Avenging Cupids

Chapter 21: All the Hosts of Hell

Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;

And in the lowest deep a lower deep

Still threat'ning to devour me opens wide,

To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.

— John Milton, Paradise Lost

The private lanai of Il Villagio was teeming with D.C. students enjoying Mike Suarez’s super Spring Bash. Actually, ‘enjoying’ was an understatement; they were completely star-struck. They strutted around the pool as if they were attending a celebrity’s party.

The extravagant peanut-shaped oasis pool took up most of the Mediterranean-style lanai. It was made up of limestone and strategically sculpted into a natural pond complete with a mini waterfall at one end. Lush, carefully selected low-maintenance plants—such as giant birds of paradise and an assortment of Hawaiian hibiscus plants that could withstand splashes of chlorine and the pool’s microclimate—surrounded the perimeter of the pool, giving it that kosher element.

A few students sat beneath the imitation waterfall, long-neck bottles of Corona in hand as if they were life rafts. Others were dipping their toes in, their pant legs rolled up. As high school goes, of course, there were those who were indulging in a rowdy game of beer-pong inside the pool. Chaise lounge chairs made up of resin wicker and beige linen that were once arranged in a perfect line at the pool’s edge were now scattered haphazardly around the pool. Each chair was occupied by canoodling couples that really needed to get a room.

Stone-topped pedestal tables were littered with empty beer bottles and red plastic cups. The party was only two hours strong, yet the crates of beer behind the bar had already dwindled to just a few. A few of the female partygoers had crossed the delicate threshold of sobriety and entered the “Girls Gone Wild” moment that they’d most likely regret the very next day. Some kids circled the tables, playing a daring Truth-or-Dare style beer game and others were using the tables as chairs.  

Towards the right of the lanai, an eggshell and silver bar that stimulated the senses extended from one end to the other. The counter of the bar seemed to be made up of a single monolithic slab of dark-gray slate, buffed to shininess and chiseled to perfection. Twenty silver, minimalistic barstools topped with white cushions were arranged in a line before the bar, nightclub-style. Each barstool was occupied by underage drinkers, carelessly ashing their cigarettes or leaning over the bar to point at their choice of liquor.

Mike Suarez was the son of a prominent nightclub proprietor. His father owned several velvet-rope nightclubs along South Beach that promised to break your blue jean budget. With Don Suarez’s influence, he was able to pull some strings every Spring Break at Il Villagio for his son and his son’s friends—which was, in reality, the entire D.C. High student population. For reasons that DC-ers hardly cared about, Mike had managed to ensure a police-free experience. There was a community pool on the south-end of the condo but the lanai on the west-end was a reserve-only harbor for the big league party-throwers and goers in Miami.

Double stairs sloped down from the slightly raised lanai to the sandy shore. There was a wooden dance floor just out of the tide’s reach. A lattice-like canopy with four legs that were driven through the sand jacketed the dance floor. Wafts of champagne silk were scrupulously threaded through the rafters, billowing in the light breeze. Strings of white Christmas lights coiled around the legs of the tent, illuminating the bare skin of the students who swayed and grinded to the deejay’s hip hop mix. Sweat glistened on their foreheads.

Girls in sundresses and bikinis, and boys in board shorts littered the shore, each holding a plastic cup. It was one of those “red-cup” parties that were so popular with high school kids.