The Saints of the Cross

by Michelle Figley

  “Umm, okay then, if you insist. But you have to let me make it up to you.” I’ve never had a complete stranger buy me clothes before. This could be interesting.

  “Sure. Shit! Traffic jam!” She slams on the breaks and slows the BMW down to a crawl as we both crane our necks to see around the line of cars in front of us. “Looks like an accident up ahead at the off-ramp. Oh well, gives us time to talk. Tell me about yourself. You got a boyfriend back in Spain?”

  “Yes, I do . . .” I hesitate. Something’s not right. “Oh no! I forgot my cell phone back at my house!”

  “We can go back to get it after we’re done,” Camilla says dismissively.

  “That would be great, because I need to call him. I promised I’d call him, and I haven’t yet.” Great, now he’s probably worried about me.

  “Relax. It’ll be fine. We’ll get ourselves beautified, and then we’ll stop at your house on the way to the party. We’re almost to the mall. We don’t want to turn around now. Okay?”

  “Sure, fine. So what’s the deal with this party that we have to look so spectacular?” I ask, changing the subject to help calm myself. I can’t get worked up over forgetting the phone. I’m sure Javi will understand.

  “It’s at Jude Redfield’s house, and the Redfield boys have been having this party every year for nearly two decades. It’s practically a Holy Cross tradition,” she says, sounding like a news correspondent reporting on the latest gossip.

  “Wow, really? Twenty years should definitely qualify as a tradition.” I’ve never been to a party like this, but I’m not about to tell her so.

  “There are five Redfield boys, and they all went to Holy Cross. The oldest one, Jake, is thirty-five; Gabe is thirty; Raphael is twenty-six; and the youngest is Jude. He’s our age. The middle brother is my boyfriend, Christian, and he’s twenty-one. We’ve been dating since I was a freshman and he was a senior.”

  “Your parents let you date a twenty-one-year-old?” I am completely confounded by this. I mean, what parent allows their teenage daughter to date a boy who’s old enough to legally buy alcohol?

  “Yeah, they freaking love Christian. Hell, they love the entire Redfield family. My parents’ heads are so far up the Redfield’s asses that they should’ve burped them out by now. Seriously, if Christian wasn’t the hottest guy in DC, I wouldn’t even look twice at him, just because he’s a Redfield. They’re freaking jackasses for the most part,” Camilla says, wrinkling her face up in an expression that punctuates her disdain, “except for Christian and Jude. They’re cool.”

  “Geez, then why go to the party?” This girl is an enigma. She makes absolutely no sense. If I had so much hatred for a family, I sure wouldn’t go to a party at their house, let alone date one of them.

  “Oh, my dear Evie, you have much to learn about DC social life. Everyone who’s anyone will be there. The people I love and the people I love to hate,” she says, and then pauses long enough to check her makeup in the rearview, rubbing red lip gloss off her pearly-white teeth with her index finger. “The party is always written up in the society-gossip section of the paper. Something scandalous always happens—that’s pretty much guaranteed. Either someone will wreck their father’s Lambo, or someone will end up in jail on a possession charge. Of course almost everyone is underage, so their names don’t appear in the article; but the writers always give enough clues that you can guess without much effort.”

  “Wow, sounds crazy.” What would happen if I were to get busted at the first party I go to in DC? At the least, my dad would never let me go out again. Worst case scenario would be that I’d be shipped off to a convent—or as my dad calls them, a nunnery. “I don’t know about this. If I get into any trouble on my first night out in DC, not only will I be grounded for eternity, but my dad will absolutely kill me.”

  I’m more than a little nervous about the whole thing. Seems like too raucous an affair in which to make my DC social debut. I don’t want to risk having my privileges to see Javier taken away.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got our designated driver covered. My best friend, Xander, doesn’t drink or do drugs. So he’ll drive us home afterward. He’s a goody-two-shoes, granola-type. You know, always worried about being healthy and what not. He’s buff, plays sports, and works out. It’s really annoying at times, because he doesn’t know how to let loose and have fun; but then again, I always have a guaranteed DD.”

  “Sounds like my kind of guy,” I shrug.

