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Educators and Children of Famous People Plot Murder at My High School Reunion

Party Girl is a bi-monthly fan fiction column. From a darkened corner of her bedroom in Los Angeles, Mira Gonzalez fantasizes about all the hottest parties in New York.
All photos by Diana Zapata/BFA.com

In honor of back to school week, I decided to report on the hottest of all parties: my high school reunion. Having grown up in Los Angeles, my high school reunion is not just an opportunity to show people who used to bully me how I've become rich and successful as a columnist—Carrie Bradshaw-style—it's also one of the year's most exclusive events. My high school reunion is where the children of famous people and the children of lawyers can finally come together to strut their stuff and to reminisce about "the good old days."

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The party began with a greeting from this man. When I walked through the door he pointed at me a few times and said, "Yo, baby, it's me, Dylan! Remember me?" I felt terror wash over me and a film of sweat begin to form all over my body upon my realization that this was the boy I lost my virginity to. We were 16 and we had sex in the bed of the black pickup truck his parents bought him for his birthday. It was decorated with a tasteful bumper sticker that was a silhouette of a nude woman.

"Hey Dylan," I responded reluctantly. "Why are you wearing a scarf and glasses on your face?" He continued to silently point at me and strike various poses for a while before saying, "Baby girl! The bottom half of my face was recently eaten by a bear!"

I always knew this man as Mr. Daniels, the history teacher. Though it looks like he's had a change of career since high school. He insisted on being called "DJ Red Hat." (Apparently his "gimmick" is that he changes his name depending on what color hat he's wearing.) I asked him what sparked the career change and after a few minutes of incomprehensible rambling about how DJs party harder than history teachers he broke down in tears. He told me that his wife left him for a younger, richer man and he thought this new, "hip" career might bring her back. After our talk, he proceeded to binge eat pizza behind the DJ booth and play Mariah Carey's Greatest Hits on repeat all night.

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After I took that photo of Mr. Daniels, Dylan quickly jumped in and shouted, "Baby girl! I don't want you taking anymore photos without me doing a cool pointing move in the foreground, ya heard?"

Dylan then grabbed my hand and pulled me over to these mannequins. He said, "Get a pic of me pointing in front of these sexy ladies! And make sure the pic makes it seem like later they're gonna be naked in my bed tonight, ya feel? YOLO!"

Sarah and Tiffany were, shockingly, not the only pair of conjoined twins in my graduating class. There was another pair named Max and Todd. When I asked Sarah and Tiffany about Max and Todd, their faces became deadly serious. "We don't know what you're talking about," they said. I was later told by a mutual friend that Sarah and Tiffany brutally murdered Max and Todd because they didn't like the competition. They wanted to be the most attractive and successful pair of conjoined twins. Those bottles they're holding are filled with Max and Todd's blood. Despite the fact that these two are cold blooded murderers I do feel some sympathy for their situation. They are the victims of a rare disorder where one twin (Sarah, on the left) is aging normally whereas Tiffany (on the right) is actually aging backwards, Benjamin Button-style. Soon enough, Tiffany will be an old woman with an infant attached to her side. Very spooky.

This is a photo of Dylan with our sexual education teacher, Mrs. Sanders. Immediately upon entering the party, she was accosted by her ex-students who were desperate to ask her the questions about sex and the human body that they had been too ashamed to ask anyone since high school. "Does pee come out of the same hole I have sex with?" one girl asked. Another begged her to explain how lactation works and asked if she could lactate from anywhere besides her breasts. One man even asked her if the fact that he sometimes sneaks onto farms to have sex with sheep would be a good icebreaker on a date. In this photo, Mrs. Sanders is kindly showing Dylan a diagram of where the clitoris is located.

When I walked into this room, everyone became quiet for a moment and stared at me. I immediately realized what I had walked into: a round table discussion about how to murder Dylan. "It has to be done," our ex-principal explained gravely. "If we let him continue living, none of us will ever be able to take a photo without him pointing in the foreground. Is that how you people want to live?" asked Dylan's ex-girlfriend, Mary, who was the leader of the round table discussion. I interjected: "He is 35 and somehow still able to convince women to have sex with him in the back of that pick-up truck. Let it end." It was decided Dylan would receive death by lethal injection before the party was over.