Secret Society Read Free

larger unit, the linoleum was coming up in the kitchen, and the electrical hadn’t been inspected since the 1960s (they nearly had a fire last year when his grandmother plugged too many appliances into one extension cord). Eugenia and her late husband, Patch’s grandfather, had bought the apartment in 1953 for less than what a parking space in the city would cost today. His grandfather had never made much money of his own, and Patch’s father had died in a terrible drowning accident when Patch was five, without ever having the foresight to purchase life insurance for the family. His mother, sadly, was in an institution upstate. One day, for no reason that was apparent to anyone, she had turned completely catatonic. Patch now saw her only a few times a year.
    He sighed as he laced up his dirty Puma sneakers, glancing up to his desk at the video work in progress on the glowing monitor, a grimy old flat screen that Nick had been about to toss. Four years ago, it had been far better than the ancient one Patch had owned at the time, but now it was looking a bit shopworn.
    As he reached for his wallet, Patch thought about how he and his grandmother had the oldest kind of old money: the kind that didn’t exist anymore.
    Patch grabbed the rest of his equipment and headed for the door. He needed to get some good footage for his vlog,PatchWork, the type that would really impress some of the TV producers he had been meeting with. He was nervous about tonight, and he tried to think past it. He and the producers were in endless “talks” about him directing a reality show set at Chadwick, a situation that was admittedly impressive for a high school junior, but it was not enough for Patch. He had gotten the email two months ago, out of nowhere: “I’ve been watching your vlog. I produce television shows. Can we meet?” What had followed had been a flurry of lawyers and agents and release forms. The school was thrilled that a high profile project might be shot on school grounds. Their enthusiasm had been surprising, but Chadwick was in need of a shot of energy—and the money the project could raise for the endowment fund wouldn’t hurt, either. The biggest benefit was that the headmaster and the administration thought the show might be the boost the school needed to modernize its image, to make it seem less stuffy and stuck up. Patch was in the final round of discussions with a series of producers; he wanted to sign with a team that would really get it, that wouldn’t make him feel like he had sold out. He imagined what his idol, Gus Van Sant, would do. That is, if Gus Van Sant shot documentaries about private school kids.

CHAPTER THREE
    N ick had shown up at The Freezer half an hour before the doors were set to open. As he entered, saying hello to the doormen, he noticed a strange man in a suit lurking a few doors down. Probably just the usual eurotrash who populated the area, but something about it bothered Nick. He had been looking right at him.
    The club manager’s iPod was on autoshuffle, so music was blasting, but it wouldn’t be long before people started to notice that DJ Apocalypse wasn’t in the booth. Nick had gone all out for this party: Patch had designed the flyers, they had sent out emails, Nick had enlisted friends, classmates, older brothers and sisters to spread the word. If all went well, the club would be packed.
    The Freezer was a cavernous space on Gansevoort Streetthat used to be a meatpacking plant. Multiple rooms surrounded one large dance floor, all a flight of stairs down from the street. Nick hoped that because it was underground, it would have a certain cool factor to it, the feeling of being a den of iniquity. He was disappointed to see, once he arrived, that the club was looking down at the heels. The vinyl upholstery was repaired with packing tape. The DJ booth, upon close inspection, was constructed of cheap, black-painted plywood. The distinct