“Ooh, look. Some rich asshole is having a party,” she chuckles after turning down the music.
A young man in a black and white tuxedo comes to the car, looking over his shoulder. The entire scene is a bit strange, but Petra doesn’t seem rattled and I try to take my cues from her.
“Johnny, get over here!” She yells at the young man before turning to me, “I dated his older brother. We’re so going to this party,” she whispers.
“Petra! What’s up?” He asks, digging into his suit pocket before pulling out a thin white joint and a lighter.
“What do I need to get in there?” Petra nods to the large house at the end of the cul-de-sac. There are so many people moving about around the house, it looks like a nightclub.
“Just one of these,” Johnny grins as he pulls out a red ticket from his back pocket.
“Sweet,” Petra takes the ticket from him so quickly I could barely get a glimpse of it.
“Oh, and you’ve gotta let me park the Benz. It’s strictly valet,” he says before sparking the joint and inhaling deeply as he backs away from the car, making room for Petra to open her door.
“Come on,” Petra turns to me, speaking sternly like she always does when she thinks I might mess up something.
Shocked by the quick turn of events, I scan my seat as fast as possible, hoping not to leave anything behind, because I don’t even know if I’ll leave with Petra. Whenever we go to events it’s a toss up if I even see her again once we make our way past security.
“Johnny, you better not put one scratch on my car.” I hear Petra say as I round the car. Her voice is serious and threatening as she cuts her eyes in his direction.
“Chill. Enjoy the party.” He shakes his head while climbing into the driver’s seat.
“And don’t smoke that in there.” She yells as he begins to pull away.
Johnny smirks and nods his head, the joint resting between his lips as the Benz continues down the street.
“Whose party is this?” I ask as we walk up the sidewalk to the white mansion. The grass is crisply cut in front of everyone’s house, like a scene out of a movie.
“I don’t know. I’m just glad I saw Johnny. This is the type of event you have to know someone to get into.” Petra is obviously excited now.
These events were what drove her in life, and I’d be lying if I didn’t feel privileged to know her in times like this. She knew everyone, and it always seemed to pay off as she finagled her way into exclusive events and award shows.
“Wow. This is incredible,” I gasp as we finally approach the house. It’s white and even larger than I initially thought when I first saw it.
The house stretches around in an L-shape, taking the space of what should probably be two homes. It’s incredibly modern, with more glass than any other surface.
“You know the drill, Ava. Act like you’ve been here before,” Petra whispers.
Chapter 2
Ava
Together we march through the front door as I try my best to present the most nonchalant demeanor I can manage. And that’s no easy feat, because the home gets more impressive with every step.
The artwork hanging on the walls varies from abstract to extreme realism. A painting of a young South Asian boy emerging from a lake looks so clear, I have to squint to determine it’s not a photograph. If I were in a museum, I’d spend extra time studying it, but for now I have to pretend none of this impresses me.
As I thought from outside, all the furniture is white, along with the floor and walls. The massive artwork is the only pop of color, but it’s all the home needs. Several people are wandering down a hallway, and I absentmindedly follow them before realizing Petra’s gone in a different direction.
Shit! Now, I’ll never be able to find her. Glancing around, I rack my brain to remind myself what she wore. By the time I’ve remembered the red dress, there’s a new group of party goers walking in the front door, and this group actually looks unimpressed by the marvelous home. Snatching my phone out of my purse, I send Petra a quick text asking where she went before my attention is stolen.
The artwork seems to get even more grand the further you go down an empty hallway, so I follow it as if I’m in an art gallery, because that’s what it feels like. Gripping my phone in one hand, and my small clutch in the other, I make my way to a quiet area of the house, where no one seems to have explored.
A series of black and white photographs lead up a staircase, and I’m captivated by their story. Each photo appears to have been taken outside of a small restaurant somewhere in Europe — Paris, I think. In the first one, a mother sits in the chair holding a small boy. He seems intrigued by the camera, but the mother’s eyes are captivated by him. You can see the love and admiration as she watches the innocent joy in her son.
My eyes wander over to the next photo, this one about three steps up from the first, and a middle-aged, overweight man stares into the camera with a frown as a small woman stands beside him with a smirk. Their body language would make you think they’re not with each other, but if you look closely, you can see their fingers interlocked as they hold hands.
My mind races, making up possible stories — how he is a grumpy stickler who never smiles, while his wife swears he’s a softie inside. I bet she bakes pastries and writes love stories or something equally romantic. The photographer had to
