By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Eric Nicholson
"No," I say loudly, and they jump away, startled. These girls have absolutely no idea what's going on. They're ditzy anddrunk. I watch them turn the corner behind my car, flip-flops clapping away into the night. The Suburban's long gone. Another episode of The H.P. is over.
Far more low-key than the raging keggers I'd been assured took place each and every weekend behind the 12-foot gates on St. Andrews and Beverly Drive, this Dartmouth Avenue party would just have to do for my investigative purposes. It had taken weeks of surprisingly hard work to crack the Highland Park shell, and I was worn out. In the end, the bad behavior couldn't have lasted more than 16 minutes tops, which is probably all for the best. It would only have been a matter of time before someone called me out on the imitation Uggs and I would be forced to leave, shamed forever because of my limited footwear budget.
It was much easier to get my teenage debauchery the new-fangled way: sitting at home on the couch with my cat, watching Laguna Beach or The O.C. Then again, there's nothing like live, uncensored rich kids behaving badly.
But actual self-absorbed, mindless teens with too much money are a lot of work, plus they don't respond well to remote controls. Or parenting. Or babysitters.
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