Wednesday, August 27th 2014

Jack knew three things for certain.

One: His Debs' date was a melt.

Two: None of his year could handle their drink.

Three: Tonight was the night he was losing his virginity.

'Caoimhe come on. Get up, like!' muttered Begs, who was prodding his Debs' date with a fork, although she wasn't moving. She was snoring into her plate of pasta, blind drunk, with a G&T sitting in front of her, barely touched. The ice cubes had melted into murky oblivion amongst a few bloated looking raspberries that had completely lost their shape, bobbing on the surface.

'Caoimhe!'

'She's a fiend for the gnocchi, in fairness to her,' said Wham Bar dryly.

There were ten of them sitting at the central table among a sea of rowdy teenagers speckled across the large dining hall. The clink of glasses, the scraping of cutlery, the chatter of conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter filled the hall, a soundscape that masked some of the chaos at Jack's table. They all watched the girl asleep in her food, her makeup smudged into the pasta sauce.

Begs shook his date's shoulder again, firmly this time, and tried to wake her, 'Jesus Christ, Caoimhe. Get up, would ya?'

'Taxi,' yelled a lad from another table loudly, and Begs' face reddened further.

'Jaysus, did ya roofie her or wha'? You're not that desperate for the shag, are ya?' added Wham Bar. One or two of the girls at their table looked visibly disgusted by his comment, but he didn't notice.

Mark turned to Jack, 'what's the bets those two are gonna be swinging for each other before the night's done?'

'I'd give them 'til midnight.'

'Get fucked, lad,' replied Begs impatiently, 'and while you're at it, maybe go find a suit that actually fits ya.'

Wham Bar was wearing a navy three-piece suit Jack assumed was a hand-me-down. It was far too small for him and hugged his stomach and shoulders awkwardly, but was frumpy in other parts. He wasn't a particularly heavy guy but it made him look bigger than he was. In fact, Begs was carrying a lot more weight himself, but his suit hid it better.

Wham Bar and Begs were basically brothers, and Jack knew when it mattered they'd have each others' backs. On the day-to-day however, you'd swear they hated each other. They really knew how to get under each other's skin, and took every opportunity to do just that. The pair of them were the other half of Jack's friend group with him and Mark - who were another inseparable pair since childhood, only without the toxicity.

'Go find a head that fits ya,' retorted Wham Bar as he fucked a piece of garlic bread across the table at the girl, sending it bouncing off her head, parts of it clinging to her hair.

'Oh fuck off, would ya?' muttered Begs, although he cracked a smile as the piece of bread flew past him, and he tossed one back in retaliation which Wham Bar dodged.

'Jaysus lads, I'm fair gonna miss this when we all leave for college,' said Mark.

'Gaaaay,' sneered Wham Bar.

'Oh, fuck off.'

'Ah it'll be weird, alright,' admitted Begs, pulling a piece of garlic bread from his date's hair and taking a bite, 'all of us moving away.'

'Except Jack,' corrected Wham Bar.

'There's still second and third round offers, in fairness,' said Mark, 'and there's nothing wrong with taking a year out anyway.'

Jack didn't respond for a moment. He ran a finger along the condensation on his glass. The reality was settling in—his friends were leaving him. He could already picture the group chat filled with stories from new cities, inside jokes he wouldn't get, pictures of new friends he didn't know from nights out he wouldn't be on. He'd be left behind in Spiddal; left to rot on the farm.

This wasn't how it was meant to go.

He was meant to move to Dublin, and get a break from his parents. One last blowout before rural farm life became the rest of his life.

'Let's be real, Jacko. You were always gonna end up on that farm. Sure mammy makes all your decisions for you, and she says farm.'

'Ah here, Wham,' protested Mark.

'Where's the lie, Marky?'

'It's true,' added Begs, 'in fairness.'

'Fuck ye!' Jack barked defensively, and the mood shifted.

'You should do what you want, Jacko. Not what your mammy wants.'

'What's that spose'ta mean?' he leered.

'I mean, we all know the last place you wanna be is that fuckin' farm. So grow a pair and stop letting your mammy tell you what you want-'

'My mam doesn't control my life,' Jack barked, 'fuck you.'

'Jack-' interrupted his own date, practically roaring into his eardrum. Her voice had been grating before the drinks, but now it was like a fire alarm going off in his skull. Her lipstick was smudged and her eyes struggled to focus. She was a dose, and he couldn't wait to be rid of her.

'What?' he snapped, probably unfairly.

'Is she alright?' she continued as Caoimhe stirred in her gnocchi beside them.

'Ah, she'll be grand,' he replied as he took a swig of his own drink.

Jack barely had time to finish his sentence before he heard the wet squelch of Caoimhe's face peeling off the plate. She stirred, hands trembling as she pushed herself up from the plate with the coordination of a newborn calf finding its legs. Her lipstick smeared across her cheek, her eyeliner mixing with the pasta sauce, turning her face into some kind of abstract painting.

Jack opened his mouth to say something, but then she made a noise.

'Caoimhe, are you alri-'.

A deep, guttural groan. And then, like an exorcism in real-time, she let it all out.

Jack's stomach dropped.

Her cheeks puffed, and then, like a demon expelling itself from her body, she projectile vomited across the table in a violent, unstoppable spray.

The sound alone was horrific—a disgusting mix of choking, spluttering, and that unmistakable splat as half-digested pasta, gin, and god-knows-what-else splashed across the table, the plates, the glasses—the people. A thick glob of something bounced off the rim of Begs' plate, landing with a sickening plop onto the sleeve of his suit.

'My fuckin' gnocchi!' someone howled, yanking their plate out of the splash zone just in time.

The reaction was immediate and catastrophic.

Chairs scraped against the floor as people leapt from their seats. Someone knocked over an entire jug of water, which tipped onto Wham Bar's lap, soaking his trousers. A girl let out a shriek, clutching her stomach, and then it started.

Another lad—one table over—doubled forward, gagging. He barely had time to turn before he let loose, spewing his dinner onto the floor with a wet, retching heave.

The chain reaction spread like wildfire.

Jack caught a blur of motion as another girl bolted from her seat, hand clamped over her mouth. She didn't make it two steps before she lost the battle, hurling into her clutch bag with a horrible retching noise.

Glasses shattered. Cutlery hit the floor. The room descended into pure, primal panic. Some people gagged just from the stench—a toxic cocktail of vomit, alcohol, and pasta sauce thickening the air. Others made a break for the exits, shoving chairs out of their way, knocking over drinks in their desperate escape.

Jack's own stomach twisted, bile rising in his throat. He swallowed it back, breathing through his mouth as he forced himself to look away.

At the other end of the table, Mark just sat there, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold like it was the third act of a shite rom-com. His lips twitched into a grin as he turned to Jack.

'Oh my God,' he said, shaking his head, barely holding back laughter.