The Chamber of Five (4 page)

My dad shook his head. “His sleeves are short.”

She studied them, frowning, then smiled. “I’ll take him to the tailor next week. He’s growing.”

My dad looked at himself in the mirror, slicking his hair back and inspecting his teeth. “I’m going to one of the biggest fundraisers of the year and my son looks like he picked his jacket off a rack at Goodwill. Great.”

“I’m sorry, honey. I said I’ll take him.” She smiled again. “Jason, you look just fine. Nobody will notice.”

I shrugged. “I’m fine with it.”

Dad rinsed his hands and dried them, throwing the towel on the counter. “Of course you’re fine with it because you don’t have any standards.” He faced me, tension flushing his face.
“You’re seventeen years old, Jason. You should have known your suit didn’t fit, you should have taken care of the problem, and I shouldn’t be standing here dealing with you saying you’re fine with it. It’s not fine. You’re not fine. You look like a clown.”

Silence. I looked at myself in the mirror. “More like a monkey on a leash, I’d say.”

He jabbed a finger at me through the mirror. “Don’t start with me,” he said, then turned to leave the bathroom.

I shrugged. “Just a difference of opinion is all. I’d say I look sort of like you, Dad.”

He swung around, and Mom’s face tightened. She looked down. “Jason, please.”

His eyes blazed into me. “No, Tiff. I want to hear why our son, with that smart-ass mouth, thinks he even deserves to have an opinion in this house.”

“I’m not allowed to have an opinion now? Before, it was just saying mine were idiotic and stupid, but now it looks like I don’t even get to have one.”

He looked away for a moment, shook his head, and spoke. “You don’t ‘get’ anything in this world. You earn it.” Then he turned and walked out, bellowing to both of us to get in the goddamned car.

The Lidgerwood Country Club sprawled across the manicured grounds like a paparazzi photo on the front page of a gossip rag. Valet attendants hustled back and forth, helping women from cars, directing limos to parking areas, bobbing their heads and smiling for tips. Just the way it should be to make important people feel important.

I opened my door to the twinkle lights strung through the
trees, and my father put his hand on my knee. “You don’t get out by yourself.”

After the near explosion in the bathroom, I knew I was pushing my luck. I shut the door, waiting for the attendant.

As we were escorted into the club, Mom and Dad stopped to jabber with another couple, and I found my way in, handing my overcoat to the coat-check girl and walking over the marble floor inlaid with the crest of the club, which was two old-fashioned golfer guys staring up at a flying eagle. To the right was the club restaurant, which I’d been to a million times, and across from that was the bar, where my dad had been a million times. He’d made more money in that place than in his office.

Farther on and past the golf shop, several conference rooms, and the restrooms, I took a left and headed down toward the banquet hall, where the shindig was heating up.

“Hey.”

I turned, and Michael Woodside, from the Chamber of Five, sauntered toward me. I shook his hand. “Hey, Woodsie.”

He stopped, looking around and sliding his hands into his slacks pockets. He was taller than me, played lacrosse for the school team, and had perfectly white, straight teeth. His father was a heart surgeon, and was also the chairman of some national medical association. He flew to Washington every month to meet with the president.

“Figured you’d be here.”

I glanced around at the milling people. “Yep.”

He looked me up and down. “Your jacket sleeves are too short.”

“I’m aware of that.”

He chuckled. “Got a ration of shit from your dad, I bet.”

“Yeah.”

He shook his head. “My dad had a case of diarrhea mouth once when I had a scuff on my shoe. The guy is obsessive.”

I looked around. Couples and small groups of socialites passed by us, and we stood, uncomfortable with knowing each other but not knowing each other. Then Michael smiled. I turned, and Kennedy walked toward us and shook Michael’s hand. “Hello, men.” He glanced over his shoulder, then turned back and grinned. “Did you see who is here, and who is right now heading this way?”

We turned, and the girl Brooke was coming down the hall with her mother. My stomach sank. Kennedy spoke under his breath before they neared. “You know her mother, Woodsie. Make it good.”

Brooke avoided eye contact as they passed, but of course, her mother gave a huge smile and dragged her over. “Well, hello, Michael. How are you?” She looked him up and down. “It’s been over a year since we last met. You look sharp. Very sharp.”

