City Secrets (4 page)

“Gross,” Heather said, getting up. “
That
was, like, a lame Lifetime movie. Go unpack your . . . ‘clothes,' get ready for dinner, and come back. I'll tell you all you need to know for dinner with the Foxes.”

 4 

I GRABBED MY MAKEUP CASE, FLAT IRON, and Heather's dress and tiptoed down the hallway to the guest bathroom. When I clicked the lock, the tightness in my chest eased a little. I hadn't wanted another run-in with Mrs. Fox so soon. I sat at the edge of the claw-foot bathtub, sighing and looking at the bathroom's decor. There were cream-colored hand towels that looked too expensive to use, a dish of tiny soaps that
definitely
had to be for decoration, and a glass cabinet filled with bath towels. Beside the cabinet, a wicker basket overflowed with body wash, shampoo, and conditioner with French names that I couldn't even begin to pronounce.

For a second I wished Paige were here. She'd know what to do and how to handle, well,
everything
. Paige,
a true Manhattan girl, had been to every type of soirée from the Lower East Side to SoHo and she'd know exactly what to do at a fancy dinner. I sighed and slid out of my clothes, picking up Heather's dress. I didn't want to be thinking about Paige or wishing she were here. I wanted her to apologize for our fight at the Homecoming dance.
But she'd tried that night and you didn't let her,
I told myself.

I slipped into Heather's dress and vowed to stop thinking about Paige.

I looked in the mirror and ran my hands over the blue fabric, smoothing the dress. My hair had started to get a little wavy, so I spent extra time flat-ironing it. It felt like I was getting ready for an important Canterwood dance or something. I hadn't put on much makeup this morning because I'd been in a hurry to get out of my dorm room . . . and away from Jacob, Eric, Callie, and all the discomfort at school.

I washed my face and started over with my makeup. I dotted concealer under my eyes, put on a light coat of dark brown mascara, dusted NARS blush across my cheeks, and applied a coat of Bonne Bell Lip Glam in Iced Pomegranate. It was pink, but not too bright, and had just a hint of sparkle. I didn't think Heather's parents would
be impressed if I showed up for dinner wearing lots of makeup.

I stayed in the bathroom as long as I could, taking twice the amount of time I usually spent on hair and makeup, but still looking the same as I always did.

Just go out there, already.
It wasn't time for dinner yet and maybe being around Heather would make me less nervous. I left the bathroom, put my clothes in a neat pile on top of my suitcase, and put on a pair of small, silver hoop earrings before wandering back to Heather's room.

“Hey,” I said as I walked inside.

Heather looked me up and down, nodding in approval. “That actually looks good on you.”

“Gee, thanks.” I sat at the end of her bed.

Heather had changed into a royal purple cocktail dress and had paired it with a gold drop necklace that warmed her skin tone. She walked over to one of the chairs facing the balcony and turned it toward me when she sat down.

“Just because I don't want you to embarrass me at dinner, I'm going to give you the rundown on how it's going to go, 'kay?” Heather asked.

I nodded. “Okay.” My voice was squeaky.

Heather took a breath and held up a manicured finger. “First, my dad has sworn he'll make it to dinner on time.
He knows my mom
hates
it when he's late. But guess what? He's, like, never home before ten. So Mom will already be in a bad mood before dinner starts because she's going to make us wait for him.”

“Maybe your dad will call and tell her he's going to be late,” I said.

Heather closed her eyes, rubbing her forehead. “That's not my dad's style. He comes home when he wants. Half the time Mom isn't here anyway. Whatever—it doesn't even matter.”

“Sorry,” I said quietly.

Heather glared at me. “Puh-lease. Waste your sympathy on someone who needs it. I'm just telling you this so you know what to expect.”

“Right. Totally.”

Heather played with her necklace. “So while we're waiting for Dad, my mom will tell endless stories about how she was a Canterwood legacy and how
I
should be doing as many social activities as I can besides riding. You know, to keep up the good family name.”

I wanted to ask Heather why her mom didn't care that her daughter was happy as a rider, but I didn't want Heather to stop dispensing advice.

“The last thing to know,” Heather said, “is that my
mom is going to . . .” She paused for a second. “She's going to, well, try to make you feel exactly like I did when you first came to Canterwood.”

I gulped and my palms started sweating.

“Let's go,” Heather said. “It's time for dinner with the Foxes.”

I followed Heather out of her bedroom and to the massive dining room. A giant chandelier hung above the table. Placemats, silverware, empty glasses, cloth napkins, and china plates were already on the table. Heather sat in one of the high-backed chairs. I took a seat next to her and looked down. There was a soup bowl, a small plate, and a dinner plate underneath. But beside the plate were more forks, knives, and spoons than I'd ever seen.

“Are these all for me?” I whispered to Heather, even though no one else was in the room.

Heather leaned over. “Start from the outside. Forks—salad, dinner, dessert.” She pointed to each one on the left side of my plate. “Soup, dinner spoon, and the knife is obvious.”

“I'm never going to remember that!” I tried to fight back the panicky feeling in my chest.

“Just watch me.”

Heather looked away when Mrs. Fox walked into the
dining room. She sat across from Heather and stared at both of us. I was sure her eyes lingered on my—well, Heather's—dress for a second, but she didn't say anything.

Heather reached for her napkin and smoothed it onto her lap. Copying her, I did the same.

