Jet Set (17 page)

S
o, after my graveyard-in-a-box debacle I exhaled and gave in to the wonder of Van Pelt pampering. I truly felt like Cinderella, minus the sweeping-fireplaces stuff. Sure, there were wicked stepsisters in my midst like Sofia, but they couldn't possibly bring me down. She had tried to foil me, but Rioko and I had won.

Or so I had thought.

After a delicious two hours of primping and plucking, my team pronounced me ready to go! I got up in my crest-emblazoned silk
robe, hair and face glossed and powdered to perfection, and made my way to the closet to unsheathe my stunning vintage treasure. I unzipped the garment bag and found…tatters. Someone—take a wild guess who—had shredded my exquisite gown to fabric shards, with slices up and down the middle of the dress, making it look like fettuccine, like those car-wash slices that lather your wheels. I was beside myself—this was pure vandalism! I guessed I was Cinderella after all. And there would be no fairy godmother spouting “Bibbity bobbity boo” and making it all better with a flick of her wand. Defeated, I sat down on the floor in my robe and started to cry.

Rioko heard my torrent of tears and burst in the door looking ravishing. I was so happy to see her in total princess mode, I actually stopped sobbing long enough to compliment her.

“What happened?” she asked, looking at the tatters of my once stunning dress.

“I think Sofia the Grim Reaper took her scythe and sharpened it on my dress. Now I have nothing to wear.”

The door, which had been ajar, now had three faces peering in: Tiggy's, Victoria's, and Iman's.

“That little bitch!” squealed Iman, beholding my rags. “You
must
borrow one of mine. I bought three different ones in the end so I could choose. You must wear one.”

While I was deeply touched by the offer, I felt too weird taking a ten-grand gown on loan. What if I spilled punch? What if I tripped and ripped the skirt?

“You're so sweet, but…it's okay. I guess I can wear this short black one I have.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Antigone. “Let me see this,” she said, examining my snipped dress. “Okay. It does look as if Edward Scissorhands designed it, but may I remind you of Alexander McQueen's winter 2006 collection?”

We all stared at her blankly. I was relieved to see even Iman and Victoria didn't have that runway show on mental file.

“Hellooo?” Antigone said, appalled, as if we had gaping holes in our fashion education or couture Alzheimer's. “Remember the cuts? He sliced them
on purpose
and then stitched them up again! So chic. I'll send for one of the seamstresses to resew these and they'll look soooo cool! Just like that cover of Italian
Vogue
!”

It might just be weird enough to work! I thought. Within minutes there were two women with thimbles and pincushions going to work on the dress. And thirty minutes later, as my friends put on their final lip glosses and perfume sprays, the women emerged with my dress, which looked even cooler than before. It had gone from classic chic to edgy glam and, I must say, that Alexander McQueen was on to something. I zipped it up, elated, and linked arms with the girls to stroll toward the large foyer where our dates would be waiting.

As we all walked in a line through the grand salon to the gilded hallway where the guys were waiting in their tails and white tie, I felt cheered by the girls around me. I finally had friends. It hadn't been easy, and it took a whole semester, but it was organic
and real, unlike my friendship with Sofia. And they had done what friends do—they'd helped me in a jam. And as I saw Antony waiting across the salon, corsage in hand, I had the feeling it would be a spectacular night.

Suddenly there was a commotion outside. Intrigued, we made our way over to the entrance to find out what the to-do was about. There were four of the most handsome white horses I had ever seen leading a gorgeous carriage. Seated on the plush red velvet banquette were Angelina, in a magnificent white gown with a white fur collar, and Oliver. My eyes locked on his for a second, and he reddened. An odd look flashed across his face as I saw him look me up and down. Was he embarrassed that he was in this rather ostentatious carriage? Or was it something else? Before I could process, paparazzi pushed me out of the way. There was a storm of flashbulbs, during which time Antony grabbed my hand and led me down the stone pathway ahead of the carriages and into the grand portals inside the ballroom foyer. Here we go, I thought, as the door closed behind us.

