Jet Set

by Carrie Karasyov

  I lifted my racket high, amazed that after such a stressful term of insecurity and outsider status, I could send the whole school cheering. I walked over to shake the hand of Amazon, who still seemed sideswiped by my late bloom in the match, and as I was turning away, Antony bear-hugged me from behind.

  I was elated, but as we made our way off the court, I looked back at the stand where Oliver had been sitting. Empty. Angelina was there and gave me a thumbs-up sign. That was nice, but I had hoped Oliver would see my win before heading to prep for his match. Did he know how much he’d helped me? Would we get to reconnect and be friends again?

  Chapter Forty-Two

  When I rolled over the next morning I thought I would die. I felt sore everywhere. My arms, my legs, even my teeth hurt! After the tennis match, I had gone to the caffè in town and danced the night away to celebrate. I had thumped and bumped to crazy house music until three in the morning with Antony and Rioko and even the Diamonds. Everyone in the school was there partying, and I was a little bit of a celebrity since I had beaten a Gagosian.

  But this morning I was in agony. The worst part was that it was the night of the ball. Like, the most important social event of the year! And I was going to need a bottle of Advil to get me out of bed.

  “Lucy, you awake?” Rioko shouted from the hall.

  I opened my door to find her standing there in her robe, holding two jewelry boxes.

  “Sorry if I wake you, but what do you think, red or blue necklace?”

  She snapped open both cases and revealed the most gorgeous ruby necklace and an exquisite sapphire necklace that took my breath away.

  “Wow, Rioko, those are drop-dead!” I said.

  “I know, I know. But which one with the dress? I don’t want to look like the cheesy romance novelist who wears gobs of jewelry.”

  “Why don’t we wait and see when you are actually trying on the dress?”

  “Good idea; I didn’t even think of this,” she said with a sigh of relief. “Hey, do you want to get ready together?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Let me just hop in the shower.”

  By the time I was done with the shower, the “team” had arrived and Rioko was already getting ready. The “team” was a personal hairdresser for each of us, a makeup artist, two manicurists, and a reflexologist to make sure any unwanted anxiety was rubbed away. When I’d tried to protest that I didn’t need any help getting ready (because seriously, how could I afford it?), Rioko didn’t want to hear it, and paid for it as a surprise. It was totally decadent, but this was a tradition at Van Pelt. They took these events beyond seriously. I mean, extra security was called in to guard jewels, and Europe’s top chefs were flown in to make us an incredible meal. The band for the ball had played at Charles and Camilla’s nuptials, and there was to be a special “surprise” entertainer who would bring down the house at the end of the night. Last year it was Jennifer Lopez. The year before? Elton John. Even the Rolling Stones had played when one of Mick’s kids attended Van Pelt. Insanity.

  “This is the life,” I said as I leaned back on my bed and let the reflexologist massage my feet. I was in heaven.

  The previous night I’d had a lot of fun with Antony. He was so thrilled that I won the match, and I think he was also proud that he was with me. All night people kept coming up to me and congratulating me, and every time he would put his arm around me, like I was his trophy. And it felt nice. Well, most of the time. There was one moment, when Oliver came over and gave me a peck in that polite British schoolboy way and told me I was “brilliant on the court,” that I wished Antony was not hovering around. Oliver’s eyes darted from me to him and it looked like he wanted to say something more, but then Antony burst into his rant of how awesome I was, his “little cutie,” and then Oliver left quickly. I didn’t see him for the rest of the night.

  And now I was going to the ball with Antony. I was excited, but I still wished I were going with Oliver. I felt terrible about that. But the heart wants what it wants.

  “Hello? Lucy?”

  Rioko’s voice woke me from my daydream. I sat up.

  “Huh?”

  A big smile flashed across her face. “Thinking about your man?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I almost wanted to tell her. To confide in her that I wasn’t into Antony, that I wanted Oliver, when suddenly something caught my eye out the window. And that something was Oliver. He was walking across the lawn toward our dorm. My heart started beating faster. Had my prince come for me? I sounded like such a loser. But what if? Then, as quickly as my thoughts had appeared the bubble popped, and I saw Angelina walking toward Oliver. He smiled and gave her a peck on the cheek, and then handed her a small white rose corsage. They both laughed as if he had told a joke, and then parted. My heart sank to the bottom of the ocean. Like that heart thing the old lady chucked into the water in Titanic.

  “Are you okay?” asked Rioko, noticing my grimace.

