Secret Society (13 page)

T
he next day, the images arrived in Phoebe's inbox: They were breathtaking, intense, and stirred in her a series of dreamlike memories, although she couldn't place them. They were images of a party in progress, blurred and abstracted. A woman singing, shot from above. A close-up of a sequined dress. Champagne being poured. Cigarettes smoked from thin silver holders. She had no idea how Patch had gotten these images; they were almost like surveillance cam stills or grainy pics from a black-and-white movie. This was the missing piece, the missing link her work needed, the imagery that would take her show to the next level.

A week and a half later, a van came to transport Phoebe's pieces to the gallery. Michelle had already visited her several times while the works were in progress and offered critiques,
but Phoebe was still nervous about the show. She had stayed up all night putting finishing touches on them and was now completely wiped out in class. Her mother had stayed up late with her, bringing her coffee and snacks, and had told Phoebe how proud she was of her.

That afternoon, Phoebe went over to the gallery to meet Michelle and watch the show being hung. The walls had been painted to match the narrative of her show, and placards and an artist's statement had been printed up.

She couldn't believe that it was all happening so quickly.

When, by early evening, the show was nearly ready to be seen, Phoebe walked slowly by each piece, as if memorizing its exact location. For a first show, she thought, it wasn't bad at all.

 

“Lauren! Come here quickly!”

Lauren's mother was at the breakfast table, where she was poring over the morning's
New York Times.

“What?” Lauren said sleepily from the other side of the kitchen, as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

“There's a write-up about Phoebe in the Arts section. ‘Thirty Under Thirty in the Art World: Phoebe Dowling's raw canvases are electric with anger and possibility. The show, which opens tonight at the Schrader Gallery, demonstrates that Dowling is a talent to watch.'”

Lauren grabbed her phone and texted Phoebe a simple message: “!!!!”

“I'm so thrilled that you're associating with the right sort of people,” Diana said, as she spooned herself a wedge of grapefruit. “As they say, it's not what you know…”

As much as Lauren was happy for Phoebe's success, she felt a twinge of jealousy. How was it that Phoebe had been in the city for less than three months and was already experiencing this level of success? Lauren had gotten an email the previous night: The buyer at Barneys had passed on her line, saying it was too specialized.
Screw them,
she thought. Giroux's store was carrying it. But it needed to succeed on a bigger scale. There had been nearly a dozen mentions of her birthday party in the gossip columns and social blogs, including a few close-ups of some of the jewelry. But there were thousands of different lines out there. She needed something that would set her apart from the rest.

T
he night of her gallery opening, Phoebe stepped out of a cab with her mother. People were already crowding into the entrance, and Phoebe and her mom were too polite to push anyone else out of the way. They waited their turn and slipped on in, without anyone realizing that the artist was in their midst until Michelle started gushing.

“There she is!” Michelle shrieked, rushing over to embrace Phoebe and her mother.

Heads turned and Phoebe smiled shyly. She hadn't even gotten a chance to examine the installation when people started swarming her and asking her all sorts of questions: What was her inspiration? Where did she work? How did she manage to balance school with her art? Could she explain her technique? How did she feel about the
Times
write-up?

Her mouth was parched, and while she would have loved a water, she was handed a glass of champagne instead. She thought her mother was lost somewhere in the crowd until she spotted her chatting with Daniel, whom she was now seriously dating. Phoebe was okay with the dating part; it was his connection to the Society that made her uncomfortable, that he hadn't let on who he was. In another corner, she saw Nick with some friends from Chadwick, and she wished he would come rescue her.

Michelle rushed by with a clipboard. “You're not going to believe this. Half the pieces in the show are sold already!”

Phoebe nodded, a bit taken aback. She finally had a moment to look around at the walls, many of which were blocked by the guests crowding in to see her pieces. “I don't—I don't see them all here.”

“Oh…” Michelle leaned forward, talking to Phoebe in a hushed voice. “There was a client several days ago who saw a preview of the show. He wanted to remain anonymous. He insisted that the pieces he was purchasing be taken down and the show be reorganized, so it wasn't obvious that they were missing.”

“I don't understand. Why did this happen?”

“Let's discuss it later. Tonight is your night—just enjoy yourself.”

Her night. It wasn't anything like her night. The faces swarmed around her, offering praise, accolades, congratu
lations. Anastasia said how proud she was of Phoebe and apparently was taking credit for having discovered her. But it all felt empty, as if she were viewing life from the bottom of a swimming pool, barely able to breathe. It didn't feel real.

The thing that felt the least real of all was the missing pieces.

