It was another one of those parties.
Those meaning a party Amelia was invited to for the fact that people enjoyed her company- not that she fit in with the crowd. It was a party comprised of cheerleaders and their it-boys, and the girls had flocked out of the pool to sing along to another one of their autotuned party anthems.
A light smile spread across her face, Amelia swayed her body to the beat, trying to have fun.
She could fake it very well. It wasn't exactly that she didn't enjoy these things, she did, but for the reason that she got to meet new people and observe the in-crowd in their natural habitat, whereas the others came to dress up in front of the boys and maybe kiss one or two during the moonlit games of truth-or-dare after the party had begun to die down.
Amelia would arrive late and be one of the last to leave. She was somewhat surprised every time she was invited to another one of these flings, but it really wasn't such a shock if she thought about it deep down.
She was kind to absolutely everyone and saw no reason not to be. The plastic girls enjoyed Amelia's presence because, while she could fit in with them, she was real and honestly herself the way they wished they could be. The girls at the opposite end of the spectrum admired her endless sense of fun and zeal for life. She loved the nighttime and daytime and gave people a dose of optimism whenever they needed it, and never got angry or spoke harshly to her peers. She would dance and flirt with boys but stop the moment one put their hand in the wrong place.
In order to maintain this social presence, Amelia could bend and twist her reactions and personality with each group. A little tuning and shifting here and there.
It wasn't exactly that she was changing for them, exactly. Every social circle just required a different set of behaviors to have a good time.
But for that reason, Amelia never actually fit anywhere. Amelia knew, deep down in her soul, that she had more textures and colors and words within her body than her day and town and circumstances could ever begin to comprehend or accommodate.
Amelia was happy, well- no. She was content. Or at least she had been. But this life was sort of beginning to exhaust her. The girls around her started laughing as one of the typical, six-packed athlete boys emerged from the pool and with a lock of his hair matted onto the top of his forehead in a perfect v-shape.
He didn't fix his hair, but stretched his perfectly toned chest in a vain attempt to impress the girls.
She just looked to the side. She had yet to encounter a guy with substance, one that would go with her on bike rides and look for small cafes, where they would sit outside and people-watch until their hands closed around one another and their lips met. If that even existed outside of movies or books. One day, she thought to herself. But for now she'd have to try her best to make do.
"Wow, Bryce, do you have to try so hard?" Alli Bowers, the stereotypical blonde leader of the group, retorted to the girls. They snickered and nodded in agreement.
Thankfully, the pizza arrived then, and Amelia avoided having to defend Bryce. Yes, although he was basic and annoying, Amelia knew that he could be a nice-enough guy when it was a one-on-one conversation.
She didn't really understand the girl-guy dynamic in this group. It was almost like the girls and guys hung out on separate sides and whispered about one another, like middle schoolers, and joined forces only at the middle to end of their parties for meaningless make out sessions.
This whole escapade seemed stupid and juvenile to Amelia, who had no problem striking up a conversation with one of the guys... another contributing factor as to why she was frequently invited to these flings.
"Amelia," Alli declared. "How do you not have a boyfriend. My mom even said so."
Amelia released a mirthful chuckle.
"My charm is just too overwhelming for one man alone," she replied.
"What an Amelia thing to say. You're so vintage, I love it."
She wasn't really sure what that meant, but she bumped Alli's hip with her own and thanked her. Just then, Amelia's phone lit up and began to trill a slow, lilting jazz; Autumn in New York, her favorite song since the beginning of her love for the genre.
"The i-Block is ringing," Bianca yelled, poking fun at Amelia's outdated and clunky phone.
"But it works!" Amelia retorted. She grabbed a towel, wrapped it around her waist, and walked to the canopied table.
A number lit up the screen that she didn't recognize with a 708 area code. She'd have to look up where from later on. She pressed ignore and began to head back to the group when the light jazz resumed.
The same number spread across the small screen. Amelia decided it probably wasn't a solicitation.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Ray. Still nothing. Lo hasn't answered any of my calls, I think I'll have to sit this one out."
"What?"
"Man, you sound... eh, whatever. Drinking already?"
"Excuse me, this isn't-"
"Unless you can get me a date. And you owe me." Amelia wondered if this was a prank call. Whoever was on the line, Amelia decided, was either very desperate or part of an illicit affair. You owe me?
"Hey, I think-" Amelia tried again, but was promptly cut off.
"Okay, I've been beating my gums with you, sorry. I'm still getting used to however they talk here. And whatever the hell this java they sold me is supposed to be..."
"Beating your gums?" Amelia prodded lightly, amused. She recognized that expression as a 1920s thing, a decade about which she was rather well learned, it being the Jazz age- she absolutely loved the time period. If she believed in the sort of thing, she tended to think that in a previous life, she was a Parisian Jazz age cafe hopper. It was like she held nostalgia for a time during which she hadn't existed. "20's, right?"
She heard a sharp breath on the other line and suddenly the man who was speaking a mile a minute didn't utter a sound.
