23. Aria
23
ARIA
A fter Professor Watkins’ revelations, celebrating was the last thing on my mind. The party was tradition, though. Officially known as the Study Sessions, it was always held on the first day that A-level exam prep officially began. The reason it was held on that particular day, other than to mark the beginning of our study period and upcoming exams, was because day two of study prep always began after lunch, so we had the morning to sleep off our hangovers. As it was a school tradition, the staff generally turned a blind eye to any shenanigans, as long as the students didn’t go completely wild.
This year, the party was being held next to the lake where our school water events took place. A large marquee had been set up by the spectator stands with refreshments, seating, and a temporary dance floor complete with a DJ booth. Right now, though, most of the students seemed to be milling about on the grass, enjoying the last rays of the sun before it got dark.
I picked my way down the path to the lake shore, tucking my hair behind my ear to stop the strands from tickling my face in the soft breeze. A bottle of raspberry vodka dangled from my fingers—my contribution to tonight’s event. After what my professor had told me earlier, all I wanted to do was to drink until I forgot all about towers and secret societies and lies, upon lies, upon lies.
Taking a seat on the grass, I leaned back on my elbows and tilted my head to the sky, watching as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. I had no idea who was telling the truth. Tristan trusted his grandfather, that much was clear. It could be that Professor Watkins was lying, trying to frame himself in a good light. But why would he?
“I don’t want to have to talk to fucking Tristan,” I muttered to myself, uncapping the vodka and gulping down a generous mouthful. I did my best to breathe through the sudden coughing fit. Ugh. That was stronger than I thought it would be. Raspberry-flavoured petrol. Did people really drink this stuff without a mixer?
Wiping my mouth and capping the bottle again, I rose to my feet and followed the crowd of students heading into the marquee. My senses were immediately assaulted by a wall of noise and smells and heat. The music from the DJ booth, the groups dancing and drinking and shouting over the sounds coming from the speakers, the popcorn and candy floss machines churning out endless salted and sweet offerings, and draped from the ceiling, the glow of the fairy lights cocooning us all inside the billowing canvas.
It was pretty, and I wished I was in the mood to enjoy it. Threading my way through the crowds, I stopped in front of the popcorn machine. There was a stack of recyclable plastic drinking cups next to it, which I assumed were meant for us to use for the popcorn. When I’d filled one of the cups with warm, salted popcorn, I made my way over to the side of the tent, away from the dance floor, placing my overflowing cup on one of the tiny plastic tables that were dotted around the edges of the marquee.
Licking my lips to remove the salt after a large mouthful of popcorn, I debated whether to risk another swig from my bottle of vodka to quench my thirst.
If I was honest with myself, quenching my thirst wasn’t the reason I’d brought the vodka with me. In truth, I wanted to forget my worries and try to enjoy the party, but maybe I should pace myself.
Thankfully, the decision was made for me.
“Aria! There you are.” Gracelyn and Samira appeared on either side of me. Gracelyn slid her arm through mine while Samira liberated the bottle from my grip, taking a long swig. She immediately began coughing and choking, frantically wiping at her mouth.
“What the fucking fuck, Aria? Where did you get this? This is not Smirnoff.”
“Gimme.” Gracelyn held out her hand, and when Samira gave her the bottle with a warning look, she took a small, cautious sip. “Ugh! No, I agree with Mira. Did you get this from the dodgy shop by Nottswood train station?”
I had, actually.
“No! Okay, yes. I didn’t know there was anything wrong with it.”
“Don’t buy from there. They sell bootleg shit,” Grace advised, tipping the bottle to her lips again.
“And you’re still drinking it…why?”
“To get drunk.” She shrugged, handing the bottle to her girlfriend, who stared at it for a second before also shrugging and drinking from it.
My fingers curled around the fake Smirnoff. “Give it to me. I need to get drunk more than you two do.”
I meant those words.
Thankfully, the maybe-vodka worked its magic. Between the three of us, we drained the bottle, and everything became a blur.