I felt like I could hear my own heartbeat in the silence. I looked up in relief when one of the staff walked into the room. She wore a black skirt and a starched white shirt. Her dark brown hair was back in a tight bun.

“Mrs. Fox,” said the woman. “Would you like to begin with soup and salad?”

Mrs. Fox looked up at the woman and shook her head. “Are you not able to follow simple instructions, Helen?”

Helen seemed to shrink a little and she bowed her head.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Fox. I didn't want your dinner to be late and—”

Mrs. Fox waved her hand, the massive diamond ring on her finger sparkling in the light. “I don't want to hear excuses, nor do I have time for them. I specifically told you to begin serving when my husband arrives.”

Whhhoooa.

Mrs. Fox wasn't even talking to me and
I
was scared! I
almost couldn't believe what I'd just heard. I felt a rush of sympathy for Helen. I couldn't imagine speaking like that to anyone—ever!

Helen, red-faced, disappeared into the kitchen.

I shot a look at Heather and she stared at her empty soup bowl, her face pink. If that's how her mother acted when there was a guest in the house, I didn't even want to imagine how she treated the staff when no one was around.

“I hope it's now clear to everyone,” Mrs. Fox said, “that we'll be waiting for Mr. Fox. He's likely caught in traffic, but should be arriving soon.”

Heather and I didn't say anything. We kept our eyes down.

I shifted in my seat, knowing the sophisticated thing to do would be to engage Mrs. Fox in conversation about something like . . . art? Or opera? But I didn't know much (read: anything) about those. Or, at least, not much beyond van Gogh and
The Phantom of the Opera
—the movie version.

“Whatever scent's coming from the kitchen smells amazing,” I said. “What are we having?”

Mrs. Fox turned her gaze to me. She had the same blue eyes as Heather, but unlike her daughter's, the iciness never melted.

“I think we can wait to discuss dinner until Mr. Fox arrives,” Mrs. Fox said. I blushed and sank into my chair. She looked away from me and stared at the giant wall clock. It was almost seven. Mrs. Fox turned back to me and I wondered why I'd ever opened my mouth. I placed my elbow on the table, then whipped it off, hoping Mrs. Fox hadn't seen me.

“Do you plan on taking advantage of Canterwood's etiquette classes?” Mrs. Fox asked me. “When I attended the institution, I led etiquette courses by the time I was a sophomore.”

“Um.”

Argh!
I wanted to smack myself in the face for saying “um.” That was such a don't.

“I haven't taken any and I really haven't thought about it,” I said. “My schedule's full right now with riding and my other classes.”

Mrs. Fox raised both waxed eyebrows. “One shows quite a high level of confidence to think he or she is above etiquette courses.”

“Oh, no,” I said quickly. “I'm sure I do—I just haven't—”

“Mom,” Heather interrupted. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

The chill I felt from Mrs. Fox's gaze shifted to Heather.

“Fine, Heather,” Mrs. Fox said. “We haven't discussed Homecoming. I knew my daughter would win, but that
boy
who won—Jackson something—was he a worthy Prince?”

“It's Jacob, actually,” Heather said.

His name was enough to make me blink. Jacob, who wanted me back. Jacob, who had left me at the Sweetheart Soirée, dated my other best friend, Callie, broke up with her, and then asked me to try again with him. My mind couldn't stay focused on Heather's convo with her mom. I saw Jacob's green eyes, his light brown hair that sometimes flopped into his eyes, and the way he smiled at me.

I'd been beyond devastated when Jacob had broken up with me at the Sweetheart Soirée last February, even though we hadn't technically been BF/GF. Then Eric—sweet, horse-crazy Eric—had come into my life and made me the happiest I'd ever been. But like my relationship with Jacob, it had been destroyed. There was no going back, even if I'd wanted to be Eric's girlfriend again.

“Heather!” Mrs. Fox's sharp tone yanked me out of my thoughts.

“You must realize that being Homecoming Princess comes with a long list of responsibilities,” Mrs. Fox continued. “You now represent your eighth-grade class. When
you go back to school, everyone will look to you for how to dress, act, and behave.”

I glanced at Heather and knew the look on her face. She wanted to argue. Wanted to say she never wanted to be Homecoming anything and wasn't at all interested in her “responsibilities” as Princess. But instead Heather just nodded.

“I know, Mom,” Heather said.

Mrs. Fox glanced at the clock again. Seven fifteen. “I cannot imagine what's keeping your father,” she said. “Excuse me—I'm going to call the office.”

As Mrs. Fox left the room, Heather sighed. “This is only the beginning,” she said, looking over at me. “She's not going to reach my dad and she'll come back even more upset.”

“But you said this will probably be the only dinner we have with them,” I said. “At least there's that.”

“Yeeeah.”

I reached for my water glass, then changed my mind. What if I dropped it? I envisioned water spilling over the Martha Stewart–perfect table.

A door slammed and Heather and I both jumped. Mrs. Fox strode into the dining room and tipped her chin up as she sat down.

“Your father's secretary said he had a last-minute conference call and will be at least another hour,” Mrs. Fox said.

“Mom, can't we just start?” Heather asked. “Dad won't care.”

“Heather, don't be rude,” Mrs. Fox said. “An hour isn't that long of a wait.”

She looked at me and I squeezed my hands together under the table.

“So, Sasha, you're a new . . .
friend
of my daughter's.”