wonderful play and dialogue! Care to give some few words?” A lady with black-framed glasses shoved an iPhone near my nostrils. Near me, two fifteen-year-olds with hard core make-up snorted and rolled their eyes.

“Cosette Billington, what is your view on your play? Was it how you envisioned it out to be?” Another journalist yelled out.

“Your play was absolutely brilliant, Miss Cosette.” A high-fashioned elderly with a twenty-something blonde grappling his arm complimented nearby, and somehow still heard by me despite all the pre-teens’ loud talking voices rolled into one.

I greeted everyone with smiles and answers; Brandon by my side talking to my mother who just came out of the lobby. It was pleasure to know that people loved the play, but honestly all I could think of was the tall Blonde.

And then there was another thing, I hated apologizing. If I ever see that guy again my resort would be running away than confronting him.

Two smartly-dressed journalists and a bottle of Evian later, the people were clearing out of the playhouse; even the fanatics too of this so-called band who was supposedly watching my play. My eyes looked up to see the bright-lit beam of the sun, telling me it was too early to go back home. AND THE FACT MY BLADDER WAS EXPLODING.

So, I entered the playhouse again but without my mother and Brandon beside me. My thighs were oddly trembling as I looked for a comfort room because no one bothered to show me where the toilets were. As I slowed down to this long hallway with multiple black rooms, I couldn’t help overhearing a frustrated voice that had an accent which sounded too far away from belonging in the city.

“I am seriously going to kill someone,” the voice, which seemed to be five octaves lower to be a woman, grumbled in annoyance. I could hear someone opening the tap water in a sink, which meant the comfort room was this way! Yippee!

“Man, you got it all over your hair.” Another higher-pitched, but at the same time manly, voice boomed out in laughter as a bout of water could be heard sloshing upon an entity.

“Lukey, you look like some kind of abdominal snowman.” A different voice mused this time.

“IT”S ABOMINABLE, YOU IDIOT.” A fourth voice cried out, almost making me gasp in surprise.

“Abdominal, abominable—it’s all the same. Fuck it all.”

“I’m just saying what’s factual and true!”

“Well, I’m—“

I quickly walked past the opened door as my eyes caught a Female sign on a door, assuming that it was for the females. As soon as I passed by the room that held the bickers, it stopped.

“Fuck. What if that was a fan?” A low voice mumbled, but still could be heard while I was in a stall. Ugh, even if I closed the door they still could be heard. After I did my business, I washed my hands in a hurry because most probably mom and Brandon would be wondering where I was.

“Or worse,” someone giggled. “That fucker that hit our Lucas with sweetened tea.”

Hold up, hold u- “It’s sticky,” a voice exclaimed in anger. “Fuck this crap.”

Holy crap.

I was dead.

I was frozen at the threshold of the female comfort room, but to escape I had to run really fast so they won’t notice me passing by the opened door. Or walk normally, so they wouldn’t expect a thing. I wondered if they looked under the bottle. Goodness, I hoped they threw it away. Oh, please, please, please!

Hell naw, I was runnin’ whether I liked it or nah.

However, the moment I ran for my dear life, some kid with the exact same mint flannel shirt as Blondie coincidentally walked out the opened door with a soaking, wet mop of blond hair topped on his head.

The last thing I saw smacking into him was his amazing, skinny man legs.


Yep, this was an asshole.

Notes

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