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“All I have are my flip-flops,” I say, pulling them from my closet. “There’s a little bit of bling on them. It’s that or my sneakers.”
Amy releases another sigh. “I guess we’ll have to go with the boots.”
I grab a chunky button-up sweater to wear over the halter. I don’t know how Amy plans to stay warm in her lacy camisole top and strappy gold sandals.
“Do you think these bangles are too much?” she asks, bracelets jangling as she holds up her arm. Her sapphire ring, an heirloom from her great-grandmother, which Amy never takes off for any reason except to get it cleaned, catches the light.
I don’t own jewelry except for a few pairs of earrings, so I’m not the best judge, but I tell her honestly that she looks amazing.
“If I were gay, I would totally be hitting on you right now,” I add.
As we walk down the stairs, we come across Keira and Jordan, seniors who live in the unit above us.
“Wow, Amy, you look fab,” Kiera remarks. She turns to me, looks over my ensemble and smirks. Kiera’s not a fan of me ever since I told her on move-in day that her cardboard boxes could go in the recycling bin instead of the trashcan.
“You must be going someplace special,” Jordan says.
“The Lotus, a club in San Francisco.”
Jordan’s eyes widen. “No way.”
“You’ve heard of it?”
Jordan tosses back her long golden curls. “Of course I have. I know all the exclusive places in the city.”
I don’t doubt her. She grew up in Pacific Heights, the daughter of some cosmetics tycoon. And as if she doesn’t think she’s hot stuff already, she’s currently dating the football team’s starting quarterback, who’s expected be a first-round draft pick in the NFL. She’s not a fan of me, either. I’d say it’s probably because I once asked her to turn down her music while I was studying for a midterm, but I don’t think she’s a fan of anyone who doesn’t hold the same social status as she does.
“Oh, so you’ve been there. What’s it like?” Amy asks.
Jordan’s face darkens. “There’s no way you’re getting into The Lotus.”
“I got an invite from JD Lee.”
“I don’t even know who that is.”
“So what’s The Lotus like?” I inquire deliberately.
She tosses her hair again. “I have my favorite clubs already, so I’ve never felt the need to go to The Lotus.”
Meaning you’ve never received an invitation. But I keep my mouth shut because Grandma raised me to be nicer than that.
Now I’m slightly more interested in checking out this club with Amy.
We take the BART train into San Francisco and get off at the Powell Street station. Although I’d prefer to hoof our way to the club to save on cab fare, I doubt Amy will want to walk seven blocks in her sandals. And as I predicted, the city is chilly. Even though Berkeley is only about ten miles across the bay, it’s a different climate. Amy’s bare arms would freeze off by the time we arrived at the club.
“I’ll pay for the cab,” Amy offers as she flags one down.
I decide to look up this club, The Lotus. Oddly, nothing comes up. No website, no Yelp reviews.
“You sure you got the name right?” I ask Amy as the cab drives in the direction of Chinatown.
“Trust me, I would not forget anything this guy says,” Amy replies.
“Wow, you’ve got it bad for him. What’s his name again?”
“Jin Dao Lee, but he goes by ‘JD.’”
“Have you looked him up on the internet?” I ask, now dying of curiosity to see what this guy looks like.
