It was a Friday night in 2007, there was a party at the Purple House and Amy was in her apartment getting ready.
She had moved off campus after sophomore year to Allston, a student neighborhood filled with battered apartment buildings and houses, hosting constantly changing configurations of students as they moved every year. On weekends it was chaotic no matter the season, with house parties, loud drunk students everywhere.
Amy finished her dark eyeliner, and examined her outfit in the mirror. Denim skirt, ripped lingerie tights, a black halter top showing a lot of boob, chuck taylors. Everything except for the chucks had come from the dollar a pound pile at the Garment District in Cambridge. Her mother had bought her the chucks before she left Los Angeles. Her mother definitely would not approve of the booby halter top, but her mother wasn’t there.
She grabbed a black hoodie, her bike helmet and purse and was out the door. Her bike was locked to the railing with about six other bikes, she unlocked it and carried it down the stairs and set off.
The Purple House was only a five minute ride away, through the streets of Allston. It was only 9pm, but sounds of college parties seemed to be coming from every other building she rode by. The buildings were familiar, she had definitely been to parties in most of them during her freshman and sophomore years.