Woodsie smiled, shaking her hand. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s nice to see you.”

Brooke stood back, looking away. She wore a peach-colored dress that accentuated her hips, and I had a hard time not staring. With her hair done up, she looked beautiful, her slender neck graceful, her eyes dark and anxious. I couldn’t help thinking about what I’d seen that day as my eyes involuntarily roamed to her chest. Her mother looked at Kennedy and me. “Brooke? These must be classmates, too?” She pulled her daughter forward. “Perhaps introductions are in order?”

Brooke hesitated. I stepped up. “Jason Weatherby, ma’am. It’s nice to meet you.”

She shook my hand and nodded. “Yes. Your father is Congressman Weatherby.”

I smiled. “Only on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, ma’am. The rest of the time he’s telling me what to do.”

She laughed, thinking it was a joke, and looked to Kennedy. He stepped forward, shaking her hand. “Hayden Kennedy, Mrs. Naples. A pleasure to meet you.” He nodded. “We …” He glanced at Brooke. “Saw your daughter today.” He grinned. “And congratulations on the Group membership. She’s got a fantastic-looking résumé. Stellar, actually. In fact, everybody in the room took a close look at it.” He beamed. “Very well put together.”

Mrs. Naples blushed, flattered. If I could have punched Kennedy in the face, I would have. Brooke cringed, and tears welled in her eyes. I cleared my throat. “It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Naples. Have a good night.”

She gave me a stern glance, apparently put off that I’d put her off, and after a moment, they left. I turned to Kennedy. “You are the biggest asshole in the world, Kennedy.”

He laughed. “Better an asshole than a comedian. Only on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays? Brilliant, Weatherby. Almost peed my pants it was so funny.”

“Go to hell. That was uncool.”

He grinned. “By the way, how’s your pet? He doing well?”

“What?”

“The kid. You know, tennis. The guy I drilled the other day.” He turned to Woodsie. “What’s his name? Dipshit Dingledork? Was that it?”

“Thomas Singletary. He lives in the Heights.”

“Yeah. Poor boy Tom from the slums.” Kennedy looked at me. “Doesn’t his mom check out groceries at Walmart, Weatherby?
The one in Lincoln Heights? Or does she sell herself to pay Tom’s tuition?”

I looked at him. “I have no idea.”

Kennedy smirked. “You don’t? You should.”

I sighed, tired of him, but completely confused about what this conversation was about. “Why?”

He waggled his finger at me. “Because…,” he said, turning to leave, “he’s the one in your file, and the games are about to begin.”

It clicked then, and all the pieces fell together. “That’s not cool, Kennedy. I’ve got to kick him out because he pissed on your uniform?”

He smiled. “I’d like it to be, but no. Carter had him picked out before it happened.” Then he was gone, a big and rich galoot flopping his feet down the hall.

I deflated. “Bastard.”

Woodsie nodded. “Can’t say I like him too much, either. More irritating than dangerous, though.”

I looked at him. “You did it, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“The file initiation. You were given one when you were chosen.”

He nodded again. “Carter is right, Jason. I don’t like it, but—”

“But what? He’s not right. He’s an ass. And a psycho, as far as I’m concerned.”

He shrugged. “You’ve never met his father, have you?”

“No.”

“His grandfather may have been a senator, but his dad is nothing but a washed-up drunk of a judge. The embarrassment of the
family. He ran for governor three times in the last eighteen years and lost every time, and he was suspended from the bench last year for drunk driving. Barely made it to the federal bench before they kicked his ass out. I met him once at a banquet, and by the end of it, he was stumbling around making a fool of himself. Goes after every piece of tail he can put his hands on, too. Carter had to carry him out. He hates him.”

“Pity party for Carter.”

Woodsie shrugged. “He’s right about the money. My dad paid big bucks just to get my application into the school, Jason. And the tuition sets him back at least a new Seven Series BMW every year. He told me if I fuck this up, I’m out. Out of the house, out of the family, no trust fund when I turn twenty-one, and no college.” He paused. “So I do what I have to do.”

“Sucks for you.”

