Confessions of a Wild Child (2 page)

What else is new?

Chapter Two

T
he plane ride to Europe is endlessly long and boring. Fortunately, to Miss Bossy’s annoyance, I am not seated next to her. I am seated beside a voluptuous bimbo in her forties who seems to be freaked out by flying. The woman has overly bleached blonde hair, and is wearing an astonishing amount of caked-on eye makeup. Her skirt is so short that it barely covers her leopard thong. I get several unwelcome flashes before she downs two Mimosas, covers herself with a blanket, and falls into a drug-induced sleep. Earlier I noted she slurped down a couple of sleeping pills with her booze. Nice. To my delight I score a window seat, which means I don’t have to bother with her. Instead I gaze out the window, thinking about Marco. Even though he escorted me to the airport, does he even realize I exist? He never speaks to me except to bark orders. He barely looks at me. Does he have a girlfriend? What does he do when he’s not busy trailing Gino? What exactly is his deal?

Marco’s attitude toward me sucks.

I sneak a
Cosmopolitan
magazine off sleeping bimbo’s lap, and read about how to give a man the orgasm of his life.

Hmm . . . sex . . . not a subject I know a ton about. To my chagrin I’ve never even been kissed – and that’s because I’ve never spent time in the company of boys, thanks to Gino and his protective ways. Like I said – since my mom’s murder, me and Dario have been kept virtual prisoners.

Oh yes – you can double-bet that I plan on making up for my life of seclusion. Indeed I do. An adventure lies ahead, and I’m totally ready to run with it.

Halfway across the ocean, sleeping bimbo awakes and immediately turns into Chatty Cathy. She starts giving me an extremely tedious rundown of her extremely boring life.

I attempt to appear interested, but it doesn’t work and, halfway through her discourse on why all men are dirty dogs, I drift off into a welcome snooze.

She doesn’t speak to me again.

*  *  *

Upon landing, Miss Bossy discovers there is another girl from Los Angeles aboard who is also on her way to L’Evier. She is a tall girl, taller than me, and I’m five seven. She has long red hair worn in a ponytail, and a pale complexion. I hate her outfit, all neat and buttoned up, while I have on jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt – much to Miss Bossy’s annoyance. She’d tried to get me to change before we left LA, but I was having none of it. It wasn’t as if she could
force
me. No way.

The girl and I stare at each other while waiting for our luggage and the arrival of the L’Evier car that’s supposed to meet us.

‘I’m Lucky,’ I finally say.

She frowns. ‘I’m not,” she says with a bitter twist. ‘My parents are forcing me to do this.’

‘Uh . . . I mean my
name
is Lucky,’ I explain.

She gives me a disgusted look. ‘That’s your
name
?’ she says, as if she’s never heard anything quite so ridiculous.

She should only know who I’m named after – the notorious gangster Lucky Luciano, whom I guess Gino must’ve hung with way back in his criminal days.

‘Yup,’ I say. ‘That’s my name. What’s yours?’

She hesitates for a moment before revealing that her name is Elizabeth Kate Farrell, only most people call her Liz.

Not a bad name, although no way as cool as Lucky.

The truth is that I
love
my name – it’s a one-off, nobody else has it. Besides, if my mom agreed to name me Lucky, then it’s all good. It’s the Saint I’m having a problem with.

‘Why are your parents forcing you?’ I ask, curious as ever.

‘You want the truth or the story I’m supposed to tell?’ she says, tugging on her red ponytail.

‘Uh, let’s go with the truth,’ I mumble, delighted that someone else might have something to hide.

Liz gives me a long penetrating look, obviously trying to decide if she can trust me or not.

I stare right back at her, challenging her with my eyes, willing her to go for it.

‘Got pregnant. Had an abortion. Now here I am. Banished.’

Liz says this all in a very matter-of-fact way. I am totally stunned. Pregnant. An abortion. How old is she anyway?

‘Wow,’ I manage. ‘That’s heavy.’

‘You think?’ she says with a sarcastic grimace.

And then Miss Bossy brings over an elderly emaciated man with pointed features, watery eyes and a thin moustache. Apparently he is a teacher from L’Evier sent to drive us to the school, located a good hour and a half away from the airport.

