“You’re the tennis player?” asked Victoria with an edge in her voice as she looked me up and down again.
“Um, yes! That’s me. I feel like I should be in all whites or something!” I said awkwardly, realizing my identity was already branded on campus.
“I love tennis,” said Iman dreamily, not looking at me. “Tiggy, let’s hit later!”
“Okay, well…see ya,” Victoria said coldly, dismissing me. It was as if she’d said “Scram, new girl!” I felt embarrassed and outsidery, clearly not wanted in their vicinity. Not that I really cared. I wasn’t coming to Van Pelt to be the equivalent of homecoming queen: I wanted to nail my classes and kick butt on the courts and get into a top university. While the lounge was stunning, I really had zero desire to socialize there and waste time. I was at Van Pelt to excel.
I didn’t dare ask Sofia about them until we were in my room with the door closed.
“So, are those, like, the power clique people?” I said, trying to be funny and sarcastic.
Sofia’s smile widened into a big grin. She nodded. The ice was broken. Each school I went to, I knew the drill. There was always a pretty posse that ruled the school.
“You got it. They’re called the Diamonds. Everyone knows who they are. Antigone is Theodoro Papadapolis’s daughter.”
My face was blank.
“You know,” said Sofia with a slight eye roll. “The billionaire Greek shipping magnate. And Iman is the Princess of Zamumba. You have heard of Zamumba, haven’t you?”
No. “Yes, of course.”
“And Victoria is a Von Hapsburg. I guess a princess or something, but then aren’t all those Europeans titled in one way or another?”
“Not any that I know.” I was seriously in awe. A princess? Two princesses? I’d never mingled with royals. Now some things were starting to make sense: when I sent in my enrollment contracts, I also had to sign a thick document involving silence to the press, to prevent student spies from gabbing about their illustrious classmates.
“We can dish more about them later,” Sofia said with a sly wink. “Unfortunately they’re in our sectional. So what do you think of your room?”
I had been too preoccupied by the amazing tour (and students straight out of the catalog) to look around fully and take it all in. My room was insane. As big as the house my family lived in when I was little. The furniture was immaculately restored antiques. Oil paintings and scenic watercolors caged in gold frames hung on the walls. The toile curtains framed a window that looked out on the picturesque Swiss Alps. And what was most amazing was that, unlike my classmates, I hadn’t flown in a decorator to custom appoint the room; it had been left as is by my predecessor, the student who had lived in it the previous year. She’d breezed out of there leaving every last curtain tassel. I guess since it had been all made specifically for this room, she didn’t need it when she left. I drank it all in, still shocked I was even there. But right at that moment, what was beckoning me was the king-size bed that loomed in the corner, with fluffy white sheets and a giant cashmere throw draped across the end. I just wanted to dive in and sleep, sleep, sleep.
Sofia seemed to notice I was tired, so she gave me a small hug.
“Listen, do not let those wretched beeyotches get you down,” she instructed. “Now rest up and come knock on my door when you’re up to it. You’re going to love it here, promise!” She smiled. She headed for the door and then turned back to me at the last second. “And, dahling, don’t worry about the whole scholarship thing. My lips are sealed.”
Chapter Three
The blood slowly ran out of my face.
“Um…yeah. So much for confidentiality on the financial aid form,” I stammered, trying to laugh it off. But inside I was livid. The fact that I was on a full ride was not need-to-know info for my fellow students; I suddenly felt branded as the bum of Van Pelt.
“Hey, don’t fret, dahling,” she said. Her voice had the regal diction of Queen Elizabeth herself. For all I knew, they were related. I could sense already from her tour that everyone there was all two degrees apart from a throne. It was like the Kevin Bacon game but with royals.
“Well, it’s just strange having everyone know my situation,” I said, focusing on her shoes: five-inch peep-toe pumps.
