I call the maid of honor who is also the friend that invited me. She says I’m the first one to arrive. I’m surprised because I was given strict instructions not to be late–we have a party bus coming and apparently they charge for every minute they sit waiting. She admonishes me. “You’re dealing with brown people, Jessica. Did you really think any of us would be on time?”

I call the maid of honor who is also the friend that invited me. She says I’m the first one to arrive. I’m surprised because I was given strict instructions not to be late–we have a party bus coming and apparently they charge for every minute they sit waiting. She admonishes me. “You’re dealing with brown people, Jessica. Did you really think any of us would be on time?”
After scrolling through the buzzer’s options and realizing I don’t know the apartment number or the bride’s cousin’s name, I stand on the sidewalk in the sun and relax. The bachelorette party is 80s-themed and my Sixteen Candles t-shirt is appropriately ripped in lines across the back to reflect that. I can feel the sun hitting my skin through the holes in the shirt. I close my eyes and enjoy the sensation, marveling at how good it feels to be warm and sans bra. I am wearing little gel stickies on my nipples, but that’s it. I contemplate donating all of my bras to Goodwill and wearing the gel stickies everyday, forever. My breasts aren’t very large and don’t sag so the only reason I wear a bra is to hide my nipples from a world that apparently finds them offensive. The gel stickies are so light and comfortable, I can’t even feel that they’re on.
The maid of honor arrives about 15 minutes later. In a flurry, we move boxes and bags of bachelorette party stuff from her car up to the apartment. During this I meet the host, her sister, and one of their friends. I arrange oversized wine glasses with red, pink, and silver glittered bottoms on the granite countertop–one for each woman attending. We stuff them with goodies: neon mesh 80s-style gloves, a mini bottle of either Fireball Whiskey or Rumchata, jelly bracelets, one Reese’s peanut butter cup, a button that says something about being part of a bachelorette party, and a package of Pop Rocks.
We put on bright pink lipstick and kiss a photo mat that will later frame a photo from the evening and be given as a gift to the bachelorette. We write messages next to our kiss prints. I write, “Congrats! xoxo, Jessica” and draw a heart. I instantly think this is idiotic and wish that I, a writer, had stopped to think of a more thoughtful or interesting message.
The host’s husband appears, introduces himself, and says he’s leaving for the night. He’s tall and handsome and well-dressed. Once he’s out, the host, who is as gorgeous as her man, pours me and the other girls rose in a stemless wine glass. We toast and the drinking officially begins. I set up a “hangover station” for tomorrow morning. It consists of pretzels, bottled water, ibuprofen, and a framed sign that says “hangover station” and thanks people for attending the party.
The bride and three more friends arrive. We are all accounted for now as a group of nine. Someone jokes about the diversity of our group. We are Arab, Laotion, Pakistani, Puerto Rican, and White. We put on our gloves and bracelets and quickly gobble down grape tomatoes and hummus, and grapes, fancy cheeses, and those paper-white, paper-thin crackers I can never remember the name of. We compliment each others’ outfits. Everyone looks awesome. Earlier I worried I’d be embarrassed to go out in a group like this, that it’d feel too corny. My worries were in vain. I am nothing but excited.
We grab some snacks, a bottle of champagne, a bottle of Patron and head out to the party bus. The bus driver is young. He resembles a comedian I once crushed on from afar and, as a result, I instantly like him. I know it’s not fair or logical, but I will give a chance to any man who resembles a man I’ve liked before. This man is tall and thin with dark hair and dark eyes. He looks nice in his black pants and white, button-down shirt. He has a thick Eastern European accent and a worried expression on his face. We are leaving later than scheduled.
The bus takes off, but we yell for the driver to pull over after he travels about half a mile because we can’t figure out how to get our music connected to the bus’s sound system. Once the music is playing we all begin dancing immediately. The driver pleads with us not to dance on the seats. We’re offended because we hadn’t planned on dancing on the seats. Someone indignantly points out that we’re in our 30s. He explains that the seats are brand new and he’s worried a girl will dance on them and poke holes in them with her high heels. Suddenly we all notice that the entire bus smells like new seats. We decide we like that.
The driver looks really nervous before turning around in his seat and pulling the bus away from the curb. I’m pretty sure he’s convinced we’re going to destroy the bus and get him fired. I wonder if he’s new to the job. I want to hug him.
Someone uncorks the champagne with a big pop and it bubbles over. That combined with the music and the bus’s flashy lights makes me feel like I’m in a rap video. I realize that bachelorette parties and weddings are the times regular people get to live like the wealthy. We toast to the bride and quickly down the champagne. There’s a stripper pole on the bus and the bride dances around it and does spins and other things I don’t know the name of. She holds herself up by her legs, and then does that again except upside-down, so her skirt flips up and exposes her underwear. I’m impressed. We all are.

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