The man speaks English with a thick foreign accent. ‘Come you with me, young ladies,’ he says, mouth twitching, which causes his whiskery moustache to do a funny little dance. ‘I am Mr Lindstrom.’

We follow him, trailed by a fat porter who wheels our luggage while breathing heavily, as if near to a major collapse.

By this time I am tired, confused and filled with questions I wish to ask Liz. If she was pregnant that meant she’d had sex. And if she’d had sex that meant she knew all about it.

As a virgin with absolutely no experience I need to know
everything
.

It’s essential
.

Details, please
.

Everything!

Chapter Three

L
’Evier is situated in the middle of nowhere. I am totally shocked. It seems so remote. I can’t help getting the feeling that I’m swopping one prison for another. After an endless drive with Mr Lindstrom at the wheel and Miss Bossy sitting beside him, Liz and I get out of the school car. We glance around the tree-filled courtyard that leads to a tall building covered in ivy. The building looms several storeys high, and is not a welcoming sight. Nor is the school principal who emerges to greet us – well, that’s if you can call it a greeting. She is older than the ancient Mr Lindstrom. She has grey hair worn in a tight bun, exceptionally thin lips, a long nose and hardly any chin. She wears pebble-like spectacles, a drab brown dress that looks vaguely Amish, and a disapproving expression.

Nice, considering she doesn’t even know us yet.

Why do I feel that I’m in the middle of a Charles Dickens novel, transported back in time? Oh sure, I’m an avid reader – that’s what you do when you’re not allowed out of the house.

Thanks, Daddy Gino
.

Did I mention that Gino hates being called Daddy? It’s Gino all the way, while he calls me kiddo.

I guess that, on reflection, I have a love–hate relationship with my father. I
want
to love him, but the problem is I always end up hating him for the things he does. Such as the endless women he obviously sleeps with.
Eewh! Disgusting!

Not that he brings any of them home, but with a house full of staff we always manage to hear about them one way or the other.

As far as I’m concerned he should’ve given up women the day my mother was murdered. After all, her murder was
his
fault – it had to be one of his enemies out to get revenge.

Gino does have enemies, Uncle Costa told me that when I’d hotly complained about being confined to what seemed like house arrest. Uncle Costa is not really my uncle. He is Gino’s lifelong lawyer and best friend, and Dario and I regard him and his wife Aunt Jen as family.

‘Your father’s a businessman,’ Costa had informed me. ‘All businessmen have enemies.’

Businessman, huh? I’d researched my father’s activities and they encompassed all kinds of business, including – way back – loan sharking, running numbers, owning a speakeasy, and finally building hotels and casinos in Las Vegas right at the start of the Vegas boom, turning a patch of barren desert into the shimmering capital of the gambling world.

Yeah. Daddy Dearest has done it all. He’s been around and then some.

*  *  *

A taxi is outside, ready to take Miss Bossy back to the airport. She can barely throw her uptight ass into it quick enough. ‘Goodbye, dear,’ she says, patronizing as ever. ‘See that you behave yourself.’

Then she’s gone.

Do I care?

No freaking way!

‘Welcome to L’Evier,’ the woman in the long brown dress says in a most unwelcoming tone. ‘I am your headmistress. You may refer to me as Miss Miriam.’ She pauses while her beady eyes behind her pebble spectacles look us over. Her gaze lingers on my T-shirt and her lip curls. Clearly she’s not a Rolling Stones fan.

‘At L’Evier we keep an extremely strict policy of hard work and complete obedience. You girls are here to learn to become pillars of society, gracious and respectful. A list of rules will be posted in your room, along with your daily uniform. Weekends you may wear your own clothes, however’ – another steely look at my T-shirt – ‘I do expect a certain amount of decorum. No short shorts, torn jeans, or tops worn with no brassiere. L’Evier girls have an image to maintain, so kindly always be sure to uphold our rules or you’ll risk immediate expulsion. Remember our motto: Girls of Quality – Women of Status.’ A long pause to allow us to absorb her words – then – ‘That will be all for now. Mr Lindstrom will show you to your quarters.’

Quarters? I really have stepped into a Charles Dickens world.

Mr Lindstrom struggles to retrieve our luggage from the trunk of the old Mercedes he’d driven from the airport. I help him. Liz doesn’t. I get the impression she’s a bit of a bitch. But I still want to hear everything she has to say about sex.

