Sawyer sighed as he looked at his suit piled on the ground, knowing the risking of alcohol or something worse spilling on it and his allowance was running a little low so dry cleaning was not an option this week. A chill crept down his spine as he now stood in only his boxer briefs. Despite the sheer amount of bodies working up a sweat as they grind against each other, the Calloway house still managed to have a draft. He really wasn’t drunk enough to be giving into dares this early into the party, but there was something so intoxicating about being surround by people he didn’t know chanting his name. Plus, anything for a good story right. He slipped his thumbs into his waist band, about to fully commit when he saw a familiar face. “Hey!” He stood a little straighter, waving them over. “Want to add a great story to list of ones to tell tomorrow. Plus it’s early enough we might actually remember this one.”
The grandeur of the Calloway House presented a rich, if not slightly blurry, backdrop to Romeo’s heroic sprint up the spiral staircase. Initiation night had barely passed the two-hour mark and his collar was already stained with someone’s girlfriend’s lipstick. The someone in question? A Hastings member two years his senior, now dead-set on strangling Romeo with his own tie. “For fuck’s sake!” He shoved through a throng of partygoers, their irritated yelps lost on him as he flung open a door at random, slammed and locked it behind him. He had just let out a sigh of relief when, upon realizing he wasn’t alone, he jumped back so violently that the back of his head hit the doorframe with an audible clack. “Um, hello? Did you just fucking apparate in here or something? I could have died. That noise a second ago? That was the sound of my skull cracking. Thanks so much, I’m braindead now.”
Sitting on a windowsill as she sat watching the Calloway party from a distance, Maggie was taking slow sips of... well she didn’t know what was in her flask. It was jungle juice, with some kind of drug laced in it, given to her by a fellow Kincaid member. “I have a question,” she asked the person nearest to her, blue eyes watching a couple across the room who clearly had no qualms about PDA, her beaded dress, given to her by her grandmother, catching the low lights. “Do you think she’s trying to swallow him? I’ve seen her get lockjaw at least three times during their makeout, but her jaw just keeps opening wider and wider.” Maggie sighed, kicking her heels back and forth. “God, I wish someone would dementor-style suck my soul out like that. I think not having a soul would give me cool superpowers. One can only dream, right?”
She liked to make an entrance. That was obvious enough. Anita not so much walked around the intricately adorned Calloway house as she glided, lips pursed, smile nonexistent. She looked out at the sweaty bodies in front of her, wincing and rolling her eyes. Where the fuck were her friends? These people had no class, no sense of restraint. The party had just begun and already, the air was electric with chaos. Sure, she was usually the epicenter of drama, but. But, fuck. At least she waited until a of couple hours into a party to start fucking shit up. That was called class. And these people had never heard of it, apparently. Anita walked to the nearest table with alcohol, enclosing her fingers around the stem of some fruity cocktail. She took a sip. Gagged. "What the fuck is this?" She turned to the body directly next to her, opening her mouth before she could even register who it was. "I need something way stronger than this if I'm gonna have a good time tonight."
“God someone fucking.... stepped on my hand with a stiletto. Right after I was jostled to the ground by a particularly beefy dude. It’s fucking chaos in here. My nail even got ripped off. Glory and gore and all that,” Darby rambled, examining her bruised and mangled middle finger. “Gonna have to grow it back. You know what they say, grow the coke nail you wish to see in this world.” She brushed hr hair out of her face, taking a puff of a cigarette held on a long, slender cigarette holder. “Anyways,” she said, taking her short silver skirt for a spin, nearly flashing the person she was speaking to, grin on her face. “If you look closely you can totally see my left ass cheek, right? Take a picture for your mental wank bank. What should I get tramp stamped on there?”
It’s whispered about in hushed tones throughout the stone-lined hallways of Yates, its lore spread through the student body like a virus. Once you’ve heard of it, you can’t help but hope that a gold-embossed invitation will slip under your door, a confirmation that you’re in. You’ve made it.