“They don’t,” she said, glossy lips pursing into a Cameron-Diaz-meets-Cheshire-Cat smile. “I simply make it my business to know everything about everybody. I have my spies. But I like you, Wimbledon. You seem very observant to me. And sharp. You know, a lot of kids here don’t give a hoot about academics—it’s all about the next social event.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not incredibly social. I mean, I’d like to be, in some ways, since this is my first school where I’ll actually have time to forge a social life, but I’m really here to do well in class and play tons of tennis. And quite frankly, even if I wanted to gel with everybody, I’m not sure they’d be into me, without my ponies and all,” I joked.
“Don’t worry,” she comforted me. “No one will ever know you don’t have a billion like everyone else here. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“It’s not that I want to be secretive about my scholarship…I just don’t want it advertised,” I said. “So, how do you know so much after just one year here?” I asked.
She let out a throaty laugh like an opera singer I’d seen on TV, head thrown back dramatically, red lips parted. “Oh! Dahling,” she said, coming to sit on my bed beside me, “I am practically the eyes and ears of Van Pelt! In one year I’ve already harvested the dirt on every priss who strolls these hallowed halls. Don’t forget, I’m in the Golden Key Club. I give tours to new students but also to prospective applicants, so not only am I wandering the campus all day, I also have access to everyone’s files. Stick with me and I’ll show you the ropes, as it were.”
“Is there a lot of dirt to be had?” I asked curiously. I was semi-fascinated. I couldn’t believe Sofia admitted to being such a snoop! I kind of liked it, though. Even if I was here to score a kick-ass college spot, I was intrigued by the world I’d been plunged into, and clearly she knew every last detail about it.
“These people live the most extraordinary lives—you can’t imagine.”
I liked the way she drew out the word extraordinary, as if it were twenty syllables. She had edge. I could listen to her English accent for hours, and had a feeling I would. I could tell we had the potential to be friends—she had a fun, confident way about her, and no one else was exactly running up to meet the new chick. While we were quite different, her warm yet mischievous grin was a comfort.
“I feel like I’m at the U.N. and I’m the McDonald’s-eating American,” I confessed.
“Rubbish!” she snapped, patting my head. “There’s another American, some Texan. Oh! And a Rolling Stones offspring who was raised bicontinental—London and New York. Don’t worry. You’ll adore it here! There’s a crop of positively delicious new guys, and I watched the whole lot of them approach Le Chambord last evening. We’ll get you settled in with some lovely lad who would simply love to get all caught up in your tennis net, so to speak!”
She winked.
I blushed.
While I won’t pretend she hadn’t read my mind, it was odd to dive in so quickly to the topic of the opposite sex. Due to my rigorous tennis schedule, I hadn’t dated since I had split from a mini-relationship on the base. Since then, life had been a whirlwind of three-hour daily practices at each of my schools, travel to tournaments every weekend, and morning workouts. Not a ton of time to fall in love.
But while the tour of Van Pelt’s vast grounds intimidated me, it had planted several seeds of hope as I noticed many a hot charmer strolling by. Wait: Lucy, cut it out! I told myself. You are here for academics and tennis. With a lame average, my scholarship would poof away like these kids’ platinum card bills, and while they could spend hours studying, I had to be on the courts; I could not get distracted by the allure of some British lord or Spanish equestrian.
�
�Hold on a second.” Sofia disappeared out of my room while my mind insisted on wandering. How cool would it be to hook up with a royal? Or the child of a rock star? Although my parents would be less than thrilled with the latter. They were really strict, and my father absolutely recoiled when he saw anyone with long hair or even the smallest tattoo. I scratched the rocker from my fantasies.
“Here,” said Sofia, returning to my room and tossing a pile of European social magazines like OK! and HELLO! on my bed. “These are practically a facebook for Van Pelt. Have a gander before you crash in that bed of yours.” She smiled with a wink, patted my head, and wished me good night. I reclined into my fluffy pillow and picked up one of the magazines, looking at the glossy pictures from the Crillon international debutante ball in Paris, where all the girls were clad in couture, their escorts in white-tie and gloves. While I was happy to at least gab with Sofia, I was beginning to worry that she might be the only one I could relate to—the camera-ready perfection of the classmates I spied in the magazines kind of made me feel like I could never live up to the Van Pelt standard of beauty. I’d always been told I was pretty, but I know I’m the gal-on-the-tennis-court kind of pretty, not the Paris runway knockout. My thoughts made me weary and my eyelids began to close, and the oversize, vibrantly colored magazine slipped to the floor.
