by Sophie Davis
“Have you been following her disappearance?” Kim asked, turning and noticing the paper in front of me, giving the article a tap. “I can’t believe that a private school brat is national news. She probably just took off and is partying it up in Ibiza while they have the National Guard out looking for her.”
I looked up just in time to catch the tail-end of Kim’s exaggerated eye roll.
“I mean, what in Lark Kingsley’s perfect life could’ve been so hard that she would’ve needed to get away from it?”
The question was rhetorical, but I felt the need to answer anyway. “If that’s what happened, I’m sure she had her reasons,” I said evenly. “Whenever something or somebody seems too good to be true, it probably is.”
Kim ran one hand over her extremely short hair and regarded me dubiously. She hadn’t expected me to commiserate with the missing girl. That made two of us.
I covered the awkward silence that followed with a nervous laugh, slightly embarrassed and surprised that I’d jumped to the defense of a girl I’d never met, and probably would hate if I did.
“Anyway,” Kim began, “here are the keys. This one,” she indicated a silver key, “goes to the main door downstairs. This,” she pulled a gold key free, “goes to the deadbolt. And the third goes to the bottom lock on the front door.”
Taking the keys, my chest swelled with pride. The weight of them felt good in my hand. Just like with the car, this small step felt monumental. My new beginning was really happening. I’d actually made it out of my town, one of those places where almost no one ever left.
The Capital Hostel, my home for only one more night, was only two miles from the Gibson Street apartment, but the bus’s frequent stops and roundabout path of travel made the return trip longer than necessary. So, I popped earbuds in, hit “play” on one of my chill playlists, and gave the journal another go. While I messily jotted down the details of my trip to rent an apartment – the bus ride was bumpy – my mind kept wandering back to the missing girl: Lark Kingsley. Her blue eyes were so haunted. That smile reminded me of a celebrity on the red carpet, like she’d practiced it in the mirror until only the most discerning eye could spot it as a fake.
I thought about what Kim had said. Had the young socialite actually just run away? Or was foul play involved? The title of the article simply said she’d disappeared.
At the convenience store two blocks from the hostel, I bought a box of granola bars and a diet soda. Instead of going back to my room, I chose to take advantage of the sunshine and set up camp on a park bench in McPherson Square. I preferred the outdoors. I wasn’t claustrophobic or anything, but the cinder-block walls, tiny square window, and metal bunk beds in the hostel were downright institutional. The thought of spending the afternoon in there made my arms itch.
D.C. was insanely humid this time of year, the air heavy with oppressive moisture. I’d read that the city was built on a swamp, so it wasn’t that surprising. But the sky was a clear blue, and every so often a gentle breeze swept past, ruffling my hair and making the heat bearable.
I traded my music for the chatter of the men and women on their lunch breaks, catching snippets of conversations about the government sequestration and possible shutdown. My shorts, tank top, and flip-flops were out of place among the boring business suits worn by the political crowd, but I still felt sophisticated. This was a whole new life for me. One I couldn’t wait to really become a part of.
The bench I’d claimed was ten yards from a row of newspaper stands. The same picture that I’d examined on Kim’s counter was staring at me from behind the glass window of the Post stand. After nearly an hour of people watching I walked over, deposited four quarters, and removed a copy from the stack inside.
The article about Lark Kingsley’s disappearance spanned three pages in addition to the front page. According to her parents, the socialite had been planning a celebratory trip with her friends, a week-long getaway to the British Virgin Islands before starting at Columbia University next week. The Kingsleys’ driver had taken the girl and her luggage to JFK nearly ten days ago. But she didn’t get on the plane.
Her friends claimed she’d called them to say something came up and that she would catch a later flight to meet them in St. Barts. She never showed. One of her friends – a girl who wished to remain anonymous – said that Lark’s behavior had been erratic of late, so failing to show up wasn’t that out of character. When asked why none of the girls called the Kingsleys to let them know that Lark never made it there, the nameless friend was quoted as saying, “We didn’t want to get her into trouble.” An entire week passed before Lark’s parents were made aware of the fact their daughter had vanished.
“They sound like great friends,” I muttered sarcastically under my breath.
Lark’s friends, family, teachers, and even the priest at her local church had been interviewed. Everyone described the missing girl as “smart,” “well-liked,” “popular,” and “happy.” As I stared at the photo montage of Lark Kingsley’s life, I knew the first three might be true, but the latter was probably a façade. In one picture, she stood between two girls, her thin arms slung around their shoulders and that contrived grin on her beautiful face. All three wore white collared shirts, plaid skirts, and blazers with their school logo prominently displayed on the left breast.
Another showed Lark with two people, who I assumed were her parents. Her father was nothing short of a silver fox, though the silver was mostly just around his temples. His face was tan and appropriately lined for a man in his late forties – no Botox in that forehead – like he spent a lot of time on the family yacht. Her mother was gorgeous, with blonde hair in a perfect bun high on her head and big innocent eyes in a shade of blue that matched her daughter’s. They were all dressed in formal wear. A classic black tuxedo for the patriarch of the family, and long dark gowns on the two ladies. A short, thick pearl necklace with the largest ruby I’d ever seen was fastened around Mrs. Kingsley’s neck. Dime-sized pearls blotted out both of her earlobes. In contrast, Lark’s ears and throat were bare. Apparently she wasn’t as keen to be a walking billboard for the family business as her mother was.