She saw Patch artfully making his way through the crowd with his camera, scanning the monochromatic canvases one by one, taking in each one's individual colors: blues, greens, yellows, magentas. And then she realized, perhaps at the same time as he did, that the missing works were all the ones that contained his mysterious images.

 

Later that evening, Phoebe sat with Nick on the roof of his building. They could hear the Fifth Avenue traffic below and see the top of a Jeff Koons sculpture in the Met's roof garden, but aside from that, it felt like they were in a world apart.

Nick had been impressed by the show; he felt like he had known Phoebe as a friend—or maybe, as something more—and then suddenly she was being treated like a celebrity, having her photo taken and getting written up in the
Times
.

“There's something messed up about all this,” Phoebe said, as she bundled her coat close to keep out the November chill. “It's like a fantasy or something, like someone is pulling the strings.”

Nick didn't want to make it seem like Phoebe got the
show only because she was in the Society; he knew that would make her feel lousy. “You need to stop doubting yourself,” he said. “Your paintings are amazing. The
New York Times
thinks so.”

“I feel like my work hasn't had any time to develop, to mature, you know?” Phoebe said. “I mean, what am I supposed to do next?”

Nick smiled. “Go make some more art,” he said. “Or don't. Give yourself some time off. But either way, don't stress about it.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm being such a downer.”

“Not at all.” He brushed aside his shaggy hair and moved a bit closer to her. “You know, I remember feeling this way when I realized that it was a pretty tough thing to get into Chadwick—even when you're six years old. I know some people think I only got in because I'm a Bell. I'll never know, but all I can do is be myself. It's like, lots of people don't even have this much fortune in their lives, am I going to go and cry about it because I do?”

“I know what you mean. My mom was, like, thirty-two before she got her first gallery show.”

“You have things to say. That means more than real estate and money and all this other crap. Everything the Society claims to be about, success and all that—what you've got is so much better.” He laughed. “And on top of that, you're the only person I've ever heard of who's lied to the
New York
Times
about her age,
upward.
”

“I thought seventeen sounded better. Stupid, I know.”

“No,” Nick said, “not stupid at all.” He patted her on the back.

A breeze rustled the treetops below them, and there was an awkward pause as the two of them looked out at the park. Nick was about to lean in toward her when Phoebe's phone rang.

“I should get this,” she said, looking at the caller ID. “It's my mom.” She answered the phone, rolling her eyes.

When she was finished, she put her phone away. “I have to go,” she said. “I'm sorry.”

T
he trouble started at Chadwick when a senior pulled out a copy of
New York
magazine that she had picked up from a newsstand that morning. There had been several more weekly editions of Twilight Thursdays, and Nick had put in face time, but little more. The fight with Jared had subsided, although Nick was angry that he had been forced to forge a check on his parents' account, despite the fact that he hadn't been caught. He was still confused about the other mysterious checkbook, but was afraid to ask his father about it—there was no way, after all, that he could admit he'd been poking around in his dad's desk.

The girl, who had jet-black hair and a silver stud in her nose, read the review loudly in the hall to a group that had gathered: “The most exclusive new night in town is Twilight Thursdays,
where prep school students Jared Willson and Nick Bell—whose teachers at Whitford and Chadwick apparently aren't noticing that their students aren't quite as attentive on Friday mornings—host a raucous crowd of vodka-swilling models, i-bankers, and underage scenesters.”

The crowd laughed, as Nick cringed. He hadn't expected the press to reach this level, and he certainly hadn't known that his name would be used.

It took exactly three class periods for the headmaster to call a meeting of the entire school in the recently renovated auditorium. Dr. Wilkins, who had previously been a dean at a small college, was known for his adherence to the school rule book. While some of the younger board members, particularly those in media and entertainment, had given him a directive to lighten up Chadwick's image, the headmaster drew the line at issues of drugs and alcohol.

He stood on the stage behind a podium adorned with Chadwick's seal, a coat of arms. Nick was sitting with his class in his assigned seat, while Phoebe and Lauren were a few rows behind him. The classes buzzed with anticipation as the headmaster called the meeting to attention.

“I'm sure you're all familiar with our sixth rule,” he said, after greeting everyone. “It's about ‘compromising the good name of the school.' Now what does that mean? It's been made quite clear to you that drinking is not permitted on campus or during school hours. But what some of you don't realize is
that that extends to after hours as well. This has been an issue for some time, although not until now has it come to a head.”

There was a collective groan in the room. Nick felt his neck grow hot, as he feared Dr. Wilkins might call him out by name. And then the worst happened: The headmaster held up the copy of
New York
magazine. Snickering started among the students, particularly those in Nick's class.