  “Oh no, Evie. Don’t tell me you’re one of those granolas, because you sure don’t look like one!” she exclaims, giving me a once-over. I frown at her because I have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. “You know, all butch, smelly, and vegetarian—Yuck! No, you can’t be. You’re actually a hot chick.”

  “Thanks, I think. What I mean is that I don’t drink and I don’t do drugs. I just don’t see the point of poisoning yourself with that stuff. A glass of wine once in a while is one thing, but drinking just to get sloppy drunk? No thanks, doesn’t appeal to me at all.”

  “A glass of wine? What are you, a fifty-year-old hag stuck in the hot, red-headed body of a seventeen-year-old?” She’s looking at me now like she’s expecting my head to explode or something.

  “I’m serious, Camilla. Count me out of the drinking. I’ll go to meet everyone, but I don’t plan on partying like that, okay?”

  “Whoa, chica. Fine. Whatever you say. Look, we’re moving again,” she says, motioning to the traffic ahead of us. “Thank God. I’ve got to pee!”

  After a couple more intersections, we turn on International Drive and arrive at the Tyson Galleria. Because of our time constraints, we practically leave a tornado’s path of destruction through Saks, Neiman Marcus, and Versace, hunting for the perfect dresses. We settle on finds from our final destination, Gucci. I decide on a short, black, sleeveless number. Camilla buys a sky-blue and turquoise striped, one-shoulder, body-conscious dress that highlights her tanned skin perfectly. She looks like the latest “it” supermodel. We head over to Pelo Bonito, where we get French mani-pedis. Camilla’s stylist coifs our hair, turning my frizzed-out nightmare into smooth ringlets and Camilla’s waist-length tendrils into a silky, black waterfall.

  “Oh shit,” Camilla says as she checks the clock on her iPhone. “We don’t have time to drive back home to change before the party. Do you mind if we change here, Lucinda?” she asks her stylist.

  “Not at all, love.” Lucinda shows us to a massage room in the back of the salon. “You can get ready here.”

  “Thanks,” Camilla and I say in unison. We jump into our dresses and slip on our new coordinating stilettos. I immediately kick the shoes off and tell Camilla I’ll put them on when we get to the party. I don’t want to try to walk through the mall wearing those beasts. I may be feeling down about everything right now, but I’m not suicidal, for Christ’s sake.

  “Wait. My phone,” I say and sigh. “We need to go back to my house, remember?”

  “Evie, don’t you think you can wait until tomorrow to call your boyfriend?” Camilla says. By the look on her face, I know she won’t be taking me home to get the phone. I guess if I’m going to survive the year here in DC, I’d better not piss off anyone during my first night out. Javier will just have to understand.

  “Fine,” I answer, trying not to let the disappointment show on my face.

  Camilla’s smile widens, and her eyes gleam with excitement. “Awesome! Let’s go. We’ve got some major partying to do.”

  Great.

  On the way to the Redfield’s house, Camilla fills me in on a few bits of must-know social information. She reveals to me that her boyfriend, Christian, is the front man of an indie band that happens to be the biggest thing on the East Coast. The band, Systemic Purgatory, is on the cusp of blowing up because their manager has just gotten one of their songs on some teen-book-turned-movie soundtrack. She rambles on and on about how utterly hot and utterly cool he is. I think I might laugh at one point, because no guy can b
e as perfect as she describes—except Javier, and there’s only one of him, so . . .

  Also, Christian’s brother, Jude, is dating the biggest bitch in DC, Laurel Danton. Laurel is a super-rich snob who just so happens to be Camilla’s arch nemesis since their freshman year. Laurel had spread a stupid rumor that Camilla’s dad was an exiled Colombian drug lord. This girl was definitely going to be at the party tonight, because she’s always hanging around the Redfield place with Jude, making Camilla’s life a living hell. Camilla swears that the only reason Laurel even dates Jude is to get back at her. Laurel wants Camilla’s head on a platter for some imagined injustice perpetrated on her in their freshman year when Camilla attended the spring formal with Laurel’s love interest.

  “It’s so juvenile. I mean, he and I were just friends. Not my fault that he couldn’t stand her.” She shrugs, trying to be nonchalant, but her face is pure hostility.

