the trivial side of love

I’m a drama kid. I should probably say that. I’ve been involved in theater for around ten years, and a part of the MCHS drama department for two. This weekend was our annual Drama Kick-off Party, which is basically a potluck backyard soiree intended to welcome incoming freshman into the drama department. It’s generally a lot of fun and also acts as a meet-and-greet of sorts, giving the freshies a chance to see that we’re not as scary as we may originally seem.

That sounded wrong. For the record: drama kids are definitely not scary. Just a bit… intimidating. We’re close-knit, and fairly isolated in the drama room (which is where we spend pretty much all of our free time). We’re almost like a family, only by choice. We like each other. That’s not to say we don’t like other people, as well, because we most definitely do—but that’s not how outsiders perceive us. More often than not, people think that we come off as being sort of snobby. Which isn’t too great to hear about yourself, I gotta say. We shouldn’t be condemned for being close, being there for each other. Too few highschool students today can honestly say that they feel they have a strong support system, friends that they can count on. We have that. We are that to each other, and that’s a good thing, no matter how often other people try to put it down.

I know that I am not a snob. It just kind of sucks that other people can’t see that, too.

But I digress. My original point was this: Drama Kick-off Party ‘09 went swimmingly, and it’s looking like it’s going to be a great year for the performing arts department. Which may not mean much to you, but it does to me. 

Also: People are going to judge you, no matter what. In the end all you can do is learn to accept it. Try to prove them wrong. Keep your friends close. Breathe in. Now out.

I am and have been very excited about the new Harry Potter film for quite some time. A few friends and I are planning on going to the 12:25 AM showing on the fifteenth. I’ll be dressed up in my Hermione Granger garb, as per usual for HP/WizardRock events. And, more importantly, I will be viewing the film before one Mr. Peter Wainwright Astbury the fourth.

Peter and I have been friends since birth. Our (paternal) grandfathers were business partners, and Pete’s dad, Peter Wainwright Astbury the third, was my father’s childhood best friend. Ours is a friendship that has been bred for generations, and the fact that we now live on different continents has never been an issue. I visit in the summers, and we correspond almost constantly through text messages, emails, phone calls, etc. If I were a more romantic person, I’d say that Peter and I were soulmates. We have the same sense of humor, share many of the same interests, and we are so in sync with each other that our families joke that we can read each others minds. I love Peter. Peter loves me. But god help me, he can be an ass.

Two summers ago, when Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was released, I attended a Midnight Magic release party, as I had for the past six years. In the past, I’ve been in London over the summer and Peter and I attended such events together. (We even attended one of the smaller, more exclusive soirees for Chamber of Secrets before these parties became the norm.) This year, however, I was in America for the release. Peter was vacationing in Germany.

At 12:09 AM, I was standing in line at a Border’s Books along with approximately two hundred other Harry Potter fans. My friends and I had stood in another line that morning in order to obtain wristbands which allowed us to be fairly close to the front of the line. I was about eighteen to twenty persons back, waiting not-so-patiently to receive my book, when my phone rang.

“Hello, love,” Peter drawled in his casually elegant accent.

I, thoughtlessly, greeted him: “Darling. How’s Berlin?”

“It’s fine,” Peter, who (due to the time difference) had received his copy of the new book nine hours earlier, replied smoothly. “Guess who died?”

I assumed he meant his rather old and rather demented grandmother, who also happened to be rather wealthy. Being of the blue-blooded and trust-funded and cotillioned variety, Peter and I both come from the type of family that constantly anticipates the death of its members, as this usually means some sort of windfall for the survivors. The Astburys had been waiting for Grandmere Genevieve to kick the bucket for nearly three years, and Peter, who was widely known to be her favorite grandson, was the most vigilant, bloodthirsty vulture of them all.

I thought he should get some joy out of breaking the news, so instead of responding with, “Genevieve, the old bag,” I naively asked, “Who?”

I could almost hear the smirk in his voice as he coolly said, “Remus Lupin.”

It took me a moment to comprehend what he’d said, for my fangirl side to sit up and take notice. Finally recalling my surroundings, the time difference, and the monumental importance of this event, I gasped. “Wh—Why? What? Peter…” I spluttered breathlessly. “How dare… I can’t believe you would…”

Peter snorted in a rather undainty fashion that I’m sure our cotillion mistress would have been thrilled about, and gathering my wits about me, I hissed into the phone, “Fuck you, Pete.”

He laughed outright, a deep, dark sound that made my blood boil.

“I’m going to get you for this.”

He gasped for air. “Love, nothing you could do to me would ever take away the glory of this moment. I only wish I could see your face right now.”

Now, two years later, I will finally get my revenge. See, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince isn’t opening in England until the seventeenth. Here, it is starting on the fifteenth. And every little plot change, every idiosyncrasy, will be noted and relayed into my cell phone the very moment I exit the theater. Though not as monumental as the final installment of such an epic series, this movie is still a big deal. And Pete, you are finally going to get what you deserve.

I have been shopping on Ebay all day.

My mother has repeatedly and pointedly mentioned that Ebay is just another form of gambling, which is undoubtedly true. There is less risk involved, in my opinion, and far less public humiliation, but it is gambling all the same. And I believe it has been scientifically proven that I have an addictive personality. So perhaps it is not too wise—

Oh bugger. I’ve been outbid.

Happy Fourth.

“What were you shouting about?” asked Yvaine.
“To let people know we were here,” Tristran told her.
”What people?”
“You never know,” he told her. “Better I should call to people who aren’t there than that people who are there should miss us because I didn’t say anything.”
—Neil Gaiman, Stardust

This is the reason for bringing yet another blog into a world full of people who believe that other people care what they have to say. The hope that someone, somewhere, actually does.