Jet Set (3 page)

I
awoke to the sound of a violin. As my eyes fluttered open in a sublime, warm, cozy state of peace, I realized that the strings I heard were from a
live
violin. I'd forgotten that on my tour yesterday one of the things I'd learned was that violin prodigy Rioko Watanabe from Kyoto was in residence next door, complete (natch) with a million-dollar Stradivarius for performances that Daddy had bought her at auction at Doyle New York.

As I lay there drinking in my view of the Swiss Alps and listening to the rich sounds of Rioko's music, I realized how lucky I
was. “This is a wonderful opportunity for you,” my mother had said. “Even with the scholarship, it's still costing us an arm and a leg to get you there and back, so don't mess it up,” my dad had said. Everyone was rooting for me. I had to try and do my best and appreciate every moment.

I glanced down on the floor where the magazine had fallen. The page was open to a photograph I hadn't seen the previous night. I didn't have to read the caption to recognize who it was: Prince Oliver, the young second cousin of William and Harry who was really like their brother. He was also the Duke of Wickham and had been launched into the media when he suddenly had become a star tennis player last season. The world not only took notice but also embraced him—his movie-star looks and down-to-earth vibe (there were photos of him walking his golden retriever down a London street, playing in the field with his baby niece, etc.) had catapulted him onto the must-watch royal lists, along with the Monaco children and the Swedish princesses.

After gazing at the photo of him cheering on his father in a polo game in the spread, I was shocked to read the caption:
Prince Oliver leaves Bath next week to return to Van Pelt.
No wonder the school had such strict privacy rules. But I could tell already that no one at Van Pelt would dare gossip to the royal chasers. These students didn't need the money, first off, and second, that would just be sooo…beneath them. This was a class-act kind of establishment.

I turned the page, hoping for more glimpses of Oliver, but instead found another human of cinema-caliber looks: Angelina de Brulen. Her moon-shaped face was accented by high cheekbones and ice blue eyes. In the photograph she wore a diamond tiara and white gown. She was listed in the caption as the Viscountess of Luxembourg. I wasn't even quite sure what that title was, but as I'd learned in the previous twenty-four hours, there's some kind of royal family for every infinitesimal strip of land. And that family sends its children to Van Pelt.

 

After I finally hauled my limp bod out of that dangerously comfortable bed, I showered in my marble bathroom (which was nicer than the bathrooms of any hotel I'd ever stayed in) and got dressed with the excited, nervous energy only a new student can feel. What lay outside my door was a mystery, and until I got on those tennis courts, I knew my racing heart would not cease.

I opened the door and walked to the room next to mine. A small plaque read
SOFIA GLENN
. I knocked, and her Elizabethan accent chirped a friendly “Come in!”

Her room looked cut and pasted from a château but still had hip touches—framed vintage rock-and-roll posters, a basket with piles of designer sunglasses, and an open closet filled with amazing threads (even if they were way too skimpy and bright for my taste).

“Lucy, dear!” she exclaimed, looking at my reflection as she held two potential outfits up to her skinny, toned body in a full-length gilt-framed mirror.

“Thanks for the mags. You're right, they are like facebooks for the school….”

“Did you see that Angelina de Brulen?” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Yes. She's gorgeous. Wait, does she go here?”

“Yes. But just for a semester. Van Pelt has a Swiss semester program where you can sign up for a term here. Some students use it as an audition to see if they like it before they commit. That way if they can't handle it and pull out, it doesn't look like they are dropouts. Hopefully Miss Angelina will stay.”

“You want her to stay?” I wondered.

“Oh, you know,” she said coyly. “It's just so much more fun having a big high-profile heiress around. It's like every day is the Oscars. Red carpets all around.”

I could see how having the pages of those magazines pop to life in the hallways or cafeteria would make for some good people watching. Which even non-scenesters like me could appreciate.

“Come on, let's go get our class schedules.” Phew. Actual classes and stuff to do beyond gaping at our stellar constellation of famous classmates! I could see how all the glamour could be a distraction to some. But not me. I would be 100 percent focused.

Sofia guided me through the main courtyard into a small building with marble pillars. A discreet gold sign in French told me it was the registrar's office. On the way we saw dozens of chicly clad students greeting one another, obviously happy to be reunited after a summer of yachting and sunbathing in far-flung exotic
locales. I envied the ease with which they laughed and talked, and couldn't wait until I felt fully immersed and able to do the same with a few more friends of my own.