The last picture screamed, “Prom.” In it, Lark stood facing a prep school, cookie-cutter boy. He was definitely good-looking, but in a generic short of way. While Lark smiled for the camera, the boy smiled only for her. I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy noticing the way he looked at her; no boy had ever looked at me quite like that.
I ran my fingers over the page, the ink subtly staining the pads black. The caption under the prom picture read, “Adam Ridell.” His name was vaguely familiar, and it took me a minute to realize why – there was a Senator Ridell from New York. Adam was probably his son. It wasn’t surprising actually, since Lark Kingsley looked the type of girl who dated sons of senators. The more I learned about the missing girl, the more I was intrigued. On paper, her life was perfect: money, looks, friends, college-bound, and a boyfriend. But the haunted expression she had in every picture told me her life was much like an iceberg. And it was what lay beneath the surface that interested me most.
“Excuse me, miss?”
I glanced up from the paper to see a filthy man standing before me. He wore dirt-caked jeans three sizes too large for his thin frame. Over a dark red tee, he’d layered a once-white button-down, a green cardigan, and a mud-brown trench.
“Spare some change,” he offered me a gummy grin, “so I can get some lunch?”
“Sure. One sec.” I withdrew my wallet from the messenger bag and began rifling through it. My heart sank when I realized that I didn’t have any cash left. The rest of my money was tucked safely away in the glove box of the Corolla. “I’m sorry. Looks like I don’t have any cash. How about a granola bar?”
I offered the open box to the homeless man.
“God bless you, girl,” he said, then snatched two of the bars and backed away.
I watched him go, wondering what had gone so wrong in his life t
hat he was reduced to begging for meals. Like so many others, had he returned from war to find that he no longer felt at home in the country he’d fought for? Had mental illness taken him from a penthouse to the homeless shelter? Or maybe he’d spent his entire life on the streets, literally begging to survive. Whatever the reason, I hated that I had no more to offer than two granola bars.
Californication is the only way to wake up. Not the show, the song. I set my iPod to play it every morning precisely at 6 a.m., and it simply eases me into awareness. This morning is no different.
I rolled over in my king-sized canopy bed as soon as the Chili Peppers song began, letting the slow thrum of the guitar wash over me. As the song picked up the pace, so did I. I stretched amid the piles of pillows I insisted on sleeping in the middle of and luxuriated in the feel of the 800-thread-count sheets against my bare legs and arms.
The iPod switched to the next song on my morning playlist, and I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Using the mahogany post for leverage, I sunk my feet into the plush periwinkle carpet that I’d chosen when we first moved to this penthouse. I’d never told anyone, but I picked it because it matched my eyes. I yawned and rubbed my face as I made my way into the attached bathroom to start the shower. Using the remote, I turned up the music before stepping under the stream.
As I showered, I sang along with one song after the next.
Slightly more awake, I plopped down at my antique vanity clad in a Turkish bathrobe. I opened my eyes wide to put in my contacts, then blinked back at my reflection. Good morning, Lark, I thought to myself. Ready for another day? Yep, the carpet matched the eye color perfectly. It was my signature feature amidst others that weren’t too shabby: eyes that were so bright blue, the color almost couldn’t pass for real. I hadn’t begun wearing contacts until just before my family moved to Manhattan from Greenwich, both at my mother’s insistence. Because, of course, how could I be a society “It” girl when I lived in Connecticut? Yep, that’s my mother.
Quickly drying and straightening my golden hair, I ruminated on how much my mother contributed to my morning routine. I was only eighteen, but a whole score of anti-aging and wrinkle creams littered the glass top of my vanity. Whatever was the newest “thing,” that’s what I was supposed to use. Under her tutelage, I would look eighteen forever. She hoped. I’m sure if I didn’t, it would somehow be all my fault.
I pulled out of my thoughts and realized what track the iPod was now on. If I didn’t hurry, I would be late. Though I’d been raised to always make an entrance, I secretly hated being late to anything except parties.
I quickly grabbed my school’s uniform from the right side of my walk-in closet and pulled off the dry cleaning bag while I chose shoes. Posh accessories were considered just as mandatory as the designer uniforms, so I grabbed a long layered necklace and matching earrings from the jewelry case in the center of my closet as I hurried past. Five bangles, my always-present Cartier watch, and two spritzes of Vera Wang Princess perfume later, I was out the door.
