Jet Set (15 page)

“H
urry up! You're gonna make us late!” snapped Antigone, who now insisted I call her Tiggy, which was a friendship promotion, of sorts. I had introduced the Diamonds formally to Rioko, who had until that point been invisible Casper style to them, save for the fiddle. But Tiggy, Iman, and Victoria took to Rioko's funny observational candor (“Moabi has short fingers like mozzarella sticks”) and were happy to include her on our foray into Geneva to shop. The Winter Ball was only two weeks away, and we didn't have anything to wear.
Unluckily for me, the Saturday pilgrimage would probably not yield a thing. My body had never been in better shape, thanks to countless hours on the courts, but one thing not in good shape? My finances. I had spent almost the last of my stipend and was worried that the girls would be slappin' down the plastic while I opened my wallet and had moths fly out of it. Oh well. Maybe I could rent something.

When Tiggy's driver pulled over on the main shopping street in Geneva, Rue du Rhône, my eyes popped out of my head. Perfectly coiffed elegant women wandered by in five-inch heels, and uniformed schoolchildren hopped into chauffeur-driven cars.

“First stop: Valentino!” pronounced Antigone. “It's where I got my gown last year, and I am praying they have the right threads again.”

The next few hours were a montage of feathers, sequins, silks, and velvets. Prada, Chanel, Carolina Herrera, Armani, Lanvin, Celine, Vuitton, Fendi—the works. I was practically dizzy. In each boutique, salespeople fell over one another to whisk us into a grand dressing room, serve us Perrier with lemon wedges, and show us the “perfect” gown for our ball. At one point, as Victoria was twirling in a purple chiffon frock, I heard two salesgirls whisper, “My favorite time of year—all those spoiled Van Pelt kids come cruising in for their ball with Daddy's credit cards!” They shared a squeal with dollar signs in their eyes just thinking of the commission they'd rack up.

And they did. Iman was torn between two gowns—one silver beaded gown at Prada and one luminous white one at J. Mendel—so she bought both.

Tiggy just loved a black velvet gown by Olivier Theyskens and snapped it up, along with not one, not two, but three pairs of matching high heels and evening bags for each. While Rioko was deciding between a Dior yellow one-shoulder, floor-length sweeping gown and an Oscar de la Renta pink confection, I decided to quickly run out and get some air. I'd spent the last five hours trying on gowns I knew I could never afford, and frankly the oohing and aahing over the other girls had taken its toll.

I don't think the girls realized that I couldn't afford the dresses, even though they'd seen the sad shape of my closet. I think they lived in such a bubble they had no idea other people weren't multimillionaires. I wasn't hiding it—I never pretended that I was in the market for a gown at one of the fancy stores—but I also didn't say outright, “I couldn't afford even a button at these places.” I knew that it would just make them uncomfortable, and I didn't want to be in that sort of position myself.

I walked outside into the brisk twilight air and drank in the Geneva hills, the winding streets covered in charming cobblestones, dotted with perfect green trees, and glistening beneath the now electric blue sky. Around the corner, I saw a small gilded sign that read
EMMELINE'S CLOSET
.

It was a teeny-tiny shop—no bigger than my walk-in closet at Van Pelt, with a cool-looking thirtysomething woman reading a
magazine at the counter. A little bell chimed as I opened the door.

“Bonjour!”
she said as I surveyed the funky store, which had hot-pink carpet and leopard walls. “Welcome to the only vintage store in Geneva!”

“This is so cool!” I gushed, looking at the racks of old McQueen and Galliano. The prices were one tenth of what my friends were spending and when I spied a bin marked
SOLDE
(which meant “sale”), I suspected I might have hit the jackpot.

“All eighty percent off!” said the woman as I dug around in the bin, retrieving the most stunning crimson strapless, pleated Galliano dress. I looked at the price: one hundred Euros.

The saleswoman surveyed my find. “The button is broken so I give it to you for fifty!” she pronounced. I was floored. Fifty bucks? Okay, maybe a little more with the exchange rate, but jeez! Talk about a
steal
! That was the fastest money I'd ever parted with. She wrapped it with as much care as she would have if she'd sold me a five-thousand-euro dress.

When I reappeared in the Oscar store, the girls were stunned to see me with a bag.

“No way! You found a dress?” Iman squealed. “Lemme see!”

I was nervous about revealing the secondhand status but unzipped the garment bag anyway.

“
Chic
. I looove it!” Tiggy cried. “Galliano? So hot.”

“It's so sexy yet classic,” Rioko chimed in.

“It's very cool that you would do something different,” said Iman.

“Well…” I was getting ready to tell them that I didn't have any money to spend on clothes, but before I could Victoria interrupted.

“
Love
it,” Victoria gushed.

Maybe they knew I didn't have dough and didn't care. Or maybe they thought I wasn't that into clothes. It didn't matter. Either way I was just psyched to get a cool dress that everyone liked. We all left with garment bags over our shoulders, all the others spending more than a hundred times what I had. Amazing.

When we got back to school I was so pooped from our expedition I barely remembered dinner with Antony. He came by to scoop me up and I was flopped on my bed.

“You tired from your clothing orgy, my dear?” he said, sitting on my bed and stroking my hair.

“Oh, I got this great Galliano dress—”

“Nice!”

“It was at this cool vintage store, Emmeline's—”

“Ha! You kill me!
Vintage!
You're so funny. As if.” He patted my head and leaned in to kiss me.

His lips were soft, and while I usually felt a fluttering in my chest when we kissed, I was distracted, wondering why he thought that was so funny. Maybe people in Europe weren't as into vintage? Hmm.