The office had plush wall-to-wall carpeting and French antiques, enormous dark wood pieces behind which sat stern-looking Frenchwomen. They were all polished and chic in that European way, with very tailored suits and hair swept back neatly from their faces, but I kind of wished one of them would crack a smile. Sofia got her registration packet and plopped down on the settee to read through her class schedule. After I said my name, the woman behind the desk told me to wait a minute and disappeared into a back room. Seconds later, she reappeared and motioned for me to follow her. I shot Sofia a nervous look, but she mouthed
Go for it
so I followed the lady, who led me into an office with a middle-aged man in a business suit typing on his computer.

He smiled and motioned for me to sit down.

“Welcome to Van Pelt, Miss Peterson,” he said. “I am Monsieur Chival, the academic dean. We are so glad to have you.”

“Thank you,” I said timidly.

“How do you like Van Pelt so far?”

“It's amazing, I can't believe I'm here, I'm so excited….” I said, my voice trailing off.

The man nodded. “Good, good. Miss Peterson, I have here your academic packet, which includes your courses and such. We assigned you Monsieur LeComte as your advisor. I think you will
find him to be a wonderful guide as you begin your journey here. And there is information about your tennis team. Coach Sachs is eagerly waiting to see you again. Says you're quite a star in the making. We're very lucky to have you here, Miss Peterson.”

Them
lucky to have
me
? I blushed. I was starting to feel better. Maybe through my tennis I'd have a chance to fit in and make friends. Things were all starting to come together. I hoped.

“Y
ou're late,” said the man in a brusque German accent two courts away. I recognized Coach Sachs, a lanky man in his midforties with a thick mass of salt-and-pepper hair. I could feel the blood rise to my face as I picked up my pace.

“I am?” I called meekly.

“You were supposed to be here one hour ago, Miss Peterson. It's on the schedule black as black. We've been loitering about waiting for you.”

I felt nauseous. I looked around at the twenty faces staring at
me curiously from across the clay tennis court. One I recognized as Victoria, a member of the Diamonds. She had a haughty, arrogant look on her face, and she blew a stray hair out of her eyes in irritation. Next to her, on the baseline, was a thin guy about my age with bright red hair and a freckled complexion. He eyed me with curiosity. I gulped when I realized that standing across the net, in an immaculate white tennis outfit with the word
PRADA
across it, was none other than Angelina de Brulen, who appeared even more gorgeous and intimidating in person. She gazed at me evenly. Way in the back were other girls retrieving balls, and more members of the boys' team were on the adjacent court.

“I can't have lateness on my team,” said the coach. He had been much warmer when we'd met in Brussels at my tennis tournament. Now he seemed angry and frustrated by my tardiness. So much for Chival saying Sachs was eagerly awaiting my arrival.

As I looked down, ashamed, I caught Victoria staring at me with a weirdly satisfied, bitchy grin on her face. What was her problem? Ugh. How could I have been late? I was so careful. I had pored over the schedule, which said that tennis starts at ten on Mondays…. Great. I'd already messed it all up, got everyone to hate me, and I had only been here two days.

“I'm so sorry. I had no idea….”

“Don't let it happen again. I do not like it. Here to the left is Assistant Coach Albright and Sub-assistant Coach Clement. Liliana and Katrine are our ball girls. Suki and Heather are the trainers. Emme is the massage therapist.” I eyed the uniformed
staff clad in burgundy zip-up suits with the Van Pelt crest; they almost outnumbered the actual team. “All right, line up, then, we're doing drills.”

“Tough luck, Lucy,” a snide teasing voice said. I turned to see Victoria jogging by to the other side of the court. Ah, torture the new gal. I got it.

I sprinted over to the line and found I was next to Angelina.

“Hi,” I said softly. “I'm Lucy Peterson.”

“Angelina,” she replied in a businesslike tone, turning back to the net to prepare for one of the coach's lobs. I felt myself redden even more. I was so riled up by Victoria that I missed the first shot, and I could feel Victoria's smirk burn in my side. Focus, Lucy. By my second time I was able to slice a shot across the net that grazed Victoria's thigh and then went past her. Who's smirking now?

“We're not out to hurt our teammates, Peterson. Keep it civil.” shouted the coach.

Again my face burned. Was everyone against me?

“She's just got a wicked shot, coach,” said the redheaded boy. Thanks! Chivalry is not dead! “But she hits like a guy,” he added, deflating my opinion of him at once. In tennis strength is usually thought of as a good thing, but the way he said it let me know he was somehow dissing me.