T
he tradition was to walk through a receiving line, where boys bowed and girls curtsied to the deans and headmistress of the school, as well as the visiting royal representative (that night it was Princess Victoria of Sweden). Every girl, myself included, had received a pressed pair of brand-new silk white gloves for just this moment. I glided along the receiving line, with Antony holding on to my arm, and felt as if I were in a fairy tale. Royalty! Ball! Hot guy! I just had to pray that my Cinderella story would have a happy ending.

“You look lovely,” whispered Antony in my ear after we had shaken hands with some diplomat. I could feel his breath hot on my neck and it sent a shiver down my spine.

“Thank you. This is amazing.”

After we blew through the line, Antony took my hand and led me to the escort table, where we picked up our seating assignments on gilded calligraphied cards.

“Table thirteen!” said Antony. “Uh-oh.”

“Luckily I don't believe in curses,” I said halfheartedly. Right?

“Let's go,” said Antony.

We glided down the long hall, which was adorned with breathtaking floral arrangements. My mother, an avid gardener who sets up her little plot in whatever meager backyard we are assigned to, would surely have been in Utopia. There were giant branches of the most beautiful pink dogwood bursting out in every corner. Who gets dogwood in December?

When we got to the end of the hall, two footmen opened the double doors for us and we got our first glimpse of the ballroom. In a word:
unbelievable
. In many words:
breathtaking, exquisite, gorgeous, fantastic, spectacular.
I felt like I was in a winter wonder-land in czarist Russia. All of the tables and chairs were sheathed in a gauzy white fabric, and in the center of every table was a clear vase bursting with plump white roses. There were candles flickering everywhere, including white ones in the large silver candelabras that adorned every table. Dripping from the ceiling were hundreds of twinkling white Christmas-tree lights wrapped
around green pine branches, which gave the effect that each table was being blessed by shooting stars. I had never seen anything like it.

Antony continued leading me to my table and held my chair for me like a gentleman while I sat down. I was enraptured and barely noticed when Maxwell, Rolf, and their dates, Tiggy and Moabi, and finally Oliver and Angelina also sat down at our table. I glanced around, bummed that Rioko wasn't at my table, but we shared a smile across the ballroom. I was so impressed by everything that it was enough temporarily to take my mind off the fact that I would have to spend the entire evening with Oliver and Angelina, who no doubt would be gazing at each other lovingly.

When everyone had been seated, a team of waiters came and pulled the silver covers off our first course in unison. It was a white cone-shaped dish in which sat a white eggshell half encased by gold lamé. Inside was a large dollop of sour cream topped off by a generous portion of caviar. The waiters immediately set about doling out mini blini to accompany it, as well as garnishes like capers, chopped onion, and fluffy diced egg white. It was so dramatic. Only, I hated caviar.

“Hey, do you want mine?” I asked Antony.

His eyes widened. “You don't like caviar?”

“I think it's kind of gross. Too salty.”

He laughed as he scooped my caviar onto his plate. “You probably OD'd when you were a child.”

“I never had it when I was a child. I didn't try it until I got
here,” I said, reaching for the bread basket and tearing off a piece of rosemary-flecked brioche.

“Come on,” said Antony.

“We never had it on base, believe it or not.”

“What base?” asked Antony.

“My father's in the army,” I said. We'd never specifically talked about my family, but I didn't want it to be a secret. It's not like I'd hidden anything else about my financial situation from Antony, and I would never hide where I came from.

He looked confused and his brow furrowed. “What? He's in the army?”

“Yeah, you know, to protect and to serve…”

Tiggy, who had heard the tail end of our conversation, chimed in. “Did you hear that Prince Harry is thinking of giving up military service? They say Harry's girlfriend wants him around more,” she continued, taking a big bite of caviar.

“Is that true, Oliver?” asked Rolf.

