16. Aspen
Chapter 16
Aspen
“ I n case you forgot, Phaedra, I’m seventeen,” Maple protests.
After the dinner with my parents, Maple came back to my house for some sister time and a sleepover. Phaedra’s currently trying to convince Maple and I to go with her to the club she’s appearing at tonight.
“Come on, we’ll be home by midnight, I promise.”
“You don’t usually get home until three or four a.m.,” I point out.
“Usually I’m having fun so I just stay. But with most club appearances, I only get paid for the first ninety minutes. So that’s all we have to stay for.”
I look into her brown eyes and she breaks into a smile, somehow recognizing the slight crack in my resolve.
“They won’t let me in, but you guys have fun,” Maple says, crossing her arms.
“I haven’t said I’ll go yet,” I reply.
“Babe, if you’re a package deal with Phaedra Delgado and Aspen Jordan, you’re in,” Phaedra tells Maple.
I cave. “If we’re not home by midnight, I’m evicting you.”
“Yay,” Phaedra cheers, jumping up and down like a child. “Okay, everyone dress in your sluttiest clothes and…” She looks from me to Maple and rephrases. “Everyone come to my room and I’ll dress you in my sluttiest clothes, and then we’ll touch up our makeup and be out the door in thirty,” she amends.
I hate clubs. The feeling of random people—mostly men—touching me and disguising it as sliding past me, drinks being spilled on me, sticky floors, and the overall reek of alcohol and body odor. Admittedly, I’ve only been to one—two, if I’m including the set of Golden Hour —but the experience was unpleasant enough to never want to go again. But I should’ve known that Phaedra knows what she’s doing and doesn't make appearances at any club.
Not only is this one exceptionally upscale, but as soon as we arrive we’re whisked into a back entrance by the bouncers into the VIP balcony lounge and assigned our own personal attendant, who wastes no time taking our drink orders. There are about a dozen other people up here, but I only recognize two: a tech guy I’ve seen in the news and a famous soccer player. Of course, I’m sure everyone else up here is also loaded and/or famous, but I’m just ignorant as to who exactly they are.
Phaedra approaches the balcony overlook and waves to the sea of people, a spotlight landing on her.
“Phaedra Delgado, everyone!” the DJ’s amplified scream sounds over the pounding techno-pop music. The crowd roars and Maple and I join Phaedra at the overlook, interested to see the roaring crowd below us.
“And—holy shit, I was not informed that she was going to be here tonight—Aspen Jordan!”
Phaedra and I each wrap an arm around Maple, now standing between us.
“And…who’s that?” the DJ asks.
I look to Maple, who usually opts to keep a low profile, as the only no-public-persona Jordan. Her profile is reflected back to me in the spotlight shining on us, and I realize how grown up my baby sister is. Because I was born only a year and a half after Willow, and because we both entered the world of fame at the same time, I still tend to think of Maple as my kid sister. But looking at her now, seventeen-years-old, standing eye-level with me at five-foot-eight, and with baby-fat-free cheekbones and jawline, I realize she’s all grown up.
I always wonder how long Maple will maintain her anonymity. Of course, as the daughter of Hollywood power-couple Isabelle and Robert Jordan and sister of Willow Jordan and myself, she’s always going to be famous. But in name only. She hasn’t revealed herself to the world; she hasn’t done a single public photoshoot or interview, doesn’t do red carpets or any press with the rest of us, and nobody recognizes her when she walks down the street. It’s an existence worlds away from my own, and sometimes I envy her for it.
“Callie Forbes,” Maple yells to the DJ. I guess that settles that then. She’s not going to reveal herself to the public, and maybe she never will.
The DJ squints his eyes, trying to recognize her. “Who?” he calls.
“Callie Forbes,” Maple, Phaedra, and I yell in sync.
The DJ nods knowingly and gives a thumbs up—even though he has no clue who she is—and speaks into the mic again. “Everybody, let’s give a warm welcome to Phaedra Delgado, Aspen Jordan, and Callie Ford!”
The crowd cheers and Maple leans in and says, “Close enough,” into my ear.
“Don’t be shy, guys, come join me in the DJ booth.”
The crowd roars again, loud enough that I swear I feel the building shake.
Maple and I shake our heads as Phaedra raises her hands above her head to encourage the crowd’s cheers.
“Come on, don’t be shy. What, do you guys have shit taste in music or something?”
Maple and I continue to deny him and he shakes his head. Phaedra, however, is already on her way to the DJ booth.
“All right, guys, you heard it here first, Aspen Jordan and Callie Ford exclusively listen to polka music.”
The crowd melts into a cacophony boos and laughs, Maple and I joining in. Honestly, they’d probably rather listen to polka music than my sad-white-girl music.
“Thanks for having me.” Phaedra’s voice floods the system. “I always begin every appearance with a song for the girls because we don’t get enough recognition, do we?”
Maple and my cheers meet the dozens of other women's cheers as the opening notes of “Maneater” by Nelly Furtado flood the space. Maple is already jumping to the beat, her hands extended to mine. I roll my eyes but grab her hands and dance with her, both of our bodies moving in time with the music.
Even though Maple stays out of the spotlight, she's vivacious, unabashed, and bold—all of the qualities I admire most and wish I shared. But being next to Maple is as close as I can get, her vibrant energy rubbing off on me until I’m dancing just as obnoxiously as her. The thud of the bass reverberates through my chest in time with my heartbeat as the crowd below us moves in waves like a living sea, the air filled with music and shouts and laughter.
“ She’s a maneater, make you work hard, make you spend hard ,” Maple screams to me through her huge smile.
I shake my head and point back at her, indicating that she’s the maneater but Maple just laughs, her face aglow with joy and neon lights. She begins to pull my hands toward her and leans back in a sort of shimmy, then alternates and leans into me as we dance.
A man who’s also in the VIP section approaches us but Maple just shakes her head and does a “turn around” motion with her index finger. The man holds up his hands defensively and walks away, not without a noticeable lack of pep in his step.
“I love you,” I whisper-yell to Maple as we continue dancing.
“I love you more,” she replies, continuing to move in time to the music.