Homecoming Masquerade, The (4 page)

O
n the other side of the
ballroom Kim Renwick watched as the new girl stepped away from the bar, a
goblet of wine in her hand.

“What the hell is going on
tonight?” Kim said.

She was surrounded by groupies
who were more than eager to tell her everything she wanted to hear. But to this
question, none of them had an answer. Pauline Wabash, Amy Thayer, Rosalyn
Smith, and Andrea Peterson, four girls Kim allowed to hang on her like a cloud
of dirt, four daughters of families who pledged their loyalty to Kim’s parents
many years ago, and not a one of them knew what was going on.

Useless. All of them, useless.
The girls, the lawyers, the consultants, the private investigators, the accountants,
the stylists, the designers, the models, hell, even the student interns. More
than a decade of planning to get Kim into the ballroom as one of three girls
wearing black. Useless!

Not four girls wearing black.
Kim was to be one of three, dammit. Kim, the winner. Mary, the girl who only
wanted to come in second. Samantha, the girl so desperate for attention she’d
enter the contest knowing she would probably die in the end.

And then
she
showed up.
Nicky Bloom. The name rang in Kim’s ears and bounced off her tongue. She
whispered it to herself over and over again, listening to the words clatter
like a rumbling train.
Nicky Bloom Nicky Bloom Nicky Bloom Nicky Bloom Nicky
Bloom.
What in God’s name was Nicky Bloom doing? Who just walks into the
Homecoming ball at Thorndike Academy, having been at school barely two weeks,
knowing no one at all, and wears a black dress?

“Who does that?” Kim said. “Who
does she think she is? Who does she know?”

“She doesn’t know anybody,” said
Pauline. “Her family just moved to DC this summer.”

“She knows someone,” said Kim.
“It’s a conspiracy. A goddamned conspiracy.”

“What a stupid bitch,” said
Andrea.

The other girls giggled but Kim
remained solemn. It would be a comfort to think that Nicky Bloom was some crazy
renegade who didn’t know what she was doing, but that wasn’t the case. Kim
could tell from that little confrontation in the center of the ballroom. Nicky
had looked Kim in the eyes without any fear and said Fuck You. It was the way
she said it—there was no bluff in her voice at all. She was inviting Kim to
retaliate.

Nobody did that to Kim. Nobody
did that to any of the Renwicks, which was precisely why Kim had lost her
temper, making a fool of herself in the process.

Nicky Bloom totally played her.
She caught Kim by surprise and made her look weak in front of everyone. Then
she walked away, knowing full well there was nothing Kim could do about it.

And the way she walked. She
moved with the sort of regal confidence that the mothers of every girl at this
party tried to teach their daughters. It was something you either had or you
didn’t. You can train a girl to glide across the floor with a book on her head,
but you can’t train her to move the way Nicky Bloom did. That girl walked like
a winner, and people noticed.

Nicky was wearing a vintage
Francesco dress, the sort that was all over the Paris runway in the late
sixties. It was the kind of look Kim wanted for herself. Vintage. Classy.

The god-damned stylists had told
her not to do it.

“You’re not a throwback,
Honey,”
her stylist had said.
“You’re cutting edge.”

And while it was undeniable that
Kim looked outstanding in her ultra-modern see-through print, she couldn’t help
but wonder if the immortals would prefer the more classic style of Nicky’s
outfit. Especially Sergio. Tonight was the only chance any of them got to be in
front of Sergio. If anyone at the party sensed that Sergio had taken a liking
to Nicky rather than Kim....forget it.

The more Kim looked at her, the
angrier she became. Nicky had a weathered look about her that matched her
style. Freckles on her arms, a cream-colored sheen to her legs, a hardness to
her body.

Whereas Kim was the product of a
daily regimen at the gym, Nicky looked more like a girl who liked to play
outdoors. She looked rugged. She looked real.

No, Nicky Bloom wasn’t a stupid
bitch at all. She was just as prepared for this contest as Kim. She’d been
preparing for it for years, in secret. She was a ringer brought in specifically
to ruin Kim’s night and her presence had changed everything.

 “This new girl is here to
defeat me,” Kim said. “Someone powerful is behind this. Someone who wants to
take me down. But who?”

“Yeah, who?” Andrea echoed.

Who?
was a silly
question, practically rhetorical. Everybody in Washington wanted to take down
the Renwicks. It came with the territory. They were the top of the pyramid, at
least among the humans. That position made them a target, but it was nothing
the family couldn’t handle. On the contrary, the reason the Renwicks were on
top was because everyone knew not to mess with them.

Kim’s parents began scouting out
potential competitors fifteen years ago, when Kim and the other girls now
standing in this ballroom attended the high-end preschools of the world. By the
time Kim was in fifth grade, her parents had the names of twenty girls on a
list. The prettiest, wealthiest little girls in the world, girls who might land
a spot at Thorndike and think they were worthy of wearing black to Homecoming.
They were girls who fit the profile. The Renwicks went down the list, one by
one, and made sure anyone who had a real shot at beating Kim chose not to
enter. They arranged ambassadorships, cabinet posts, and golden parachutes for
the parents who agreed. For those who didn’t, they arranged for a knock on their
door from the IRS, or a few pictures of naked children on their hard drive.

