A Little Fun

(Vol. 12 | Spring 2025 - Cowley Student)

It’s seven o’clock on a Saturday night, and I’m out of bed. My parents don’t know, and they won’t. They’re perfectly content to be distracted by the guests and the alcohol and not give a whit about their nine-year-old daughter. Which is fine by me.

This isn’t the first party my parents have hustled me to bed for. This isn’t the first time I’ve sat at the top of the stairs, peering through the banister, watching the ladies in their fancy gowns and the men with their stinky cigars. You can always tell how rich a man is by how bad his cigar smells. For instance, Mr. Johnson always smells terrible, like a sweaty sock that got caught in a house fire. So, he’s super rich.

Most kids would either obey their parents and go to bed or hate their parents for the early lockup. But I love nights like this. I watch Momma and her friends gather in little huddles, their conversations too soft to hear until they suddenly erupt into laughter. That’s how I know they’ve hit the “good stuff.” The “adult drinks.” The stuff is so strong, one glass will turn a well-bred lady into a loud-mouthed woman. There’s nothing wrong with a little fun, Momma tells me. If that’s fun, then Ms. Meyer isn’t having fun.

She sits by herself in the corner, staring into a glass. A young man comes over, says something to her, and her cheeks go red. She glares at him, he backs away. When he makes it back to the group of men- my father, Poppa’s business partner Marty, and some others- some of them clap him on the back, some smirk, and some let out a belly-laugh.

The women watch Ms. Meyer sip from her glass. She catches them, and they dive behind their hands, whispering. The huddle is directly under the banister now.

“A woman like that, surely you’d think-” Two heads pop up to look at Ms. Meyer again.

“If that’s what it takes to get a man-”

“If that’s what it takes to lose one-” Laughter follows that one.  

“I heard that she-” She’s cut off as a man approaches the huddle to collect his wife for a dance. I don’t know what she’s heard about Ms. Meyer, but I’ve heard plenty. I’ve seen the signs for myself. She’s a witch. Ms. Meyer cast some sort of spell on the man she fancied, and he found out. Of course, if somebody spelled me, I’d never be in the same country as them if I could help it.

I watch the party for hours until I doze off, my head against the railing. The creak of the bottom stair wakes me. I’m up like a shot: tiptoe running to my room, diving under the covers, and slowing my breathing seconds before Momma steps in. She wobbles in her heels as she kisses me goodnight. When you’re older, you’ll go to parties too.

Momma doesn’t know I already do. After all, there’s nothing wrong with a little fun.