Hot Spot
WTF! I'm about to lose my freaking mind! What made me think Sierra Mesa would be the perfect spot for my bachelorette party? Sierra. Mesa. It's in the middle of the freaking Mojave Desert! A desert! And not a romantic sunset-with-cactus-and-tequila desert, a 110-degree in-the-shade desert. With nothing but poisonous snakes and scorpions and things that want to kill you. Nothing! Like it's completely deserted. Duh.
So when our Pink Party Bus—a mini-school bus with a cow skull on the hood and pink and silver balloons tied to the windshield wipers—broke down with 14 of my besties just as the sun fell behind the mountains, the temperature dropped like 30 degrees in two minutes to freeze our asses off in bedazzled white stetsons and beach coverups that said "Cowboy Up!," pretty soon we had a Donner Party-like situation on our hands. No cellphone service, and the blond-dreads driver, Rafael or Roberto, was clueless. All he could think was to pop the hood and play with the battery wires. Only two coolers of Coronas and some mini-pretzels in airplane-sized bags to survive on. Spoiler alert: none of us, pray Jesus, was forced to consume human flesh. But we got closer than we ever wanted to be. We could hear the growls of predators closing in. Everything pitch black, with pinwheels of stars overhead. Just in case, we drew curlicue straws to choose a victim. Though I think it would have been smarter to do it by weight.
I'd already been on bachelorettes in Nashville, Vegas, Austin, what have you. I didn't want to repeat them or do anything painfully obvious. So I told my mom, "Let's do Sierra Mesa in Arizona!" On Instagram, #bacheloretteparty was flooded with posts of its nightclubs and boutique shops, and 4-star restaurants. Everyone looked so happy there, clinging together in matching outfits, lips pursed for the group cellphone pose—that's what I want, to make instant memories.
And she said, "Skylar, you can go wherever you want. It's your big moment." I know she disapproves of Greg, he's too much like Daddy; they both hardly say a word. They're like two big dumb rocks. But at six feet, Greg balances my own gangly height; I look like a skinny ostrich. Mom and I are afraid to leave Greg and Daddy together for long; they might crumble from the sheer weight of their silence.
Good thing that Mom and I make up for that. Together we're like two firecrackers spitting out ideas. We found an Airbnb mansion with an infinity pool that's $7500 for three nights. Only five bedrooms, so we'd have to double up. In the photos online, there were king-size beds squeezed together in three of the bedrooms, and the others had bunk beds. Who cares, I thought, we'll be out and about the whole time. All we need is a place to crash.
The first night we got in late, piling out from the airport shuttle all sweaty, lugging our ginormous carry-ons up the marble steps. Thanks to God I'd booked the Cabana Boys ($250 an hour) to staff the pool. By the time we'd changed into our beach wear, a gleaming row of margaritas had been laid out by the lounge chairs, replenished every 15 minutes by the waxed and oiled waiters. With the patio heaters glowing and the turquoise pool bubbling under the big night sky, I felt like we'd landed in heaven. My bridesmaid Mia proposed a toast to the best friends ever, may nothing ever change, and may we forever stay blessed and joyful in our company. We clinked the salty rims of our glasses together as sprinklers hissed on the lawn. Through the sheer white curtains of the kitchen, we could make out the silhouettes of the Cabana Boys eyeing us.
Day 2 was a total blur. Nobody could even remember what happened even while it was happening. Mimosas by the pool first thing; for brunch, tequila palomas with jalapeno poppers at the Dead Donkey in the Old Town; then pulling on purple and green wigs while we cruised in the neon-lit pedal bar ($499 plus alcohol) doing whiskey shots chased with PBR, screaming our heads off to old Katy Perry songs, trailed by hoots and horn-blasts from the sticky, swirling mass of partiers like a big ice cream cone with sprinkles that someone had spewed onto the sidewalk. Too wasted for our boutique shopping tour to be chauffeured in Escalades, we slumped against boulders in the median with frozen daiquiris in Slurpee cups and waited for the Sunset Cruise on the Pink Party Bus. The primary destination was the cliff where Thelma and Louise sailed over in their Thunderbird. We figured we could crash early to be rested for the Hot Air Balloon Adventure at sunrise.
The bus bumped out of town on a gravel road into the dusk. Shadowy cactuses loomed up like weird alien life forms. We clung for support to the coolers of Corona. Kaylee started to get sick, so we exiled her to the back and told her to focus on the horizon, a bright thread of gold. A tape recording was going on about ghost towns and the Mesozoic era when the desert was a seabed. Trish and Maddy had keeled over, half asleep, when the bus clanked to a stop.
"That can't be good," I moaned to Mia beside me.
She was flat on her back, staring up at the galaxies reflected in her sunglasses. "Wake me when it's over."
I started to panic, hyperventilating, and screamed at the driver. "For christ's sake, do something!"
He hopped out and threw open the hood. What seemed like an eternity passed. I could hear him swearing under his breath. I tried my iPhone; no service. Fuck me, I thought. We're going to die out here.
Everything got real quiet. There was howling in the distance. The temperature dropped to like absolute zero. The girls all huddled together on the floor for warmth. I did a quick inventory. Coronas and tiny packets of pretzels. Nothing to make a fire with unless we ventured out of the bus. I knew that was a bad idea. Only Hailey had a lighter for cigarettes, but what could we burn, the seat cushions?
The driver climbed back in and shrugged. "Sorry, ladies, there's nothing to do but wait."
We could hear claws scratching at the underside of the bus. The stars looked more malevolent somehow, like hundreds of bleeding wounds.
Sophia and Jayde were sobbing, half out of their minds. They wanted to go for help, walk out into the blackness to find a stream or railroad tracks to follow. A couple girls had to hold them down until they chilled the fuck out.
That's when I suggested we take a vote in case things got desperate. Capri had a pocket knife if it came to that. We locked arms around each other, prayed for rescue to our Heavenly Father, and shut our eyes tight. Though we were shivering, sleep came fast.
The next thing I knew, a stab of sunlight hit my face. I could hear a loud clatter like a rattlesnake. I opened one eye and saw a rainbow-colored hot air balloon setting down onto the sand, its big wicker basket rocking back and forth, flames jetting upward. At first I thought I was hallucinating. I knocked the heels of my Prada boots together to make sure I was awake.
"You girls need a ride?" shouted the pilot, an old dude with a droopy white cowboy mustache.
I shook the other girls awake. "Home! We're going home! Let's never go anywhere ever again!"