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May’s house is in a suburb of George. The beautifully renovated old stone building stands on the slope of a hill. The Porsches and vintage convertibles parked outside in the street give an indication of the status of the kids she invited. We all come from money. The private school we attend has an elitist reputation. Admission isn’t easy, and not everyone can afford the extortionate fees.
“Looks like there are a lot of older kids here,” Mattie says with a pleated brow as we pass the line of cars parked on the curb.
“Don’t worry.” Colin leans from the back and pats her shoulder. “I’ll take care of Bella.”
A car comes up too fast behind us, the headlights bouncing off the rearview mirror.
“Mm.” Mattie squints and adjusts the mirror. “Maybe I should go inside with you.”
“Maybe not,” I say, rolling my eyes.
The car on our tail skips lanes. A midnight-blue Alpha Spider cruises past. The guy in the driver’s seat has dark hair and a square jaw. He reminds me a little of Angelo. My heart squeezes. The guy grins and overtakes us to park farther up the road.
“Asshole,” Mattie mumbles.
I jump out before she’s brought the car to a complete stop, worried she’ll make good on her promise and escort us into the house. “Thanks, Mattie.”
Colin parrots me, thanking her for the ride as he gets out of the back.
“I’ll be here at midnight,” she says through the open window on the passenger side. “Wait for me inside.”
I wave, already running through the open gates.
“Let me know if you want me to fetch you earlier,” she calls. “Or if there’s a problem.”
Before she can say more, I take the porch steps two by two and walk through the door. The music is pumping. A few people stand in the hallway, chatting and clutching paper cups. I make my way to the lounge, which is packed. Disco lights cut over the dancers who are gyrating to the beat of crunk rap.
“Wow,” Colin says in my ear, his volume hurting my eardrum.
I spot May in the center of the floor and wave. When she sees me, she utters a shriek so sharp it’s audible above the music and fights her way through the crowd toward us.
“Bella,” she shouts when she reaches me, throwing her arms around my neck. “I’m so glad you could make it.” She releases me and bats her eyelashes at Colin. “You look handsome. As always.” Hooking one arm through mine and the other through Colin’s, she drags us to the pool deck where a bowl of punch and paper cups are set out. “Let’s get you a drink.”
When we each have a cup in our hands, she introduces us to the people hanging out by the pool. The setup is pretty with tea candles floating on the water and colorful lights running along the edge of the awning. Chinese torches are planted in the lawn, their flames throwing a golden light over the garden. Thanks to an unexpected Indian summer, the evening isn’t cold, but it’s fresh enough for no one to be swimming.
I don’t remember half of the names of the people after we’ve done the whole round. Some, I recognize from school. Many of them finished the year before and are first-years at uni. May has always been social and popular.
“Let’s go dance,” she says, pulling Colin and me into the lounge.
Dancing isn’t one of my strengths, but Colin is great at it. One of Colin’s classmates plays DJ. She goes up to him and says something in his ear. A moment later, the hip-hop beat changes to rock and roll. The crowd boos, but May only laughs, curling a finger at Colin and giving him a come-hither look.
The dancers clear a circle as Colin takes her hand and leads her into a spin. I forgot they both took dance classes in tenth grade. They’re well-coordinated. They quickly attract a large group of spectators who whistle and cheer them on.
I watch for a bit until my cup is empty. Not enjoying the jostling on the dance floor, I go outside for a refill, and when I return, May and Colin are gone. The music is back to hip-hop, and people are grinding against each other on the floor.
My drink spills on my boots as I wrestle my way through the wiggling bodies. By the time I reach the hallway, the cup is already half-empty again. I don’t mind. The punch is a disgusting mixture of something fizzy that tastes like orange, artificial sugar, and turpentine. Judging by the empty bottles lined up on the table, the turpentine is cheap tequila.
I empty the rest of the drink in a flowerpot, mumbling an apology to the plastic tree, and try to locate a trashcan. I follow a line of people to what I assume to be the bathroom, cut left to what must be the kitchen, and stop dead in the doorframe.
