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“Told you,” I laugh.
“This is…”
“Special, huh?”
“Something else, yeah. Are those—”
“Giant golden eggs?” I finish, gesturing to the sculpture perched in the middle of the marble base of the fountain. “Yup.”
“Oh myGod,” she says again.
“Trust me, it gets worse.”
Her eyes are as huge as I’ve ever seen them. She’s so gobsmacked she forgets to be nervous for a few minutes. I lead her down one of the mirrored arched hallways, laughing again as she cranes her neck to gawk at the painted ceiling depicting a bunch of Baroque scenes of the Rockwell family. It’s honest to God the most hilarious thing I’ve seen in my life. And it never gets tired. I mean, it’s Xave on a horse. And in a field of wildflowers, side by side with his brother. And hunting pheasants with his dad in a woodland scene.
The best part is I’m almost positive Xave has never been on a horse in his life. Or even in a field of wildflowers. And he’s definitely never gone hunting.
“Oh myGod…”
“You already said that.” I follow the sound of thumping bass until we reach the Smoking Room, named by Xave’s mother after she came back from a week at a British Manor or something in England. Ironically, she’s adamant no one is allowed to actually smoke in the Smoking Room.
Safe to say she doesn’t know this is where Xave and I and a couple of friends smoked our first joint back in ninth grade.
The Smoking Room stretches at least eighty feet long, with smoky mirrored walls separated into panels by black, ornately carved wood. The ceiling is black, too, only decorated with geometric gold patterns. It’s where Xave holds most of his parties, since there are about a dozen different seating areas all the way down the room. Like velour couches and stuff. And there’s a massive bar and two pool tables and a sick sound system Xave had installed a couple years ago, which I’m pretty sure his parents still don’t even know about.
The place is packed and the party’s in full swing when we get there; red solo cups on almost every surface, a couple of girls behind the counter mixing fancy drinks in blenders, people everywhere dancing or talking or playing pool. Also, three girls in their cheer outfits dancing up on the bar looking like someone needs to cut them off asap.
People cheer when I walk in, which I can tell makes Caroline really uncomfortable. She tries to shuffle over to the edge of the room, but I follow and pull her against my side. I wasn’t lying when I told her I’d stick by her tonight.
“You want a drink?” I yell over the music.
She swallows and glances over at the bar. “Uh, you mean alcoholic? Or like…” her voice trails off and I laugh.
“Whatever you want.”
“Maybe a Coke?”
“You got it.”
I take her hand and lead her toward the bar area, but we keep getting sidetracked by people stopping to talk. It’s pretty obvious they’re surprised to see me here with Caroline. I mean, I see their eyes constantly straying to our joined hands and the curious expressions on their faces. And I know Caroline notices, too. I’m sure it’s making her even more uncomfortable.
And I suddenly realize this is a lot to put on her in one night, considering she doesn’t like crowds; her first football game and then her first rager.
I lean in close to her ear again. “We’ll just say hi to a few more people, then we can go off in a room just the two of us and chill,” I tell her. To be honest, I’m tired as hell, so the idea is appealing; hanging out alone with Caroline, away from the party. The games take a lot out of me lately. Practices, too. I’m finding stuff that used to come really easily to me a few months ago totally drains me these days.
We finally make it to the bar and I grab a couple of Cokes from the fridge. I crack one open and hand it to Caro, then open one for myself.
“Don’t Xavier’s parents care that he throws parties every time they’re away?” Caroline asks, after taking a sip from her can. “I mean, they must have clued in by now.”
I chug half my own drink, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “His dad’s usually here… He’s probably here now. But he doesn’t care.”
Her mouth drops open. “His dad’shere? Like, in the house right now?”
I laugh. “Yeah. But he’s eighty-three years old or something. He doesn’t hear a thing without his hearing aids. Plus, he basically lives in another wing of the house.”
“Oh, wow. I thought maybe people were exaggerating about him being old.”
“Nope. He’s a legit old geezer.”