Antony gently guided me back so that I was lying down. We continued kissing, and it started to get more intense. I hoped
Antony wasn't expecting anything. I mean, I was definitely not going to have sex with him. Not in the near future, anyway. Call me a prude, but I had seen too many girls on the base go too far only to regret it.

Antony gently started to slide his hand up my skirt and I immediately sat up as if the bed was on fire.

“What?” he whispered.

“Um, not ready for that yet,” I said.

“Really?” he said.

“Yes, can we just keep with the kissing?”

He looked at me and I could swear for a second he was about to protest, get mad, storm away, but suddenly his face changed and he smiled.

“Of course, darling.”

He leaned in and kissed me for another three seconds before pulling away.

“You seem tired from all of your shopping. I think I'll leave you be now,” he said, standing up.

This was abrupt. “Um, okay,” I said, kind of embarrassed. “Is it because…”

“No, no,” he said quickly, tucking his shirt in. “I just think you should rest, and I need to study.”

“What about dinner?”

“Oh, um, I'm not really hungry, are you?” he asked, pushing the hair out of his eyes.

Yes. Very. “No, not really.”

“Great, then see you later,” he said quickly, and was out of the door in two seconds flat.

I was stunned. What had just happened? I wished I had someone to talk to about it, but I knew Rioko was playing violin at the headmistress's cocktail party tonight and I really didn't want to reveal my prudishness to the Diamonds. I clicked on my computer and was forlorn to see there was nothing from Friend.

I had really come to rely on this cyber person with whom I could be completely candid. I didn't expect an answer but a second later there was a response.

Yay!

I waited and the response came.

I couldn't type fast enough.

It seemed like an eternity before Friend answered. I had called and ordered room service (chopped sirloin with Roquefort cheese and potatoes au gratin) and finished my math homework before Friend got back to me.

Okay, thanks, Friend. I waited half an hour for you to be cryptic?

I waited and waited for a response. I was tired, so instead of waiting I quickly typed another response.

I gulped down my food and got in my cozy bed. I lay back, worrying about the crack-of-dawn tennis practice, my strange interaction with Antony, and Friend's distance. Finally I decided to focus on the positive. I was definitely happy the term was winding down, and now, with my vintage gown, I felt that after
tennis and final papers and exams I could finally enjoy the ball with my new sort-of friends and go out of the semester with a bang. Everything would go well, I told myself. I just hoped Sofia wouldn't be up to any of her old games.

O
liver was friendlier at practice the next morning. He said hello, and when I rallied him, he even threw out a few “Nice shots.” But he didn't acknowledge the letter I wrote him, and he was still kind of distant. I decided the only way to react was to be normal and hope that whatever was going on would work itself out.

After sweating like a pig, and enduring a grueling practice where Coach Sachs warned us every five seconds how we were lousy compared to the kids at Gagosian, we were released. My
arms were sore from the massive amount of lobs and overheads I'd had to do. Coach thought they were my weakness, so he kept firing balls at me until my arm was about to snap off. I don't think he had any interest in my long-term physical well-being. As long as I played well for him, it was okay if in ten years I got arthritis or had to have all of my joints replaced.

I showered in the locker room, then started to head to class. As I turned down the path, I nestled into my coat. It was starting to get colder, and pretty soon practices would be moved indoors. It was high time. There had been snowflakes several days the week before and promises of big snowstorms this weekend. We had begged to at least do the playing inside, offering to run laps outside, but Coach Sachs thought that it made us tougher to practice in this frigid weather. I personally thought it was dangerous. Did he want us to be injured for the big game? I was arguing with him in my mind, not paying attention to anything else, when suddenly I realized that I was almost face-to-face with Sofia.

We both stopped and stared at each other. She was wearing all black, and even her face looked dark and sinister. I felt like I was in a horror movie and was the stupid one who said “I'll go check on Bobby” when everyone else knew that would mean I was the next to get the ax in my head.

“Hey, Sofia,” I said. I felt my voice crack.

She glared at me. “You stupid girl. You are going to pay for what you did to me.”

My stomach dropped. Like, to China.

“What do you mean?”

“You just have to watch your back. You're not all innocent as you pretend to be. I know it, but do your new best friends know it? Do they know the truth about you?”

Suddenly I straightened my posture. My mother had always told me to stand up straight, so I knew she would be thrilled that I was finally taking her advice. I hoped it made me look more confident. But it didn't squelch the fear that Sofia had set in me.

“If you say anything about
Gab!
it will only get you in trouble also,” I said.

“Will it?” she asked, cocking her head to the side.

“Of course,” I said with fake confidence.

She stared at me again. “Do you think they'll believe a scholarship student? You need the money more than me. Do your friends even know you're a scholarship student? What would they think?”

I was prepared for this. Of course I didn't want it broadcast, but I couldn't let that stop me from doing the right thing. That would be pathetic.

“Everyone I care about knows,” I lied. Gulp. I hoped she would buy that.

“See, Lucy,” she said, eyes glistening, “I'm smarter than you, I'm more sophisticated than you, and I have nothing to lose.”

She quickly brushed past me and walked up the hill. I wished I had some comeback, wished there was something I could say to defend myself, but of course nothing came. To tell the truth, I
was
scared of her. And she was more sophisticated than me, at least in terms of doing evil deeds. Sorry, I'm not a criminal mastermind! I don't think that way.

A chilly breeze whipped across my face and then curled down my spine. What did Sofia have planned? Would it be soon? Or would I be skiing in France in twenty years and find her on the mountaintop waiting to push me over? How would I know? I just had to brace myself.