“Carter is right about a lot, Jason. We do what we need to do, but that doesn’t mean I like it. Brooke is nice. I’ve known her for seven years.”

“Who decides what happens? Carter?”

He lowered his voice. “You think Carter is the one controlling the rules? He might decide
who
, but he doesn’t decide what.”

I nodded. “Like with this Singletary kid. Kennedy had a beef with him, and now I’m the payback on it. It’s bull.”

“That might be true, but there’s more.”

“What, then?”

He leaned close, almost whispering. “Where do you think he got those files? Where do you think they came from? Think he stole them from the chancellor’s office? They either ignore it politely, or quietly make it happen because they know who funds
the school. The Chamber is powerful, Jason. And you know as well as I do that tradition is strong. Sometimes stronger than right and wrong.”

“I don’t know … I just—”

He stopped me. “You do know, man. Just like I do. There’s a reason for everything that ever happens at that school, and I’m telling you right now that if you don’t do what the Chamber wants, you’ll be out. And Carter will be the one who makes sure it hurts, because the guy
likes
hurting people.” He looked around. “You remember two years ago? Paul Thorburne?”

I did. A picture of Paul giving a guy a blow job had circulated through the school, and three days later, he was gone. His father had been president of the American Association of Evangelical Pastors.
Had been
being the key words. The story of the antigay leader’s son who was gay had been plastered all over the news for a solid week, and he resigned. I groaned. “Don’t tell me …”

He nodded. “He wasn’t even gay, Jason. Carter paid some guy to force him to do it, and the picture was taken. The guy put a gun to his head. A
gun.
”

“Because he refused to take a file, right?”

Woodsie whistled under his breath. “Carter has a wicked midget in his head, man. I don’t even know how he thinks some crap up.”

I shrugged. “Paul could have just said it was a setup.”

He screwed his eyes up at me. “Were you born yesterday? You know how things work. A guy says he was forced to give a blow job because he refused to do what a secret society told him? Yeah, sure. The Chamber doesn’t even exist on paper, Jason. It’s not even officially sanctioned by the school, even though everybody knows about it.”

I looked at him, suddenly uncomfortable. “How do you know about Paul? Do you guys just sit in that room and shoot the shit about ruining lives?”

“No.”

“Then how?”

He cleared his throat, hesitating. “Because I took the picture.”

I stared at Woodsie for a moment, searching his eyes for any pleasure or humor, and I found none. Just shame found in a truth. And right then, I knew what I was up against.

An hour and a half later and after listening to a bunch of notables, including my father, blather on about how much they cared about cancer victims, I’d had enough. I stood, walking through the crowd and stepping into the hall. I wandered, stopping in front of the golf shop and staring blankly at a rack of shirts behind the glass. Then I saw her.

Peach. She walked toward the restrooms, and I hesitated. I knew she didn’t want to see me. Or know me. “Brooke.”

She stopped, turning, and when she saw me, she flinched. Then she turned around and hurried away.

I jogged down the hall. “Brooke, please. Stop.”

She stopped, turning. The doe eyes weren’t soft. “What?”

I studied her face. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know a thing to say to make her feel better, but I had to, and the seconds were ticking. “You look nice,” I blurted.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Another little joke from the little boys’ club?”

I looked away. “No … I just, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Rage and humiliation flushed her face. “Sure, Jason. Sure. Here, you want to see more?” Then she grabbed the straps of her dress, sliding them from her shoulders. “Here, take a good look, you sick pervert.”

I reached up and grabbed her hands, looking around. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

She stared at me, tears in her eyes. “Why not? That’s all I am, right? A show for the boys?”

“Then report it. Do it. Tell the chancellor, and tell him I was there.”

She clenched her teeth.

“You won’t, will you?”

“I can’t.”

“I know. You can’t report it for the same reason I had to sit there and watch it. But I didn’t want to.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Liar.”

Anger welled in my chest. I took a breath. “Listen, I just wanted to apologize. That’s all. I’m sorry it happened.”

Her face tightened. “Apology not accepted.” Then she turned on her heel.

“Brooke.”

She turned. “What?”

“You could have walked out just as easily as me.”

After that, she stared at me for a moment, rage and shame at the truth of what I’d said in her eyes, then turned and walked away.