I could tell Tiggy had forgotten that Oliver was related to Harry because she immediately turned bright red.

“Um, that's what I read in
Gab!
, anyway….” she said, embarrassed.

“That's what I read also. That bloke doesn't keep in touch with the family. Probably too busy with the girlfriend,” said Oliver, winking at Tiggy. She smiled. That was what was so great about Oliver. So many people could have made a big stink that someone was gossiping about their family, but instead he tried to make
Tiggy feel better. It also reinforced the danger of going to a school like Van Pelt. You couldn't really gossip about anyone because everyone there was related to someone rich and famous. And then you had people like Sofia who were lurking about taking notes. I shivered just thinking of her. I had scanned the crowd for her but didn't see her anywhere.

“Are you cold?” asked Antony, rubbing my back.

“No, it's okay, there was just a breeze.”

Antony continued to rub my back. “Well, I wouldn't want you to get a cold. Your father would never forgive me. And now that I know that he can use a gun, well, that changes everything. Not only is he a corporate raider, he's got a mean shot.”

Corporate raider? More like corporal. Before I could ask Antony what the heck he was talking about Rolf yelled across the table.

“So what was up with the cheesy entrance, Oliver? I mean, a horse and buggy? You looked like a tourist in Central Park.”

I expected Oliver to get angry, but instead he laughed. “God-awful, right?”

“Did you plan that?” asked Moabi.

“No way!” said Oliver quickly. “It's an unfortunate tradition with my family—you know, the past members who have attended Van Pelt. I begged and pleaded to be let off the hook, but my uncle, who's on the board, likes to see me squirm, so he insisted….”

I stared at Angelina, anticipating that she would be upset that
Oliver was so dismissive of what I thought to be a romantic gesture, but she surprised me.

“Outdated and tacky. Like royals,” she said with a sly smile.

“There, there,” said Oliver jokingly.

“Ah, she tells it like it is,” said Antony.

Oliver shot Antony a look of contempt. He was willing to laugh at himself with people he liked, but it was clear that Antony was not one of them. Antony turned to me.

“We should all just buy titles. Sell them to the highest bidder. Maybe your dad could become King of England,” said Antony, looking at me and then shooting Oliver a harsh look.

“My dad? Yeah, right,” I said with a fake laugh. Why was Antony bringing up my dad at the table? I was really not in the mood to illuminate my financial differences at the ball.

“Lucy's dad just got voted the second richest man in the EU. That's way above your family, Oliver,” said Antony, sneering at Oliver.

“What are you talking about?” I said, confused.

“You don't have to be modest,” said Antony smugly. “It's cool that your dad dominates the steel industry.”

“My dad doesn't dominate the steel industry,” I said. I could feel everyone at the table staring at me intently. I so didn't want to be having this conversation here.

“You can stop, Luce. It's okay to be wealthy. I mean, I know you like the perks. Luce tells me that she won't sleep on sheets that are under a thousand thread count,” Antony added proudly,
staring straight at Oliver. I watched Oliver look at him and then turn to me.

“Are you kidding? I was joking when I said that,” I whispered.

“Right. Like you were joking about how poor the maid service is, and how you fly your own planes.”

“Yes,” I said, my face red and hot. “It's called sarcasm!”

“But isn't your dad Robert Peterson?” he asked accusatorily.

“Yes,” I said.

“Robert Peterson the steel magnate?” he asked with vehemence. I felt like I was a witness being grilled by the prosecution.

“Uh…no. Corporal Robert Peterson of the U.S. Army,” I said softly. “Wrong Google result, I think. You must be confused.”

Antony's lips quivered. “What the hell?” he muttered.

“Does anyone want to dance?” asked Oliver loudly. “The music is lovely.”