“This magazine story does exactly that: It compromises Chadwick's name. In addition to the implication that students are drinking, this kind of thing is terribly embarrassing for the school. This is a college preparatory school, not just the place you go when you're not partying.”

The students laughed.

“There's nothing humorous about it!” Dr. Wilkins said. “Any student suspected in the future of drinking, either on or off campus, will be suspended. I want the individual responsible for this article to see me in my office right after this assembly.”

Nick sank down in his seat. This was worse than he thought. He wondered if this would get back to his parents; he had wanted them to be proud of him for the party, for how successful it had been, even though he had very little to do with that success. Now all he could feel was shame.

He didn't talk to anyone on his way out of the assembly, though he saw Phoebe, Lauren, and a few other friends giving him sympathetic looks. There was nothing for him to do but
take his punishment, whatever it might be.

Nick showed up at Dr. Wilkins's office, but was asked by his secretary to wait. It was at least twenty minutes before the headmaster ushered him in.

“Nicholas,” he said. “Please sit down.” He motioned to a burgundy leather wingback in the corner of his book-lined office. Dr. Wilkins sat across from him. “I was just on the phone with your father.”

“Sir, I can explain. I had no idea that the magazine—”

“Listen up. I had a good conversation with your dad. He told me about some of your ambitions, and he explained that this was all a misunderstanding. That is the power of the press, and you need to learn to be wary of it. He said you didn't even know there were reporters at your little event.”

“Well, I—”

“What's important is that it doesn't happen again. Now, I'm going to have a discussion with the head at Whitford to make sure that Mr. Willson's exploits don't harm you further.”

“I'm not too worried about that,” Nick said. “Outside of the party, we're not even that close.”

“That's good.” Dr. Wilkins sighed. “I just want you to stay out of trouble. And do me a favor, don't get too caught up in, shall we say, your
social
activities, okay?”

 

Lauren was glad that she hadn't been dragged into any of the fracas about Nick's party, although she felt awful that Nick
had to take the blame for all of them. Mostly, though, she had been thinking about her time with Alejandro. The night of Phoebe's gallery opening, he had been her date for the evening. He had insisted on holding her hand as they looked at the show. When they went to dinner at Bottino, an Italian restaurant nearby, he had pulled out her chair, asked her what she wanted, and then ordered for both of them, the way people did in old movies. There was this sweet side to him that was antithetical to the party-boy image he had cultivated. She wondered how much of that had been created by the gossip columns and blogs, by people who wanted him to be a certain way.

He lived with his parents in a suite at the St. Regis, which would have been the first drop-off for their cab, but he had insisted on escorting her home. They kissed the entire way uptown; it was one of those silly things that she now remembered fondly several days later, them trying to navigate a kiss as their cab bumped over potholes.

Even if her jewelry wasn't a smashing success, she thought, at least she had this—finally, someone who made her feel like everything else was worth it.

That all changed, though, when she got a call a few days later from Sebastian Giroux. It was early, before school started. Sebastian was always in a bit of a panic whenever he called, and this time was no exception.

“Lauren! Darling! You won't believe this!”

“What? Tell me!”

“According to Sabrina, we are completely sold out of your jewelry. We need more! We've ordered more stock from the manufacturer. But can you come up with other designs? Different designs? That's what people want. Things that are new. And—I must tell you. A boutique in Paris, one of the best, Colette, wants to carry your pieces! I have to go. Big kiss!”

She put down the phone in amazement. Maybe she had been too hasty in judging her own line. Maybe it just needed a little while to catch on. She knew she had more work to do.

 

On Friday afternoon, Patch was shopping at the Food Emporium on Third Avenue. Every week, it was his responsibility to get the groceries; his grandmother, who refused to learn how to use an ATM machine, would write a check out to “cash,” and he would use it to buy the household provisions, enduring embarrassing stares from everyone in the checkout line as Genie's check was approved. This time, he was in the frozen foods section when he got an annoying text from a friend who raved about how amazing Nick's party at Twilight had been the night before. The reinstated ban on drinking had only made Jared and Nick's party more popular; everyone wanted to be part of the action, although they had to make sure they were never photographed. The club started enforcing specific rules on paparazzi being admitted, and Chadwick students were careful not to talk to anyone with a notebook.

Over the course of two months, Nick had become a person he didn't know anymore. Admittedly, Patch had ignored Nick at school, as well as at Lauren's birthday party and Phoebe's gallery opening. It wasn't only that he had been turned away at Twilight, a club Nick knew Patch had been dying to get into. Most of all, it was that everything Nick was involved in was now more important than their friendship.

It didn't matter that Nick had tried to apologize. It would take a lot more than an apology to fix this.