  “Yeah,” I said softly.

  She looked at me curiously, and before I could explain there was a knock on the door.

  “Who is it?” I yelled as the hairdresser tugged at my hair and the manicurist filed away.

  “Delivery!” boomed the voice on the other side of the door.

  “Maybe it’s a corsage for you!” said Rioko with excitement. Rioko was genuinely happy for me that I had a date. She knew that I had my concerns about Antony, as did she, but she was such a positive person that once I said he was okay, she had chosen to look favorably on him. She even said she was living vicariously through me because her date for the evening was the oboeist from her orchestra, a large German boy who unfortunately resembled Augustus Gloop from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

  “Come in!” I yelled.

  The door opened and a deliveryman with a large wrapped bouquet stood on the threshold.

  “Delivery from Antony for Lucy Peterson,” he announced.

  I couldn’t help but smile. So, Antony had come through and sent me flowers. That was so nice. Okay, maybe they weren’t from Oliver, but hey, what girl will turn down a boy who sends her flowers?

  “I’ll sign for you,” said Rioko, hopping up from her makeup chair. “This is so fantastic!”

  For the first time I felt a flutter of excitement for the night’s festivities. Rioko handed me the package, and I carefully started unwrapping the flowers.

  “Come on, just rip it open!” said the hairdresser.

  “No, she wants to savor it,” said Rioko. “That’s smart.”

  I felt like I was peeling the paper from a delicious ice-cream cone. I swirled the paper round and round until I finally reached the flowers and…gasped.

  “What the bloody hell is that?” squealed the makeup artist, a chatty British woman who had just been on tour with Christina Aguilera and was full of gossip about her makeup habits.

  The flowers looked like dead weeds. They were painted black and had that sickening stench of rotting plants.

  “It must be a mistake,” said Rioko.

  “Let me look at the card,” I said. It must be, I thought. Then I read the card:

  I would never go to the ball with you, slut. Antony.

  I thought I would throw up. I jumped up, handed Rioko the card, and threw the flowers in the bathroom garbage.

  “This can’t be right,” said Rioko.

  My eyes were stinging with tears. This was humiliating! Horrible!

  “Why would he do this?” I asked, the tears starting to flow.

  “Don’t cry, love, I just did your makeup,” said the makeup artist, attempting a joke.

  Rioko came into the bathroom with me and closed the door.

  “Did something happen last night?” she asked carefully.

  “No, we had a great time. Everything was good.”

  I went through the entire night in my mind. We danced, he walked me back to the dorm. We made out, and that was that. Maybe he wanted to get more busy with me? Had I rebuffed him? But I thought we had an understanding. And w
hy would he call me a slut?

  “You have to call him,” advised Rioko.

  “Are you high? There’s no way I’m calling him.”

  “Then let me.”

  She started to pick up the phone and I stopped her. “Please! Don’t do that. It’s humiliating.”

  “But we have to find out why.”

  “Okay,” I said, relenting. “But you call and, like, pretend you want to find out what time he’s picking me up. Pretend the flowers haven’t gotten here yet.”

  “Okay,” said Rioko.

  She dialed his number on her cell phone and we waited as if we were contestants on American Idol trying to find out if America had voted for us. Finally Antony answered.

  “Hey, Antony,” said Rioko. She held the phone out so that we could both hear him. “It’s Rioko.”

  “Who?” he asked—in my opinion, somewhat rudely.

  “Rioko—you know, Lucy’s friend?”

  “Oh, right-o. Hi.”

  “I was wondering what time you’re picking Lucy up?”

  “Oh, we planned on seven.”

  We planned on seven! Rioko shot me a look. He didn’t sound like he was about to bag.

  “And are you planning on getting her flowers?” asked Rioko. I shook my head, not wanting her to proceed, but she shushed me.

  “Of course. I’m bringing a lovely corsage. Don’t you worry, Rioko, it’s all taken care of.”

  “So you didn’t send her flowers today?” asked Rioko.

  “No, should I have?” asked Antony quickly. “I didn’t know that was the tradition. God, did I flub it all up? Shoot, do you know who I could call last minute?”

  My eyes widened as I looked at Rioko. So they weren’t from him! I signaled for Rioko to hang up.

  Rioko quickly reassured Antony that he didn’t have to get me additional flowers and got off the phone quickly.

  “There’s only one person who could have sent those,” I said, arms folded.

  “Who?”

  “Sofia.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  So, 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.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The 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: breathtak
ing, 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.