[completed] Nova Carter knows exactly what the next few years of her life will look like: she will work harder than anyone else (as she didn't get into New York University to slack off); she'll be keeping her head down and prioritizing getting her a...
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Chapter Two | Cameos
♫ Cameos by Swimming Tapes
My dad always used to tell me that expectation was the currency of fools. I didn't listen to his advice. I decided on NYU, and actually go there now, because I dreamt of it even though I'd never been. Because I had images in my mind of the glamorous nights, those in which a certain golden glowing string would bend through streets and I couldn't necessarily see it, but I could touch it and taste it. Breathe it and experience it.
I never knew exactly what Dad meant until tonight, walking down a dimly lit sidewalk with Milo by my side and Olivia and her girlfriends a few feet behind me. Here's what I do know: at one point, expectation will have to be traded with reality. It's an inevitability. It's a currency. It's a fate.
New York City isn't lit by a glowing string of gold floating in the streets. I haven't seen a single celebrity or supermodel and frankly, wherever Milo's taking us isn't as close by as I hoped. My legs are on fire, but I push through it and have to regulate my breathing that tends to intensify and quicken the more tired I become: but I decide getting tired isn't an option, as we haven't even gotten to the party, yet.
Milo turns to me, his cheeks tainted by a faint pink in the chilly air. Even as it's late september his breath forms small clouds through his parted lips. He takes long strides out of excitement. "We're almost there. I can't wait for you to meet everyone."
Olivia appears between us, her head over our shoulders. "So, what will it be like? Full party?"
"Not the kind you're expecting, surely," Milo replies. "There'll be the annual maze in the building's gardens, hot drinks, pool, chess. Talk of internships and professors, probably. Some music.."
Said music grows louder as we round street corners.
"What you're describing sounds a lot like a gentleman's club," I say.
Milo looks at me, a look of digression on his face. "If you'd visited this place fifty years ago it would be, but we've since progressed past the confinement of boxes and their restrictions."
Olivia struggles to keep up with our strides while also keeping her head near our shoulders. "But no red solo cups, then? A DJ? Alcohol?" Her voice is pitched again. I discovered it becomes so when she's stressed or desperate.
"If you're looking for a high school kind of party, you'll have more luck at a sorority. But this party is more elegant and exclusive, for NYU's most distinguished and promising students. I wouldn't be surprised if they had security at the door." As Milo says this, chin tipped to the skies, we round the final corner on our journey and are met by the sight of the estate he spoke of.
The party has long exceeded the amount of guests— not to mention the elegance and exclusivity Milo spoke of— we all expected to find. Expensive cars line the pavement, trash scattered about the sidewalks. Several couples have found a spot on the lawn or halfway into the bushes lining it, and the front door is wide open to grant by walkers a glimpse of the rager going on inside.