“Word is there’s something going
on with Nicky and Ryan,” said Amy.

“Ryan Jenson?” said Kim.

Amy nodded.

“How come I didn’t know this?”
said Kim.

“Because until just now Nicky
was the new girl who wore cotton slacks and denim shirts and nobody cared,”
said Amy.

“And Ryan ceased being somebody
a long time ago,” Pauline added.

Of course.
Of course Ryan
Jenson was involved. If anyone at the school had an axe to grind with Kim it
was Ryan. Fortunately, he was a problem easily resolved. Kim had been holding
the goods over Ryan’s head since freshman year. She’d have to make sure she got
a dance with Ryan tonight so they could have a little chat.

“What time is it?” Kim said,
having neither a watch nor a cell phone to check. Dangling gold earrings and a
matching pendant were the only accessories her stylist had allowed.

Rosalyn’s outfit included a
watch precisely so she could answer this question for Kim. “Eight fifty eight,”
she said. “Dancing begins in two minutes,” she added, as if any of them needed
a reminder of the night’s agenda.

Kim’s mind was spinning now.
Nicky Bloom, Ryan Jenson, the dance, the year ahead – she would have her dad
get to work on Nicky’s whole family the minute the dance was over, but even
that wasn’t soon enough. Nicky Bloom was already here. The Homecoming
Masquerade had started. Sergio would come out later to dance with the girls
wearing black. Somehow, she needed to ensure that Sergio’s first impression of
Nicky Bloom was a poor one.

“Rosalyn, you’re done drinking
for awhile,” Kim said. “Your next glass of wine won’t be until ten o’clock.”

“How come?” Rosalyn asked, or
rather, whined.

“I’ll explain later,” Kim said,
now looking around the room at all the guys. The scheme brewing in her mind
required help from a boy. It was too obvious a ploy to have Rosalyn act alone.
Somehow, the incident she now imagined needed to look like it was Nicky’s
fault.

Who among the guys would be most
eager to help?

Her eyes stopped at Art
Tremblay, the former pipsqueak who had turned into quite the little he-man. Art
Tremblay, with his protein shakes and three-a-day workouts....the loser had
always been desperate to break into the most popular tier at school. He would
love the opportunity to do Kim a favor.

 “We don’t want to act too soon,
but we’ll need to get moving before ten thirty to make sure we nail her before
Sergio comes out,” Kim said.

“What are we going to do?”
Rosalyn asked.

“We’re going to watch as Nicky
Bloom accidently spills a glass of wine all over her vintage Francesco dress.”

T
he clock struck nine and the
musicians on the stage raised their bows. A slow-moving, already drunken muddle
of students began to form itself into two lines, one for guys and one for girls.
Nicky took her place on the far end of the line, finding a table against the
wall on which to set her wine goblet. When everyone was in place, the orchestra
began the first notes of a Beethoven minuet. The two lines approached one
another to break into couples and the formal dance began.

As was the case with everything
at Thorndike, ritual and tradition dictated all facets of Homecoming. The dance
always opened with a Beethoven Minuet. On this night, it was from his String
Trio in E flat. For the first two dances, everyone was on the floor. It wasn’t
until the third dance that people were allowed to sit out. When they did sit
out, they were expected to congregate at the bar and give generously to the tip
jar as they drank.

Polite conversation with one’s
partner was allowed, but Nicky’s first dance partner, a tall, burly fellow named
Vince Weir, had nothing to say on their first tour of the ballroom. Nicky took
advantage of his silence to get a good look at the place. She and Jill were the
first Network operatives to get inside Renata’s mansion. Although a raid on the
mansion was not planned anytime in the immediate future, the higher-ups in the
Network would want a report on the place to keep on file. Nicky took careful
mental notes of what she saw.

The ballroom, like the outside
of the mansion, had a Greco-Roman flair to it. Marble pillars on the edges
matched the enormous columns of the front entrance. Large mahogany doors lined
the walls, leading to who knew where. Maybe the mansion beyond those doors was
a more livable space of human-sized proportions. Maybe there was an alternate
entrance that allowed Renata to skip this massive ballroom every time she came
home.

Or maybe there wasn’t. Maybe
Renata liked to come home every morning to visual proof that she was among the
wealthiest people on earth. There certainly was enough opulence on display to
remind her. The walls, the floor, the molding, the dual staircase in the back–
all were made of shiny white marble. Nooks with life-sized statues filled the
walls, their edges lined with gold. High on the walls sat a collection of
paintings easily worth millions, and these weren’t even the most prized pieces
in the collection. Somewhere behind one of those mahogany doors was a private
art gallery, with Picassos, Rembrandts, Van Goghs and others, the greatest
works of art in all human history, stolen away from humanity to be viewed only
by those Renata deemed worthy to see them.

