Annaleigh - Chapter Two

The Party

Before you head to the party, make sure you caught the intro in Chapter 1 - Erin’s Night!

     The way heads turned and whispers passed, I began to worry I looked like Fran Fine heading into the Sheffield’s house on the Upper East Side. But their gazes slid across Joan as well, and she looked like a knockout, all beautiful hair curls and sequins (thank goodness she hadn’t thrown me that top instead; the Fran Fine comparison would have been spot on). 

     Joan didn’t seem to notice, she simply strode along. “Tom said it was just up ahead, on the corner of Baker street.”

     As we came to the back stairs of an enormous building, and another group surveyed us, it dawned on me that people may have thought Joan was Annaleigh. If I didn’t know Joan, her confidence and air would have made her a candidate in my book as well. 

     Why didn’t Joan already know Annaleigh anyway? All the other locals seemed to know one another. Her friend Tom even knew Annaleigh.

     I was busy trying to puzzle it out when Joan suddenly halted in her tracks.

     “Hold the phone. Tom got hot.” 

     It was one of only two times I saw Joan, with all her confidence, wit, and beauty, waver. She looked shell-shocked. Then Tom flashed her a conciliatory smirk from his perch on the back porch and she was back in form, striding forward.

     Tom Bradley was a tallish business major who’d gambled on wearing a nice blazer to an outdoor college party. And he evidently knew he’d gotten hotter since the last time Joan saw him because he had no trouble owning it.

     “I think I scared you a moment, Joan ‘Heartache’,” he said as he ambled up to meet us. “I didn’t know it was possible.”

     “Joan Heartache?” I questioned.

     He turned his smile at me. “She wouldn’t give any guys the time of day in high school. We all suffered from Hartley heartache.” 

     “I was busy with college prep,” Joan countered. “Erin, Tom. Tom, Erin.” She gestured between the two of us, then fixated on Tom. “Don’t call me ‘Joan Heartache’ ever again, Bradley!” 

     “Resorting to last names to underscore your ire,” Tom tsked.

     “Resorting to obscure synonyms to express frustration,” Joan shot back.

     “Needlessly engaging in verbal sparring to display your intelligence,” Tom teased, his eyebrows furrowing in mock admonition.

     Joan huffed. “Well, your counter arguments are making yours transparent.”

     I began to feel uncomfortable in their linguistic foreplay (was this how they spent their time on Livejournal?) and attempted to break the ice. Or, if we’re being honest, attempted to satisfy (or is it sate? Maybe I should ask Tom) my own desires. “So, Joan says you go to BU.”

     Tom, whose face looked half adoring and half fearful, turned his attention from Joan to me. “Yeah. Closest I could get to Harvard,” he said. “Maybe Joan’s right about my intelligence.”

     “Don’t play modest, Tom. It doesn’t suit you.” Joan jabbed a finger into his chest.

     “I concede.” Tom held his hands up, his already wide smile somehow widening to an almost Cheshire Cat state.

     He really did have a charming demeanor. I briefly wondered what he looked like in high school and why Joan was so shocked at his transformation. But I had a mission.

     “A high school friend of mine went to Berklee,” I started.

     “And you’re hoping I might know them.”

     Tom was pretty smart. Or maybe my face was so full of obvious anticipation that he could read me better than a children’s picture book.

     “Yeah,” I said lamely.

     “Sorry, but I don’t really cross paths with those kids. The Berklee Bubble is pretty insular.”

     My heart sunk like a dead peach pit in my chest and my already poor poker face must have melted with it because Tom reached a comforting hand out to my shoulder.

     “There are some other kids from Boston in town tonight. They might know your friend,” he offered.

     Joan snorted. “Erin’s search for her ‘friend’ is a waste of time.”

     If I didn’t know Joan better, I’d have found her comment cruel and her look at Tom’s hand on my shoulder oddly territorial. Was Joan jealous?

     I took a tiny step back, so Tom’s hand dropped back to his side, and this seemed to soothe whatever strange beast I’d seen flash behind Joan’s eyes. 

     “A friend is someone who stays in touch, or at least tries to,” Joan continued. “Like how you found me on Livejournal,” she said to Tom.

     Suspicion confirmed!

     Tom was a natural mediator and came to my aid. “Friends can go years without speaking to or seeing one another. Like Fletch. You two were buddy-buddy in high school and you haven’t spoken since the summer. Is she still your friend?”

     I could tell Joan didn’t like this argument. And I had no idea who Fletch was, but the mention seemed to sting Joan. Now I felt like I needed to be the mediator.

     “Aaron was more of a crush,” I confessed sheepishly. “We weren’t super close, but we were friendly. He lent me a book once.”