Chapter Four
I awoke to the sound of a violin. As my eyes fluttered open in a sublime, warm, cozy state of peace, I realized that the strings I heard were from a live violin. I’d forgotten that on my tour yesterday one of the things I’d learned was that violin prodigy Rioko Watanabe from Kyoto was in residence next door, complete (natch) with a million-dollar Stradivarius for performances that Daddy had bought her at auction at Doyle New York.
As I lay there drinking in my view of the Swiss Alps and listening to the rich sounds of Rioko’s music, I realized how lucky I was. “This is a wonderful opportunity for you,” my mother had said. “Even with the scholarship, it’s still costing us an arm and a leg to get you there and back, so don’t mess it up,” my dad had said. Everyone was rooting for me. I had to try and do my best and appreciate every moment.
I glanced down on the floor where the magazine had fallen. The page was open to a photograph I hadn’t seen the previous night. I didn’t have to read the caption to recognize who it was: Prince Oliver, the young second cousin of William and Harry who was really like their brother. He was also the Duke of Wickham and had been launched into the media when he suddenly had become a star tennis player last season. The world not only took notice but also embraced him—his movie-star looks and down-to-earth vibe (there were photos of him walking his golden retriever down a London street, playing in the field with his baby niece, etc.) had catapulted him onto the must-watch royal lists, along with the Monaco children and the Swedish princesses.
After gazing at the photo of him cheering on his father in a polo game in the spread, I was shocked to read the caption: Prince Oliver leaves Bath next week to return to Van Pelt. No wonder the school had such strict privacy rules. But I could tell already that no one at Van Pelt would dare gossip to the royal chasers. These students didn’t need the money, first off, and second, that would just be sooo…beneath them. This was a class-act kind of establishment.
I turned the page, hoping for more glimpses of Oliver, but instead found another human of cinema-caliber looks: Angelina de Brulen. Her moon-shaped face was accented by high cheekbones and ice blue eyes. In the photograph she wore a diamond tiara and white gown. She was listed in the caption as the Viscountess of Luxembourg. I wasn’t even quite sure what that title was, but as I’d learned in the previous twenty-four hours, there’s some kind of royal family for every infinitesimal strip of land. And that family sends its children to Van Pelt.
After I finally hauled my limp bod out of that dangerously comfortable bed, I showered in my marble bathroom (which was nicer than the bathrooms of any hotel I’d ever stayed in) and got dressed with the excited, nervous energy only a new student can feel. What lay outside my door was a mystery, and until I got on those tennis courts, I knew my racing heart would not cease.
I opened the door and walked to the room next to mine. A small plaque read SOFIA GLENN. I knocked, and her Elizabethan accent chirped a friendly “Come in!”
Her room looked cut and pasted from a château but still had hip touches—framed vintage rock-and-roll posters, a basket with piles of designer sunglasses, and an open closet filled with amazing threads (even if they were way too skimpy and bright for my taste).
“Lucy, dear!” she exclaimed, looking at my reflection as she held two potential outfits up to her skinny, toned body in a full-length gilt-framed mirror.
“Thanks for the mags. You’re right, they are like facebooks for the school….”
“Did you see that Angelina de Brulen?” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Yes. She’s gorgeous. Wait, does she go here?”
“Yes. But just for a semester. Van Pelt has a Swiss semester program where you can sign up for a term here. Some students use it as an audition to see if they like it before they commit. That way if they can’t handle it and pull out, it doesn’t look like they are dropouts. Hopefully Miss Angelina will stay.”
“You want her to stay?” I wondered.