  We arrive at our destination, a mid-century-era mansion worthy of Architectural Digest. I note this aloud, and Camilla informs me that indeed the house has been featured in the magazine, and that Mrs. Redfield had the article framed and mounted in the foyer, where it’s the first thing visitors see when they walk through the door. Classy.

  It’s eight o’clock, early by wild-teenage-party standards, but already the winding driveway is lined with cars. Camilla eases around the haphazardly parked Mercedes, BMWs, Land Rovers, and the occasional Lambo, and pulls up to the five-car detached garage on the east side of the house.

  “I think my baby will be safe here. No one likes to get blocked in, so they don’t park this close to the house,” she says, and I smile inwardly at our shared motherly love for our cars. Suddenly I’m thinking of my own “baby,” of Spain, and of Javier. A wave of heartache crashes over me so intensely that I have to grip the armrest on the door to steady myself before exiting the car. I take a deep breath and follow Camilla down a stone path illuminated by twinkling string lights, and in through the front door. Sure enough, there’s the ostentatious framed article hanging on the wall. Camilla gives me a look: Told you so.

  We turn left and follow a long, dark hallway that opens up to a den. Bookcases full of leather-bound volumes line the walls. A fireplace across the room crackles and pops as flames leap skyward, dispersing the comforting aroma of burning wood throughout the house. A group of people sit on pillows on the floor, surrounding a coffee table. Others, engaged in hushed conversations, sit facing each other on leather sofas. The Pixies’ “Wave of Mutilation” plays on the sound system—a decidedly subdued tune for an allegedly raucous party. I had previously imagined that I would walk into blaring Rage Against the Machine.

  “There you are,” a silky-smooth voice purrs from behind us. We do an abrupt about-face, and instantly everything Camilla has told me about her boyfriend is validated. The first thing I see is a mass of sandy-blond curls. Then eyes the color of the Mediterranean on a calm, summer day meet mine. His petal-pink, bow-shaped lips, accentuated with high cheekbones and a cleft chin, flash a sly smile. His face is so beautifully symmetrical, that I wonder if he’s had cosmetic surgery, perhaps on his perfectly proportioned nose or on his creamy, clear skin. Then someone so remarkably similar in appearance walks up, and I know without a doubt that it’s his brother, Jude, and that these two were born with their celestial good looks.

  “Evie, I presume,” says Christian, taking my hand and kissing it in that long-gone, nineteenth-century, gentlemanly way that some find lame, but I find charming. Camilla must’ve forgotten to mention his sexy-as-hell British accent. I glance down from his face to his hands and notice the tribal tattoos snaking up both lean arms, momentarily hidden under the tight sleeves of his Ramones tee, and ending in black flames at the base of his neck. The tats give his rather effeminate face a decidedly harder edge. This guy is all rock-star divinity, for sure. I’m positive that my stare is awash with the awe of a star-struck teenager, so I force my gaze to Jude, who’s standing at Christian’s side and giving me a knowing smirk. I drop my eyes to the floor, immediately overcome with the blush inducing heat of embarrassment.

  “Oh, knock it off, Christian,” Camilla snorts, smacking him on the shoulder, and Christian scoops her up into his arms.

  “Do you mind if I steal her away for a while, Evie?” Christian asks with a conspiratorial wink. “Jude will show you around and keep you company.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Christian carries Camilla off toward a dark doorway on the opposite side of the room.

  “Don’t worry, Evie, it’ll only take a few minutes; it always does,” Camilla calls over Christian’s shoulder, squealing as he punishes her for the insult with a playful bite to the neck. They disappear into the darkness as I stand, hot-faced and blinking, at Jude, who rolls his eyes and sighs in exasperation.

  “I’m Jude, by the way.” He extends a hand out to me. “Sorry, those two are obnoxious. Obnoxiously in love, I guess. Come on, I’ll show you around.”

  He leads me across the room to where the group of tattooed, funky-glasses-and-all-black-wearing hipsters sit on the floor surrounding a table, snorting lines of some white powder that I assume is cocaine. They’re casually discussing their favorite unknown bands as if doing drugs is the most common thing in the world. Jude interrupts them and introduces me with my first name only, informing them that I’m new in town. The only greetings I receive are cool, dismissive head nods from a couple of the guys.

