BooksBarbecue
Back The House Party
Chapters (57)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. April 2008
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. Author’s Note
  55. Acknowledgments
  56. About the Author
  57. About the Publisher

“Are you serious right now? You’re blaming me for that? We all took them. I didn’t drug anyone.”

“I didn’t take any,” Will said.

“Yeah, well, aren’t you perfect?” Hunter spat. “But don’t you dare tell the cops about the E. I will be seriously fucked if that comes up.”

“What do you care, anyway?” Will asked. “You’ll be fine whatever happens. You’re not looking at losing a scholarship. Princeton isn’t going to kick you out if you get in trouble for this. Your dad will make sure nothing touches you.” He knew that this would piss off Hunter more than anything else, but he didn’t care. Who did Hunter think he was, anyway?

“I’m just a spoiled rich kid, huh?” Hunter raised his eyebrows. “You know you want to say it.”

“Hey, you said it, not me,” Will shrugged. His mind was reeling. He couldn’t believe that Hunter would accuse him of ratting him out.

Hunter started toward him, and Will intuitively raised his fists. The action seemed to snap Hunter out of his rage. He stopped short and stared at Will, suddenly deflated. “I thought we were better friends than this,” he said.

“So did I,” Will said. He could tell that Hunter wasn’t really himself right now, but he was too angry to care. “Well, I’m sure that you have busy rich-kid stuff to do, so I won’t keep you here.” It sounded so stupid and childish coming out of his mouth that he almost laughed, which might have saved the moment. But instead he just stared at the ground. Hunter paused, then turned and walked away, back toward the woods that separated their houses.

27

Maja was standing in front of a giant American flag rendered on an eight-by-six-foot canvas. From the back of the gallery, it looked like any flag, but as you approached it you saw that the stars and stripes were made from an object collage of industrial materials like wire and circuit boards. It was a little on the nose, in Maja’s opinion, but then flag art usually was. This piece had the advantage of ambiguity—was it a commentary on the role of corporate money in government, or a celebration of the strength of America’s industrial past and future? In other words, it was perfect for the client standing next to her, who was looking for a statement piece to hang above the reception desk of his Flatiron-based tech startup.

The gallery had been seeing a lot of tech clients recently. For the first time since the dot-com crash back in 2001 had hobbled the budding New York start-up scene, they were beginning to outnumber the Wall Street firms who hired the gallery to outfit their offices in pieces that signaled success and taste. The financial firms that the gallery usually worked with had recently pulled back, but tech companies still seemed to be splashing money around.