Nicky’s dance partner mumbled
something.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch
that,” Nicky said.

“I said, wow, right out of the
gate I get a girl wearing black.”

Nicky smiled at him.

“Nicky, right?” he said.

She nodded. Pretending to know
nothing about him, she asked for his name.

“Vince,” he said.

Vince Weir, only child of a
Vegas real estate tycoon with the same name.
The words from the briefing
book rang in Nicky’s mind. She imagined them spoken in Jill’s quiet voice.
Participated
in junior football, basketball, and wrestling leagues growing up, now a member
of Thorndike’s boxing club. Has a ‘friends with benefits’ sort of understanding
with Mattie Dupree, even though she’d like something more.

It was that last part that was
of the most interest to Nicky. According to Jill, Mattie was desperate for
Vince to treat her like a real girlfriend, rather than a makeout partner, and
was known to follow Vince around like a little puppy. If they could get Vince
to attend Nicky’s after-party, then Mattie would come along as well.

“It’s nice to meet you, Vince,”
Nicky said. “Tell me something about yourself.”

“Tell you something? Like what?”

“Whatever comes to mind.”

“I’m in the boxing club,” he
said, or rather, boasted.

Nicky gave his bicep a friendly
squeeze. “I’m not surprised,” she said.

Despite his enormous stature,
Vince was graceful on his feet, and when they changed direction and spun at the
end of a stanza, Nicky sensed him suck in his stomach and flex his chest
muscles.

“I didn’t expect you to be
wearing black tonight,” Vince said.

“I didn’t want anyone to expect
it,” said Nicky.

“You’re pretty bold for someone
who squeezed into a spot left behind by a dead girl.”

There was a phony bravado in
Vince’s voice. Behind his mask, Nicky saw his eyes darting around, as if scared
to look at her face.

“Some things are just meant to
be,” Nicky said. “I was meant to be here tonight, wearing black. Maybe you were
meant to dance with me.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Vince. “Did
you know anything about your competitors before you just showed up in black? Do
you know how connected Kim’s father is?”

“I know how much everyone in
town hates him, just like we all hate his daughter.”

Vince raised his eyebrows.

“You know it’s true,” Nicky
said. “Kim has everyone so scared that they won’t say a mean word about her,
but I know you hate her. I know you’d love to see someone else win. That’s why
I entered.”

“But none of us even know who
you are. What do your parents do?”

“My dad’s good at investing,”
Nicky said, following her script. “And I’m tired of talking about myself. I
want to hear more about your boxing club.”

“Don’t you know about the boxing
club?” Vince asked, in the tone of voice one might use when speaking with a
child. This was a guy who grew up being a bully and didn’t know how to interact
with people any other way.

“I know a few things,” Nicky
said, “but I want to hear an actual boxer tell me all about it.”

Not one to let an invitation to
brag go to waste, Vince spent the remainder of the dance telling Nicky about
the history of the boxing club at Thorndike, how it had become a way for the
athletes at the school to participate in Coronation through their “Brawl in the
Fall” fundraiser, how Vince had earned the right to be one of the fighters in
the brawl.

Nicky listened intently to every
word, all the while pulling herself closer to Vince, acting the part of the girl
infatuated with the jock.

“If you were smart, you’d bet on
me at Brawl in the Fall,” he added. “A lot of people are picking Brian to win,
just because he’s big. But I’ll tell you something. Brian’s slow and kind of
soft. I expect to win that event.”

The Network already had a plan
for that event, and it didn’t involve Vince at all. But Vince didn’t need to
know that.

“Maybe I already know this about
you, and I expect you to win too,” Nicky said, quietly. He was too tall for her
to whisper in his ear, so she pulled in close and allowed her breath to tickle
his neck. “Maybe I positioned myself in line so I would have the first dance
with you. Maybe I thought you were someone I should get to know.”

As they continued the dance,
Nicky pressed her body right up to Vince’s. She allowed her right hand to roam
up and down his back, climbing as high as his neck where her fingers toyed with
his hair. When the music began to slow, Nicky slid her hand all the way down
Vince’s back. On the final note, she pressed her body right up against his, and
gave his butt a friendly squeeze.

The music stopped. Vince had a
goofy grin on his face.

“Aren’t you supposed to bow at
me?” Nicky said.

“Oh...yeah,” said Vince.

Totally flustered, he leaned
forward in a clumsy, awkward motion.

Nicky knew why he was having
trouble with a simple bow. She had felt it when they squeezed close together.

And she checked the next item
off her to-do list. Vince Weir was now officially curious about Nicky Bloom.

The musicians went straight into
the Viennese Waltz and Nicky turned to her new partner, a broad-chested boy
with thick brown hair and dark, penetrating eyes. With those eyes, he looked at
Nicky like a connoisseur checking out a work of art. The edges of his mask hid
under the curtain of his hair, as if lost in the shadows, and this effect only
heightened the beauty of his eyes.

“Hello, Ryan,” she said.

“Hello, Nicky. Shall we dance?”