  Jude says to me as we walk away, “Those are Christian’s friends, and they’re pretty much all douche bags, so . . .” What he wants to say is “so don’t take their ignoring you personally.” But he’s too nice to say so.

  He continues the tour of the house, stopping occasionally to introduce me to wandering partiers we happen upon—classmates at the Cross, Christian’s friends, and their McLean neighbors. They are all sipping alcohol, or dragging on joints, or popping varied-colored pills, or doing some combination of the three. I’m starting to realize that when the rich party, the drugs are a little more hard-core than the typical high-schooler’s fare.

  Our final stop is the crowded back terrace, where a DJ is busy spinning the latest top-forty hits, infusing them with funky beats as a sea of bodies gyrates to the booming bass. A tall, lanky blonde, with a snarl on her lips, marches up to us, and I take a large step backward for safety’s sake.

  “Jude! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

  “I was showing the new girl around,” Jude says, motioning to me. “Evie, this is Laurel, my girlfriend. Laurel—Evie, said new girl.”

  “Hi,” I say, timidly offering her my hand. She ignores it and instead gives me an exaggerated once over.

  “Gucci Ready-to-Wear?” she asks, hands on hips, daggers shooting from her cold, gray eyes. I nod and, for some reason, I feel lame. She rolls her eyes as if to verify that, indeed, I am. “Come on, Jude, I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

  Jude gives me an apologetic shrug as she drags him back toward the house—so much for Jude keeping me company.

  I wander over to a chest-high stone wall separating the terrace from the rose garden and prop myself against it, placing my chin in my palm. I watch as the party-goers dance to the DJ’s music, whooping and hollering in approval as he plays different songs they apparently like.

  A feeling of sadness begins to creep up in me. I do not belong at this party, let alone in DC. I belong back in Spain with Javier, with Coralea, with the people and culture I’ve grown to love and respect. I do not want to be living in this shallow, soulless place. I realize that perhaps I no longer value the same things that American kids my age do, such as partying, fashion, and whose family has the most money. None of that matters to me in the least anymore. I don’t think it ever did, actually. Having traveled widely with my family, I’ve witnessed too much suffering in the world to ever believe that any of those things are important, regardless of how much the media here tries to make me believe otherwise. I’ve seen extreme poverty, firsthand. I’ve seen what not hav
ing enough food or clean water can do to small children. These experiences have given me a perspective on life that not many people my age have, or care to have. Yet, here I am in the very belly of the demon, participating like the sheep I apparently am. What would my socially conscious mother think of me becoming part of this crowd?

  “Why so serious?” someone suddenly says to me.

  Huh? I spin around, and I am at eye level with his hulking shoulders. I look up into curious eyes so light brown in color that they appear golden. His classically sculptured face is framed with dark, cascading curls, and the hint of a smile plays on his lips.

  “Excuse me?” I stammer, a bit stunned, both by the question and his handsome face.

  “Why so serious?” he repeats, but this time the smile escapes his lips and lights up his eyes. “I’ve been watching you for about ten minutes from down there,” he points toward the dance floor, “and you’ve been standing here the entire time with a huge frown on your face. So I thought I’d come up and make sure you’re okay, because you’re all alone.”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine,” I lie. I’m not going to tell a complete stranger my worries, especially this particular stranger. The way he’s staring at me so intensely with those strangely colored eyes makes me feel more than a little uncomfortable. But then I realize I’m staring right back at him.

  “Are you wearing colored contacts?” I murmur, distracted, and grimace when I realize I’ve spoken the words out loud. Sometimes my mouth has absolutely no filter, and I could kick myself for it. He laughs, as if sensing my discomfort.

  “No, they’re a trait passed down on my Italian side.” He gives me a kind smile and extends his hand. “I’m Alexander Bartolomeo.”

  “Camilla’s Xander?” I take his hand and give it a weak shake. I can’t take my eyes off his face; I really wasn’t expecting him to be so good-looking—or so darn charming, for that matter. Thanks for the warning, Camilla!

  “Yeah, I was hoping I would get to you before she could fill your head full of lies about me,” he laughs; but the look on his face makes me think he’s not joking.