couple years closer to the three Bs: that’s Botox, Boob jobs, and Being-left—for a freshman!”
A few minutes later they arrived in front of a beautiful brick mansion that looked more like a private home than a secret society. Elegant white columns flanked the club’s front door, nostalgic and imperious. The building itself seemed to belong to a time of tailcoats and white gloves—except for the booming hip-hop music that was presently blaring from the upstairs windows.
A bouncer was working the back door. Callie froze.
“Names?” he asked, clipboard in hand, face expressionless.
“Mimi, Callie, and I’m Vanessa.”
“You ladies have ID?”
Crap! thought Callie. Who knew you had to be twenty-one to get into a college party?
She watched as Mimi and Vanessa flashed their Harvard College ID cards. Miraculously, the bouncer looked at the IDs, looked at her roommates, looked at the list, and then made a little check with his pen before stepping aside to welcome them in.
So that’s what they meant by “Invitation Only.” Nobody cared how old you were; all that mattered was whether or not your name was on The List! Smiling, Callie handed him her ID card.
“Have a nice night, Ms. Andrews,” he said.
“Thanks!” she cried, hurrying to join her friends.
“Callie, you’re such a dork—” Vanessa started to say, but her voice was promptly drowned out by the blast of music and noise that greeted them at the top of the stairs.
This was no high school party.
There were three elaborate bars attended by elderly bartenders in identical “island” attire: one whose sole job seemed to consist of working the margarita machine and ensuring that the constant supply of slushy “girlie” drinks never ran dry. Cocktail waitresses wearing grass skirts and coconut bras were wandering around offering the guests trays of pineapple, papaya, and piña coladas.
A live band strummed ukuleles lazily, singly softly in a foreign tongue that made Callie think of white sand, clear blue water, palm trees, and hot sun. Perhaps she was imagining because she’d learned online that Calypso was an island nymph in Greek mythology, but the air seemed to smell like ambrosia.
Couples were twirling across the dance floor: shirtless guys in nothing but swimming trunks danced with girls in short, colorful dresses while other couples lounged in beach chairs arranged along the wall. The dance floor had been decorated with fake flowers, inflatable animals, and palm trees. Blow-up monkeys and flamingos whooshed past, propelled by the dancers as the band struck up a faster number and people really began to move. . . . Welcome to Calypso. . . .
Vanessa materialized out of nowhere with three drinks in hand. “Sex on the Beach!” she said loudly over the music, thrusting a cup at Callie.
“What?” asked Callie, staring down at what looked like a piña colada.
“SEX-ON-THE-BEACH!” Vanessa cried again, pointing. And Callie suddenly understood: in the corner of the room, atop a mound of imported sand, a half-naked couple looked—and may well have been—in the middle of the act.
Next to them on the “beach” a giant kiddy pool was filled with not water but a disturbingly bright blue-colored liquid and hundreds of neon straws.
“Mini-soda!” Mimi screamed to a confused boy who’d just approached her. “No?” said Mimi, frowning. “Brent? Brad? Chadwick?”
“Tyson,” he said, forgiving her on the spot and steering her onto the dance floor.
“She loses her English when she drinks—can’t understand a word she’s saying!” Vanessa yelled at Callie.
Callie wasn’t listening. Instead she was staring at a tall, shirtless boy with sexy-shaggy brown hair who had just brushed up against her arm on his way to the dance floor. Pausing, he looked back: he was strangely familiar, yet unrecognizable in the dark.
Her eyes widened as she sipped her drink. She wanted to follow him out onto the dance floor, but such a bold move
A few minutes later they arrived in front of a beautiful brick mansion that looked more like a private home than a secret society. Elegant white columns flanked the club’s front door, nostalgic and imperious. The building itself seemed to belong to a time of tailcoats and white gloves—except for the booming hip-hop music that was presently blaring from the upstairs windows.
A bouncer was working the back door. Callie froze.
“Names?” he asked, clipboard in hand, face expressionless.
“Mimi, Callie, and I’m Vanessa.”
“You ladies have ID?”
Crap! thought Callie. Who knew you had to be twenty-one to get into a college party?
She watched as Mimi and Vanessa flashed their Harvard College ID cards. Miraculously, the bouncer looked at the IDs, looked at her roommates, looked at the list, and then made a little check with his pen before stepping aside to welcome them in.
So that’s what they meant by “Invitation Only.” Nobody cared how old you were; all that mattered was whether or not your name was on The List! Smiling, Callie handed him her ID card.
“Have a nice night, Ms. Andrews,” he said.
“Thanks!” she cried, hurrying to join her friends.
“Callie, you’re such a dork—” Vanessa started to say, but her voice was promptly drowned out by the blast of music and noise that greeted them at the top of the stairs.
This was no high school party.
There were three elaborate bars attended by elderly bartenders in identical “island” attire: one whose sole job seemed to consist of working the margarita machine and ensuring that the constant supply of slushy “girlie” drinks never ran dry. Cocktail waitresses wearing grass skirts and coconut bras were wandering around offering the guests trays of pineapple, papaya, and piña coladas.
A live band strummed ukuleles lazily, singly softly in a foreign tongue that made Callie think of white sand, clear blue water, palm trees, and hot sun. Perhaps she was imagining because she’d learned online that Calypso was an island nymph in Greek mythology, but the air seemed to smell like ambrosia.
Couples were twirling across the dance floor: shirtless guys in nothing but swimming trunks danced with girls in short, colorful dresses while other couples lounged in beach chairs arranged along the wall. The dance floor had been decorated with fake flowers, inflatable animals, and palm trees. Blow-up monkeys and flamingos whooshed past, propelled by the dancers as the band struck up a faster number and people really began to move. . . . Welcome to Calypso. . . .
Vanessa materialized out of nowhere with three drinks in hand. “Sex on the Beach!” she said loudly over the music, thrusting a cup at Callie.
“What?” asked Callie, staring down at what looked like a piña colada.
“SEX-ON-THE-BEACH!” Vanessa cried again, pointing. And Callie suddenly understood: in the corner of the room, atop a mound of imported sand, a half-naked couple looked—and may well have been—in the middle of the act.
Next to them on the “beach” a giant kiddy pool was filled with not water but a disturbingly bright blue-colored liquid and hundreds of neon straws.
“Mini-soda!” Mimi screamed to a confused boy who’d just approached her. “No?” said Mimi, frowning. “Brent? Brad? Chadwick?”
“Tyson,” he said, forgiving her on the spot and steering her onto the dance floor.
“She loses her English when she drinks—can’t understand a word she’s saying!” Vanessa yelled at Callie.
Callie wasn’t listening. Instead she was staring at a tall, shirtless boy with sexy-shaggy brown hair who had just brushed up against her arm on his way to the dance floor. Pausing, he looked back: he was strangely familiar, yet unrecognizable in the dark.
Her eyes widened as she sipped her drink. She wanted to follow him out onto the dance floor, but such a bold move
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