Does it hurt?

Is it fun?

How do you not get pregnant?

Hmm . . . I guess she’ll have no answer to
that
question.

We enter the building, dragging our suitcases behind us since Mr Lindstrom has now given up. It seems we’ve been allotted different rooms. Liz is on the first floor, I am on the second. Mr Lindstrom huffs and puffs all the way to my room, then does a quick vanish.

I fling open the door and there, sitting cross-legged on her bed, is my roommate, a short girl with small blue eyes set in a round face, cascades of the most glorious curly golden hair, very pale skin, and extremely well developed breasts.

Being more or less flat-chested I am immediately jealous.

‘You must be the new girl,’ she says, lighting up a cigarette, which I’m sure is not allowed.

‘Lucky Saint,’ I reply, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

‘What the hell kind of name is
that
?’ she demands, blowing a stream of smoke in my direction.

‘And you are?’ I say, determined not to let her get to me.

‘Olympia Stanislopoulos,’ she drawls, flicking ash on the carpet. ‘Welcome to the house of horrors.’

Oh my God! This place totally sucks
.

Chapter Four

A
t first Olympia is not exactly friendly, more wary and inclined to ignore me once she discovers I am a year younger than her. We’re in the same grade, which probably pisses her off, because as far as schoolwork goes I’m smarter too. I have learned
something
along the way. I speak three languages and I’m a whiz with numbers. I wish I was sharing a room with the infamous Liz. I desperately need some juicy sex education, and she’s just the girl to give it to me.

After my fifteenth birthday – celebrated with one candle on a cupcake – and a brief phone call from Daddy Gino, Olympia starts to warm up to me. After all, she’s got no choice since we are sleeping in the same room. She tells me about
her
father, Greek shipping billionaire Dimitri Stanislopoulos, divorced from her mom, an American socialite.

‘They both like totally spoil the hell outta me,’ Olympia reveals with an entitled tilt of her head. ‘It’s kinda a one-upmanship deal for them to see who gets the most love. Daddy is desperate for me to marry some rich Greek dude with a ton of money, and Mom figures I should choose a career.’

‘Doing what?’ I ask innocently.

‘Beats me,’ Olympia responds with a casual laugh. ‘I’ve been thrown out of two schools, this is the third. Each time they send me further away.’

At least you have both parents
, I’m longing to say. But I don’t, ’cause I’d learned that once Olympia starts talking it’s best not to interrupt. She’s a girl used to getting her own way.

‘All
I
wanna do is have fun,’ Olympia announces. ‘Boys, booze an’ grass. You can join me if you like.’

‘How’s that possible?’ I ask. ‘We’re locked up here. Besides, there’s nowhere to go.’

‘Wanna bet?’ Olympia says, a big grin lighting up her face. ‘Lights out at nine thirty. You an’ me out the window at nine thirty-five. You on?’

Yes. I am certainly on
.

Later that evening we climb out our window, clinging onto the rampant ivy as we skim shakily down a nearby tree.

I feel excited and full of fire. This is the adventure I’ve been dreaming of.

Once we hit the ground, Olympia grabs a couple of bikes from a covered shed, and we are off.

‘Where we going?’ I ask, pedalling furiously, while wondering what the punishment will be if we are caught.

‘There’s a village about twenty minutes away,’ Olympia says. ‘We’re heading there.’

‘Really?’ I say, slightly wide-eyed, because it’s obvious Olympia has done this before.

‘Yeah, really,’ Olympia huffs. ‘Just follow me and you won’t go wrong.’

The moment we arrive at the village, Olympia acts very secure – she definitely knows her way around. After parking our bikes, we sit down at an outdoor café, whereupon Olympia orders two coffees laced with a strong liqueur from a waiter who appears to know her. Then she immediately starts flirting with a nearby table full of teenage boys.

Before long several of the boys saunter over to join us. I’m impressed: Olympia certainly knows how to make all the right moves.

None of them speak English. Interesting, because unbeknownst to any of them, I speak fluent German, Italian and French, so I understand exactly what they’re saying. They are all lusting after Olympia, mumbling things like – ‘Fantastic tits!’ ‘I sure hope she screws.’ ‘Or sucks.’ ‘Or both.’