     “Oh lord. The book. Here she goes,” Joan rolled her eyes. 

     Joan had heard my story at least ten times (probably twenty) during drunken confessions on our dorm room floor. And maybe once or twice at a party she’d dragged me to. Fortunately for her, I wasn’t drunk yet, so I wasn’t in the mood to share anything else and left it at that.

     “I’m just hoping to reconnect.”

     I saw something soften in Joan’s countenance, as it often did when she realized she was being particularly blunt, and she graciously changed the conversation. “So, what’s the deal, Tom. Did you become one of those fit freaks that hits the gym every day?” 

     Still blunt but not directed at me anymore. 

     Tom chuckled. “Let’s catch up inside. You don’t want to miss Annaleigh’s entrance.”

     The cloud of rumors around Annaleigh’s entrances were particularly fanciful. I’d heard she descended the stairs like Norma Desmond, ready for her close-up; slid into the room on her knees, like Marty McFly; and even — the most fantastical — drifted down from the sky on a trapeze like a Cirque du Soleil dancer. They all sounded farfetched and overly theatric, but Joan and I certainly didn’t want to miss the chance to verify the rumors.

     As Tom ushered us into the house, I’m sure my eyes grew into saucers.

     For all the talk about Annaleigh’s parties, no one had quite conveyed the enormity of her house. Maybe it was implied from the fact her guests managed to fit on the rooftop, but I hadn’t really thought about it. To be honest, some of the allure would have been lost if I had. And this strange back-alley entrance, flanked by men clad in black (did she seriously have her own bouncers?) made the whole experience feel more like some elite speakeasy. 

     Maybe The Strokes had actually played a set here.

     Velvet ropes marked a path to a simple stairway, and I could just barely peer into the darkness on either side of the walkway, but it seemed to go on forever. Her parents were obviously loaded.

     I counted seven stories with fourteen landings as we climbed. And they were steep. 

     I had enrolled in tennis class to satisfy my general education credits, but it did not prepare me for cardio or quad work. Plus, I usually cut that class (only gym brats, like Tom, would get up at 7 a.m. for a Phys. Ed. class). My legs were screaming.

     Why wouldn’t Annaleigh allow people to use an elevator? Certainly a house this grand must have an elevator (or maybe even one of those diagonal inclinators like the pyramid hotel in Las Vegas. Nothing would be surprising in this castle.)

     I was just about to comment that no party could be worth this type of exertion when we reached the last landing, which opened onto the building’s roof.

     We stepped out into what I can only describe as a courtyard, even though it was far above the ground. There were twinkle lights threaded across intricate arbors, a winding path with low-cut bushes, and multitudes of deep, couch-like daybeds arranged around tiny glowing fire pits. Oddly, no one had ever mentioned those, or how the seating made small, private conversation circles.

     Along one side of the roof there was a magnificent built-in bar and it did, in fact, house an enormous champagne fountain. Endless free champagne, confirmed.

     “This is incredible,” I said.

     “Unreal,” Joan echoed in awe. 

     Tom led us to an empty fire pit marked with a “Reserved” sign. Maybe he wasn’t wrong to wear a blazer after all. 

     “Reserved?” Joan said quizzically.

     “I know people,” Tom said, with his irresistible grin.

     Somehow, neither Tom or Joan were out of breath. Meanwhile, my heart was still strumming along to a Sousa march. I flopped down, sank into the plush cushions, and began laughing. 

     “I’m back on the couch, Joan!” I declared with triumph.

     Joan rolled her eyes. “And if you think you’re staying there for this whole party, you have another thing coming.”

     Of course, her attention quickly turned to Tom and the forty thousand questions she wanted answered. 

     I tuned them out. Why play third wheel?

     I was busy compiling what would become an epic Livejournal post, capturing every detail of the rooftop in evocative language, when the hostess (or maybe patroness was a better word. I should have asked Tom) suddenly made her appearance.

     She did, in fact, descend a stairwell. It was hidden at the back corner of the roof, in a spot I hadn’t catalogued yet. But her movements were less theatric and more elegant, maybe even measured. This was no Cecil B. DeMille moment. Why were people so absurd with their descriptions?

     Joan, who was seated with her back to Annaleigh, turned to survey the scene and said aloud. “Is that Hannah Roberts?”

     Tom coughed and whispered at Joan. “She doesn’t like people to call her that. She goes by Annaleigh now.”

     Who was Hannah Roberts? I guess the six degrees of Annaleigh (whose last name I now knew was Roberts) included Joan after all.

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Continue to Chapter 3 - Annaleigh’s Entrance

Move through the story:

Erin — One | Two | Three | Six

Annaleigh — Four

Joan — Five