The coach had us line up and do speed shots, where we hit the ball then ran around to the other side. The drills lasted an hour, and I was wiped out. Angelina and Victoria were good, but it was
clear that I was better. I thought I'd have some serious competition, given the illustrious program Van Pelt offered, but it seemed all the private coaches and custom tennis outfits couldn't beat natural talent. I really wanted to be top seed on the team. Sure, they had all the fancy rackets and outfits, but when it came to shots I was superior, even as a sophomore. At least that knowledge cheered me a little.

“Water break,” announced Coach Sachs before he beelined into the clubhouse.

Everyone else walked over to the water cooler on the side of the court, so I assumed that we were meant to bake in the still-boiling September sun while Coach got to relax in the shade. Nice. Clearly he took a page from the school's unwritten diva book.

I waited at the end of the line to get my chilled bottled spring water. As soon as Angelina took her two bottles, she walked off to the side of the court to stretch next to a guy who seemed very good-looking from afar. From the way she handed him a water, they appeared to be a couple. Victoria immediately followed, and I watched them curiously. It would make sense that Victoria and Angelina were friends, since they probably moved in the same circles outside of school.

“So, you're the newbie,” said the redhead, more as a fact than a question. “My name's Maxwell.”

“Hi, yes. I'm Lucy. The new girl.”

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Well, I'm American, but my parents live in Germany.”

“Bankers?”

“No. Foreign service.”

“Your dad the ambassador?” asked Maxwell, perking up. I guess my dad's nonillustrious occupation was a rarity.

“Um, not quite,” I said. “So is this the entire team?” I added quickly.

“Naw, just the sophomores. Each grade practices among themselves.”

“Oh,” I replied, and then Sachs came out of his office.

“Team! Ten minutes left to break!” he barked, holding up his stopwatch before returning inside.

“Gosh, it's hot today, bloody torture,” said the guy who had been sitting with Angelina. He walked up and stood next to Maxwell. I was stunned. It was
Prince OLIVER.
And if he had seemed hot in his picture in the magazine?
Hotter!
It was like a gust of romantic wind slapped me in the face. Seriously. He was tall and in shape, was still tanned from the summer, and had golden flecks in his brown hair. He had piercing blue eyes that crinkled in the corners, and eyebrows that were just a little bit darker than his hair color, which I found to be so hot. All of a sudden the workout and the heat made me feel a little dizzy.

“Yeah.”
Yeah?
That's all I could say? Pathetic.

“I'm Oliver,” he said, sticking out his hand.

“Prince Oliver,” added Maxwell in a snotty tone.

“Max, cut it out,” said Oliver, sounding embarrassed.

“I'm Lucy.”

“You're a darn good tennis player,” said Oliver. “Saw you out there,” he said, nodding to the clay court. “Killer volleys.”

“Thanks,” I said. Okay, why did I have to get so red? I must have looked like a burn victim, seriously, because my face was on fire. Had I never talked to a boy before?

“Look, she's blushing!” Maxwell pointed out the obvious. Jerk.

“She's not blushing; it's just a million degrees out here,” said Oliver gallantly.

“Oliver! Angelina just told me the funniest story. Come here!” shouted Victoria from the bench across the court.

“I want to hear it!” shouted Maxwell, dragging Oliver over to the girls. I watched as Oliver plopped down next to Angelina and leaned against her.

I stood frozen by the water cooler, mortified. I wasn't invited across court to hear the hilarious story, so I looked like a complete tool. I pretended I needed more water, and when that didn't kill enough time I became very involved with rewrapping the tape on my racket as if my life depended on it. I could hear the laughs and chatter from the little gang and felt wildly insecure and out of place. I couldn't wait for Coach to return, and almost as though he could feel me willing him, he made his entrance.

“Okay, now, we'll practice the serves,” commanded Coach, clapping his hands furiously.

We lined up and each took a turn. Victoria's ball landed in the net. Angelina had a weak serve that made it over the net and in place but without any power. Oliver was pretty good, but
Maxwell slammed across the net in the best effort of the day so far. When it was my turn I took a deep breath and whacked the ball. It landed perfectly in the corner, slicing over the net. I beamed. This was where I excelled.

“Good shot, Peterson,” said Sachs. “But we have to do something about that racket. It's as old as Chris Evert.” He exited, his massive staff in tow.

“Oh my God!” Victoria squealed, looking down at my hand. “You're going to need to buy a racket that was made in the twenty-first century. I mean, helloooo, that's like one step above those wooden ones!”

And with that, my day was ruined.