“Exactly. That’s why you have to talk to her. Maybe you could squeeze in a few extra practice sessions too.”
“Are you going to need much longer?” I ask instead of answering her. I don’t want to think about Zoe right now. I can’t. It’s allgotten much too complicated. I take my phone out of my pocket and check my messages. There’s only one new one because only two people ever text me anyway, and one of them is standing right in front of me.
East is the other one. We got to know each other last summer by dumb chance, and he was the one who kept me from ending up on the street. It turned out that Dad was actually serious about his threat to throw me out if I didn’t go to Harvard. East saved my ass, and I practically owe him my life.
“You could have gone ahead on your own,” Skye says, giving me an annoyed glance in the mirror.
“We’ve been through this. I’m not going to let you go alone,” I reply as I’m texting a response to East, who wants to know when we’re finally going to show up. It’ll probably be a while if Skye doesn’t get a move on.
She sighs theatrically. “Jase Winslow, my knight in shining armor.”
I raise an eyebrow and try not to smile. “If you say so. Now hurry up. Otherwise, we can save ourselves the trip.”
“Okay, I’ll hurry, and you tell Zoe that she absolutely has to get better so you can stay in school. Deal?” She grins at me.
I look back at her apathetically. Not a chance.
“God, why are you always like this?” Rolling her eyes, she turns back to the mirror when I make no attempt at answering.
“It’s all a matter of practice.”
“Are there courses for that? How to be the world’s biggest asshole?”
“Yeah, but you can’t afford the tuition.”
“You can’t either,” she shoots back, and I have to smile.
A few minutes later, she puts the straightening iron aside, puts on mascara and lipstick, and is finally ready.
“We can go now,” she says, reaching for her jacket and a tiny bag that’s only big enough for her phone. She holds out her hand to pull me up off her bed.
Outside, it’s totally dark. The neatly paved paths are only sparsely lit by some of the old-fashioned gas lanterns that are all over Beacon Hill and Back Bay. But in an emergency, I could find my way around blindfolded. I know practically every inch of the wide square and the surrounding meadows, where I spent half the summer lazing around, reading, and killing time when I wasn’t at work.
As opposed to the younger students in the dormitory across from us, we don’t have to worry about being caught by security. As soon as you move from the small dorm to the big one, a lot changes. At least, that’s what Skye told me. Especially when it comes to curfew. We don’t have one.
Our Uber is just turning into the parking lot when we step through the main gate. The ride doesn’t take long, and I’m glad that Skye is there to talk to the young woman behind the wheel. I’m even less comfortable with small talk today than I usually am.
The longer we drive, the denser the traffic becomes, even though it’s already late. At least, it’s late for the dignified citizens of Back Bay. The West End, on the other hand, is bursting with life, and the line in front of The Lighthouse is visible from a few blocks away.
I thank the driver and get out as soon as the car comes to a stop. Skye follows me, and we walk past all the people, who are mostly students at all the local colleges. Then we turn into a small alleyway.
The Lighthouse is slowly but surely turning into one of the hottest clubs in the city. Technically, Skye and I have no business being here. We’re only nineteen, too young to be allowed in. But age doesn’t matter if you know the right people.
We stride purposefully through the alley behind The Lighthouse, squeezing past a couple who are leaning up against the wall. They’re putting on a show that looks like it belongs in a porn movie instead of a public street.
At last, we stop in front of a beat-up wooden door that looks like it’s seen better days. I send Easton a short message.
Jase:
We’re here.
We don’t have to wait more than a couple of minutes before the door opens a crack, letting us quickly slip into the dark hallway. The pounding bass makes the floor shake.
The guy who let us in disappears immediately without a word. His broad shoulders fade into the darkness. Skye and I follow him and step through a curtain that separates the backstage area of the club from the main room. Now we’re on a little balcony with a perfect view over the crowd.
The room is overflowing, and sweaty bodies jostle each other, swaying in wave-like movements in time to the beat like a single entity. The whole place pulsates like a beating heart. The air is stuffy, saturated with sweat, deodorant, and the undeniable scent of sex. But nobody here cares about that. This isn’t the Boston upper crust. People come here for one thing: to let go for a few hours andforget everything. There’s a reason that I’m here too, even though I might get not only myself into trouble but also East and his buddies if any of the staff figure out that I’m not twenty-one. Not to mention Skye. But unless there’s a police raid, the chances of getting caught are minimal. Identification is checked so thoroughly at the entrance that the majority of students are sent away as soon as they show their fake IDs.
I spot East and his friends at the other end of the balcony, where he’s standing at the DJ booth and making sure that the crowd on the dance floor is losing all their inhibitions.
