The Lost Bush Party Scene (which had to be cut due to pacing problems)

Friday's blogpost at Hick Chic has been postponed until Monday while Heidi sleeps off a sore throat and stuffed skull, occasionally rising to check her email for rejections from literary agents. If she feels like it she'll ride a horse this weekend. All Johnny Depp pictures for the week will appear on Monday. Until then, please read the following novel excerpt. You may party in the comments section but please clean up after yourselves. Thank you and have a good weekend. Stay healthy and keep track of your glasses!


I check to make sure all the locks are pushed down, and clutching the keys in my hand, slam the door. The keys are in my hand. I stuff them in the back pocket of my jeans, and then tell myself that they’re in my back pocket. I reach back and feel them.

“Geez, Kipper, let’s go!”

We follow the faint sound of tunes and voices, past the barn and the shed, until we see the orange glow of the bonfire. The sky’s a deep dark blue now, but we can still see the bush lane from the yard light on the corner of the shed. The party is in a sheltered little valley, just before a scrubby bush set into a hill. Obviously this is a part of the farm that isn’t anything but a hassle; even I can see that. You couldn’t run a tractor up the steep hill, so it was left to grow wild. The bonfire is roaring away happily on the edge of the bush lane, and already some kids are standing around, most with some kind of can in one hand, and judging by the little points of orange light that bob from hip level to head level, a cigarette in the other hand. I can tell that Jenny’s hyping herself up as she walks: she’s got a strut to her walk, and I’ve known her long enough to feel the energy buzzing off of her. All the world’s a stage. I stick one hand in my pocket, stick my chin out, and crush down the butterflies. We’ll have to walk up and have everyone looking at us. What if none of our friends are here? What if it’s all the serious metalheads in Grade 12? What if--?

“Katie Kipfer,” a low voice calls out. Brent steps into the bonfire light, smiling as usual. “How’s it goin’?”

I shift, put on a smile, and answer, as casually as possible, “It’s goin’.”

Brent has a nice little hockey haircut and never looks tough or mean, only marginally cool. The red plaid bushwacker jacket gives him a vague air of toughness but he always looks too clean cut. He’s a nice farm boy no matter what. He motions over to the group. “Get over here, there’s a bunch of guys here already.”

Turns out it’s an accurate statement, because there are a bunch of guys here: about ten guys, and no girls. We’re the only girls. We’re the only girls standing around with a bunch of guys, and suddenly this party idea doesn’t seem so smart.
But Jenny goes on like a light bulb. “So what’s going on here,” she crows over the tunes coming out of the boom box, “Where’s that big fuckin’ goof Marty Martin?”

Brent takes a big fat swig off his beer bottle and replies, “He should be here by now. He’s gonna ride his bike over.”

I notice Ozzy the Ashtray, much to my disgust, on the other side of the bonfire.

“Who’s the big dude standing beside your mailbox?” Jenny asks loudly.

“My uncle Jim.”

“Oh yeah? Do your parents know about this little event?”

“Nope, and if no bad shit happens they won’t have to know til it’s all over.”

Jenny nods. Then the conversation slows, letting the awkwardness settle in. We stand there in our tough denim jackets and our high top Converse sneakers, our studded belts and black eyeliner, quickly losing the ability to pretend that it’s okay to be outnumbered by slightly drunk boys in the dark out in the country.