“Oh, you know,” she said coyly. “It’s just so much more fun having a big high-profile heiress around. It’s like every day is the Oscars. Red carpets all around.”
I could see how having the pages of those magazines pop to life in the hallways or cafeteria would make for some good people watching. Which even non-scenesters like me could appreciate.
“Come on, let’s go get our class schedules.” Phew. Actual classes and stuff to do beyond gaping at our stellar constellation of famous classmates! I could see how all the glamour could be a distraction to some. But not me. I would be 100 percent focused.
Sofia guided me through the main courtyard into a small building with marble pillars. A discreet gold sign in French told me it was the registrar’s office. On the way we saw dozens of chicly clad students greeting one another, obviously happy to be reunited after a summer of yachting and sunbathing in far-flung exotic locales. I envied the ease with which they laughed and talked, and couldn’t wait until I felt fully immersed and able to do the same with a few more friends of my own.
The office had plush wall-to-wall carpeting and French antiques, enormous dark wood pieces behind which sat stern-looking Frenchwomen. They were all polished and chic in that European way, with very tailored suits and hair swept back neatly from their faces, but I kind of wished one of them would crack a smile. Sofia got her registration packet and plopped down on the settee to read through her class schedule. After I said my name, the woman behind the desk told me to wait a minute and disappeared into a back room. Seconds later, she reappeared and motioned for me to follow her. I shot Sofia a nervous look, but she mouthed Go for it so I followed the lady, who led me into an office with a middle-aged man in a business suit typing on his computer.
He smiled and motioned for me to sit down.
“Welcome to Van Pelt, Miss Peterson,” he said. “I am Monsieur Chival, the academic dean. We are so glad to have you.”
“Thank you,” I said timidly.
“How do you like Van Pelt so far?”
“It’s amazing, I can’t believe I’m here, I’m so excited….” I said, my voice trailing off.
The man nodded. “Good, good. Miss Peterson, I have here your academic packet, which includes your courses and such. We assigned you Monsieur LeComte as your advisor. I think you will find him to be a wonderful guide as you begin your journey here. And there is information about your tennis team. Coach Sachs is eagerly waiting to see you again. Says you’re quite a star in the making. We’re very lucky to have you here, Miss Peterson.”
Them lucky to have me? I blushed. I was starting to feel better. Maybe through my tennis I’d have a chance to fit in and make friends. Things were all starting to co
me together. I hoped.
Chapter Five
“You’re late,” said the man in a brusque German accent two courts away. I recognized Coach Sachs, a lanky man in his midforties with a thick mass of salt-and-pepper hair. I could feel the blood rise to my face as I picked up my pace.
“I am?” I called meekly.
“You were supposed to be here one hour ago, Miss Peterson. It’s on the schedule black as black. We’ve been loitering about waiting for you.”
I felt nauseous. I looked around at the twenty faces staring at me curiously from across the clay tennis court. One I recognized as Victoria, a member of the Diamonds. She had a haughty, arrogant look on her face, and she blew a stray hair out of her eyes in irritation. Next to her, on the baseline, was a thin guy about my age with bright red hair and a freckled complexion. He eyed me with curiosity. I gulped when I realized that standing across the net, in an immaculate white tennis outfit with the word PRADA across it, was none other than Angelina de Brulen, who appeared even more gorgeous and intimidating in person. She gazed at me evenly. Way in the back were other girls retrieving balls, and more members of the boys’ team were on the adjacent court.
“I can’t have lateness on my team,” said the coach. He had been much warmer when we’d met in Brussels at my tennis tournament. Now he seemed angry and frustrated by my tardiness. So much for Chival saying Sachs was eagerly awaiting my arrival.
As I looked down, ashamed, I caught Victoria staring at me with a weirdly satisfied, bitchy grin on her face. What was her problem? Ugh. How could I have been late? I was so careful. I had pored over the schedule, which said that tennis starts at ten on Mondays…. Great. I’d already messed it all up, got everyone to hate me, and I had only been here two days.
Jet Set Page 2
