Secret Society Read Free Page A

smell of vomit lingered in one of the restrooms. Nick asked Amir if the lights could be turned down any lower, and the club owner obliged. Maybe with the lights dim and the laser effects going, no one would notice that the place was a dump. Thank God they wouldn’t be carding for drinks after people got in, and the first hour would be open bar, albeit without a full range of premium vodkas. Nothing like a few free drinks to get things going. Nick tried to push away his sense of dread. What if no one showed?
    Adding to his anxiety, his parents had given him a bizarre guilt trip that evening about what he was wearing. They never seemed to care, hadn’t made a comment in two years (save for the occasional request for him to tuck in his shirt or straighten his tie), and yet tonight, both his mother and father had sat him down and given him a mini lecture on how he shouldn’t be going out dressed in a way that was so shabby, how he was representing his family, how he was a Bell and Bells were expected to look, act, and dress a certain way. Nickhad paid them no mind and had worn his usual obscure punk band T and olive-green German army jacket he had picked up on Bleecker Street in the Village.
    At ten P.M., the club’s doors opened, and reportedly a line already snaked down the block. Private school kids from all over the city started pouring in, the guys flashing their fake IDs, the girls usually getting in with little more than a flirtatious smile and the air that they were far too busy to be concerned with the possibility of not being admitted. The word had apparently gotten out that this was the party to be at on the first Friday after the start of school. People were chatting, drinking, texting each other, snapping pics on their phones. Nick paused for a moment, satisfied with the turnout, before jumping to the next problem: DJ Apocalypse was clearly flaking on his engagement. Nick was relieved to spot Patch twenty minutes later, the digital video camera—his friend’s ever-present social crutch, he sometimes thought-held in front of him. Nick grabbed Patch, who gave him a glare.
    â€œWhat are you doing? I was in the middle of a sequence.”
    â€œYou can always do a cut later. I need your help.”
    Patch adjusted his round Harry Potter–style glasses and swept his straight brown hair out of his eyes. “What with?”
    Nick motioned to the DJ booth. “The Apocalypse. It’s not happening tonight,” he said, attempting a bad joke.
    â€œProbably passed out at the Gramercy Park Hotel,” Patchsaid. “I told you that you shouldn’t have hired him. How much did you put down?”
    â€œTwelve hundred. Maybe I can still cancel the check.” He groaned. “This is not good.”
    â€œOkay, so what do you need?”
    â€œI need you to DJ. Do you have your iPod?”
    Patch nodded.
    â€œGood. Plug it into the laptop. It’s all hooked up to the mixing board. No one’ll know the difference. You’ve got all the good stuff on there, right?”
    â€œWhat do you think I listen to all day?”
    â€œMake it the usual: some Daft Punk, some Interpol, some mashups. Everyone’ll think you’re the opening act or something, and by the time they realize that he’s not coming, they’ll be too drunk to care.”
    â€œYou’re a class act, Bell,” Patch said.
    â€œPiss off. Help me out, okay? This party has to go down well. My name is on the line.”
    â€œYou got it. But I’m still filming from the booth.”
    â€œPatch, I don’t care if you do Stoli shots there. Just play the music.” Nick cringed as he realized his gaffe: Patch had recently gone straight edge—no booze, no drugs, no cigs—after a series of particularly bad nights over the summer.
    Patch nodded and headed for the DJ booth, and Nick saw from afar that he was plugging in his iPod to the laptop and getting acquainted with the