Before she could respond, Oliver had grabbed Angelina's hand and started to lead her to the dance floor. On his way, I saw him tap Moabi and Maxwell, who followed suit with their dates. Soon even Rolf and his date got up and Antony and I were left alone. Antony wasn't looking at me. He kept sipping his water furiously as if he had just been trapped in the desert for a year and was totally dehydrated. I didn't even know where to begin, I was so confused.

“You bloody liar,” he muttered, still not looking at me.

“Excuse me? I'm a liar? What did I lie about?” I asked, dizzy with humiliation.

“You let me believe you were rich….”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded. “I was joking when I said all that stuff about the food being bad and the service being poor. It was so obviously an exaggeration. Nothing is better than this place. I've never had it so good. That's why I just assumed that you were in on the joke.”

“Still…,” he said.

“I don't know where you got the idea that I was rich.”

“In the facebook. It says your father's name, that you live in Germany, and there's just a P.O. box listed….”

“Yes, I do, and all that's true. But it's a military P.O.”

“Why didn't you tell me you were poor? No doubt you're on scholarship?”

I felt like I had been slapped. “That's none of your business.”

Antony shook his head and whistled through his teeth. “Just brilliant.”

Suddenly my blood started to boil. “So it
matters
to you that I'm on scholarship? Were you just dating me because you thought I was rich? And I suppose you really are hooking up with Chérie?”

I could tell that Antony was debating what to say. He was quiet for a moment, then threw his head back and started to laugh. But it was more like a cackle. The evil cackle that the Wicked Witch has when she's about to do something horrible.

“I'm not that sort of person,” said Antony, abruptly turning to face me.

“Yeah, right.” I sat back in my chair, disgusted.

“Come on, let's go dance. I'll prove it to you,” he said, standing up and offering me his hand.

“No thanks.”

“Come on,” he said forcefully. He yanked my hand and started to drag me out to the parquet dance floor. At that moment I had a decision to make. I could break away and leave, undoubtedly making a fuss that everyone would talk about for weeks, maybe even months, to come or I could just go along with it. It took all my strength, but I decided to do the latter. I certainly didn't want to dance with Antony after what I'd just learned about him, but I didn't want to create a scene. I was done with scenes.

I'd heard of dirty dancing, but I'd never heard of angry dancing, which is exactly what Antony and I were doing. He wouldn't look me in the eye. It was as if my face were so repulsive that it would kill him to make eye contact. Not that I particularly wanted to look at him, but it was awkward to dance with someone whose head was at such an angle that all you were looking at was a mole below the ear.

“I'm done,” I said after a break in the first song.

“What are you talking about? We've only just begun.”

I started to walk away, but he snapped me back toward him so forcefully that my body thudded into his. Tears immediately sprang into my eyes. What had I done to deserve this? Don't cry, don't cry, I pleaded with myself.

“May I?”

I turned around and saw Oliver standing next to us, Angelina
behind him. “I'd like this dance, if you'd be so gracious as to dance with my lovely partner.”

Not taking no for an answer, Oliver placed Angelina's hand in Antony's and scooped me away. Talk about knight in shining armor.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, semihumiliated.

“I should be thanking you,” he said briskly.

We danced along in silence. I was still burning with mortification and anger, so much so that it took me a few minutes to compose myself and realize that Oliver was an amazing dancer.

“I hope it's okay with Angelina that you're dancing with me,” I said, suddenly realizing how ticked off I would be if the reverse had happened.

“Aw, don't worry. She's a trooper.”

A trooper? That sounded…not very romantic.

“I appreciate it. I guess you were right about Antony,” I said, swallowing my pride. “I just had a serious wake-up call. I should have listened to you when you tried to warn me—” I stopped, trying to prevent the tears from burning their way down my cheeks.

“Don't let him bother you. He's a wanker,” Oliver said with a smile.

I wanted to say more but decided not to. A slow dance came on and I nestled my head on Oliver's shoulder and imagined what it would be like if I were his girlfriend. Things would be so great. I wouldn't have to stick around the next two hours pretending to be into Antony. The rest of this night was going to be torture.