Despite how much I knew it irritated my mother, I rushed down the steps. She sat at the informal breakfast table downstairs, though it was anything but informal. She was in the midst of her own morning routine, the front section of the New York Times spread in front of her, a plate with a single egg white and sugar-free yogurt set dismissively to the side. I knew this scene would only remain set until both my father and I were gone for the day; at that point she’d cast aside the important news in favor of the Style section, which determined how she’d spend the next several hours. My mother never let on that this was how she spent her mornings; I’d witnessed this routine only when I stayed home sick from school and snuck downstairs. She’d call those who appeared within the Style pages to congratulate them on this accomplishment, then phone selective others to dish on everything the former had done wrong. Of course, my mother told us that she spent her mornings “organizing the household,” not letting the fact that we had a full staff sully her own image of herself.
I reached for a croissant from the tray on the side table, before picturing the disapproving glare that it would surely bring. Sighing, I took an apple instead.
“Good morning, Mother,” I said, mustering the fortitude to turn and face her.
“Good morning, dear,” she replied, her gaze sweeping from the crown of my head to the rounded toes of my black Manolos, just as I knew it would. Finished with her cursory assessment, she focused on my eyes.
“Lark, sweetie, are you tired? You look tired. Maybe you should go back upstairs and rest a little longer.” She insisted I sleep for eight hours every single night, even if that meant I slept late and missed my morning classes. These were the priorities she attempted to pass on to me.
“I’m fine, Mother I’m not tired at all,” I said, backing out of the room. “I have a quiz first period, and I can’t miss it.”
“Well, fine then, but do try to nap later. And maybe some concealer would help those dark circles.”
I rolled my eyes; I just couldn’t help it. “You’ve got it, Mother. I’ll see you later.”
“Oh, and Lark?” she called to my retreating form.
I paused, defeated. I’d almost made it out the door and evaded her signature departing dig.
“Let me know next time you run out of Argon Oil, sweetie. We can’t have you running around with frizzy hair.”
I didn’t even bother responding, just continued my path to the front door and freedom from her constantly appraising eye. I knew she’d also critiqued my outfit just as she did those in the paper, taking note of exactly what didn’t work. Since her personality was the passive-aggressive sort, she would simply remove the offensive items from my closet.
On the walk to school I switched over to a motivational soundtrack on my iPod, akin to Rocky listening to Eye of the Tiger before a big match. Sure, it was dramatic, but sometimes I did need to steel myself before the daily jungle known as high school. I smiled to myself thinking of the scene in Mean Girls, where they turn into the African jungle animals. Tina Fey must have gone to Gracen Academy while researching the script.
After three blocks I turned a corner and walked up the wide stone steps to Gracen, wondering what people would do if I ran up them and jumped in triumph with my hands in the air, a la Rocky, upon reaching the top. Knowing this crowd, it would become a thing. Yes, that was me, the trendsetter.
Standing front and center in the courtyard that was just beyond the archway at the top of the stairs were seven children of the wealthiest, most powerful families in all of Manhattan. Add myself, and we made up what others had dubbed the Elite Eight. Always wearing the latest accessories, always carrying the newest electronics, we were at once envied and loathed, reviled and revered, but were always the center of attention. The eyes of Gracen were forever on us.
After approaching the group and giving air kisses all around – yes, we do that, a grim facsimile of our parents – I checked my watch and announced I was going to grab a latte. My instinct was to ask if anyone wanted one, but I knew that would be answered only with smiles barely veiling looks of scorn. My friends had never understood why I got my own coffee each morning instead of sending a freshman to do my bidding. But that wasn’t really my style. I had two legs and was perfectly capable of using them.
Walking to the coffee shop always took twice as long without my headphones in, so I popped in the earbuds as I departed. Maybe it’s mean, but it’s so much easier when you can pretend that you don’t hear people calling your name as you walk by. I’m normally great at playing the part. The schmoozing and air kissing, and telling everyone how great they look, come naturally to me. As they should. Mother has been coaching me since birth. But a girl does need her morning caffeine fix in order to bring her A-game.
I smiled and waved at people as I passed, but didn’t stop until I reached Gracen Gourmet Café. Adorable, I know.
Sighing, I thought about the day ahead. As much as my mother obsessed about my looks,
that was how much my father obsessed about my future. I was enrolled in one of the best schools in the country, and I had to work hard to keep up. My old school in Greenwich wasn’t anything to scoff at, but I’d been able to breeze through with A’s without much effort. Here there wasn’t any breezing involved; they loaded us down with so many AP’s that most students would have the credits for freshman year of college completed before ever setting foot on a college campus.
One thing I’d never understood was how so many of these hard-partying mini-socialites had time for both their scandalous exploits and not just keeping up with our schoolwork, but excelling in it. There were exceptions, of course, but almost everyone in the school was Ivy-bound, and even those exceptions would likely have their way bought into one. I wasn’t a goody-goody by any means, but I restricted my drinking and partying to the weekends.
Around here that was not the norm. Despite the fact it was before first period, not even 8 o’clock yet, Cindy Sheffield – whose father was a big-time Broadway producer – was sitting at a corner table in the café, splashing something from her ever-present flask into her mocha. I took an occasional puff on a joint when one was being passed if I was in the mood, but there were many like Jeff Maddow, who put Visine in his eyes between every class. And then, of course, there were those with the telltale red nostrils, who were always sneaking off to the bathroom with fellow Rudolph doppelgangers.