"By the way, I've been trying to tell you that you've got the wrong number," Amelia spoke after several moments of silence.
"Oh God," he finally breathed. "You're not Ray?"
"No," Amelia replied, growing more concerned, but a deep sense of curiosity was blooming from her core.
"I'm sorry, I, uh..."
"That phrase is from the 1920s, isn't it?" Amelia demanded. Ordinarily this conversation would have been over minutes ago, but her interest overpowered any discomfort. Besides, she'd never see this person, so what did it matter if she asked a question?
"Why, yes," they answered, and let out a short, deep laugh. "Are you familiar with the 20s?"
"I just find the era fascinating," she spoke back to the stranger. "I take it you are too?"
"Huh. What's your name?" He asked, ignoring her question.
"Amelia, yours?"
"Like Lady Lindy. Amelia Earhart? I tried learning how to fly once. What a round. My name is Jack and I'm mighty sorry to be wasting your time."
"That's alright. Could I do anything to help you?" Amelia asked, and for some reason she just didn't want this conversation to end.
"Nah, just missing a date for the night. Nothing you could do. Ray's fault really."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Who's Ray? And is it a party you're going to?"
"Just an old pal. And, yes, well... they don't know how to do it these days, not like speakeasies or anything or the sort. I guess you could say that, though."
Amelia had always dreamt of one dazzling night spent dancing at a speakeasy, known for its dancing and vibrant people, never mind that their primary purpose was harboring and serving illegal alcohol to its attendees during the Prohibition.
"Goodness, I agree. They seemed just so... I don't know. Alive."
"Yeah well, just know where to go when the cops come sniffing. Huh. Well, hope the evening treats you well." He said.
Amelia found the stranger's tone of familiarity with these speakeasies a bit unnerving, considering that they were popular and in business about a century before their time. It concerned her, and made her wonder if maybe this guy wasn't just a tad crazy. Or maybe he was just seriously obsessed with the Jazz age.
"You too, and good luck with the date." Amelia pulled the phone away from her ear and proceeded to hit the red "end" icon, but suddenly she heard the man on the other line's voice ring out once more.
"Wait! Amelia? That's it, isn't it?"
"Yes?"
"Come along with me, be my date for the evening. The party, it's about as similar to a speakeasy as you'll get these days. I think it'd be just grand if you came along."
Amelia opened her mouth and closed it again, with no clue how to response.
She turned and surveyed the party still unfolding around her. The girls and guys sat separately with their food and drinks, all engaged in conversations undoubtedly about the meaningless ordeals of high school. Suddenly she was hit with a wave of longing, that same nostalgia and burning desire for something else, something deeper. She obviously wouldn't tell this guy yes, but something inside her was stirred by his simple question.
"I would love to, but..."
"How old are you?"
"Sixteen."
"No worries, then. I'm seventeen, that's the truth, and I'm promise I'm not some old loser."
"Are you... serious?" Amelia implored, feeling a tad uncomfortable.
"I know you don't know me, or anything or the sort. But there's just something. I know it's strange, damn crazy, in fact. But I would love to know you."
Amelia didn't speak for several moments.
"How can I possibly go to a party with you? You could be from anywhere in the world. How would you know?"
"Chicago, thats where you are, right? I didn't need to put in the area code," he answered.
Amelia didn't recognize that as Chicago, but what he said made sense.
"All right, then. I am."
"So, would you consider humoring me for the evening?"
Amelia simply could not believe this. A total stranger just invited her to a 1920s themed party without ever meeting her or anything besides an accidental phone call. This was the stuff of movies, not her life. But the decision lingered still in front of her. She felt as though she was at a precipice, where her decision at this point could take her down two very different paths.
"I..." Amelia looked around the party, the people, the world of comfortable complacency.
As she considered the proposition that lay in front of her, she knew that to say no would mean months, maybe years, of wondering what could have been. She knew that to say no would mean that she was submitting, accepting the average teenage life that was certainly not designed for her. And to say no would mean saying no to this boy, who was taking a risk, to say no to the chance for a glistening adventure. Besides a little bit of risk, there was no reason she saw to decline this offer. And if there was any trouble, she would call somebody for help.
Why the hell not?
"I would very much..." Amelia began to reply, but logic stopped her.
A stranger on the phone, inviting her to some party in the city? Her parents would absolutely die if they found out. It would be a very irresponsible decision on her part, and chances were that this guy was a little off, inviting a random girl to a party with him. He could slip something in her drink or drive them off to some southern state and stick her in a toolshed, never to be heard from again.
"While that sounds so exciting," she started again, "I can't join you. No offense, but I haven't ever met you, and I wouldn't feel too comfortable with that. My parents are super strict, so..."
"Ah, that's alright. Just figured I'd go out on a limb and ask you. Well it was a pleasure to converse with you this evening. Have a good night."
"You too. Enjoy your party," Amelia told Jack.
She drew the phone away from her ear and heard the call click off.
The curiosity and excitement had grown stale, but all she wanted to do was ditch these boring people