Initiation night is the only night that the mysterious Calloway attic is opened up to non-members of the society. You wander up the rickety wooden staircase, unsure if you’re in the right place, before you hear the thud of music and the smell of spilled vodka. The Calloway attic is magical. Marble busts stand at attention next to drunk students, artwork more valuable than your car lining every inch of the creamy walls. It’s all so old and imposing, but the Calloway members are used to the decadence. Small, glowing lamps illuminate the space, shadows falling across faces in an almost eery manner, distorting faces.
New members are welcomed in on this night, and old members run the show. Current members wander the party all wearing crowns, proof of their superiority, their position as royalty of the party. If you belong to a society, you’re already invited. If you don’t, good luck scoring one of the rare invitations to Yate’s wildest party of the spring.
Give your invitation at the door as entry, and be welcomed into the crowded attic space. Marble busts mingle with drunken students, works of art worth more than your car hung on the walls presiding over the festivities. Calloway initiation is a dangerous night. On an antique table sits the “mystery bowl” of pills, filled to the brim with prescriptions and little round pills scored from dealers across campus. To become a full fledged Calloway member, you must stick your hand in, then hope for the best. But you would do anything to be accepted by them, right? A small price to pay for joining the most exclusive society on campus, gaining you a sure ticket to a successful future.
At a certain point on initiation night, the Calloway members slip out, leaving their party guests unattended, to conduct a secret ceremony whispered about but never revealed. Each new Calloway member must reveal a secret to their fellow members. Your secret isn’t deemed juicy enough? You’ll be told to repeat the process until your fellow members are satisfied. These secrets are safe with your friends, never to be revealed under threat of a curse that will befall any Calloway members who breaks the solemn oath of secrecy. You’re bonded for life. Secrets create trust, right? The Calloway secret exchange is like a blood oath.
Each year has a theme, chosen by the members. If you aren’t dressed appropriately, one of the bouncers will escort you out. This year’s theme? The Roaring 20′s. A fitting theme for the glamorous Calloway students. Themed cocktails and an open bar where no one checks ID keep the party flowing as students dance, covered in glitter and sweat. Flapper dresses, suits, cigarette butts burning, dropped into your whiskey glass. There are no cameras allowed in the Calloway attic. If you take out your phone it will be confiscated, a strict policy dating back to the founding of Calloway Society. Plus, you probably don’t want any proof laying around of your debaucherous night. Students having sex in full public view, lines of coke cut with Daddy’s credit card. America’s future leaders, ladies and gentlemen.
But there are rumors floating around campus that this year, the Calloway party won’t be as private as it usually is. The gossip bloggers are rumored to be society members, after all. How can you trust that your secrets will stay secret, your hookups lost in the drunken haze of the night, your fights buried and gone by next morning? You better watch your step this year. Secrets leave bloody footprints.
DETAILS
WHAT: A party on initiation night for Calloway House’s first year members. First year members have a variety of initiation tasks they must complete.
THEME: Roaring 20′s
WHERE: Calloway House, the attic. An exclusive space not open to other societies on any other night of the year.
WHO: All society members are invited.
WHEN: Friday, April 17th beginning at 4PM EST. Event ends on Monday, April 18th at 4PM.
Felix was sitting perched on a table, next to the infamous Calloway “drug bowl”, legs crossed and eating from a family sized bag of Skinny Pop. He was still dealing with the backlash from his tweet about seeing Dahlia naked, his fellow Calloway Society members shunning him all night as he wandered around the party in a drugged out, blissful haze from the two joints he had smoked. “Are you mad at me too? I get it, it was kind of fucked up. But I was high! And she has amazing tits, you have to agree,” he complained, popping more popcorn into his mouth. “Uncle! Uncle! Stop whipping me in the town square for all to see. Anyways, will you do me a favor? Will you smoke with ya boy?”
