I hadn’t gotten through reading the first page when the phone rang. “It’s Jo,” my grandfather called from the kitchen. I went in and took the receiver from his outstretched hand.
“Did you get it?” Jo breathed into the phone. I imagined she was just coming out of a back handspring or something. She certainly sounded excited.
“Get what?” I stalled.
“The invite! To Anders’ party!”
“Who?”
“I know you’ve gotten it, because I saw the limo drive toward your house after it left mine. Isn’t it exciting? Anders’ parents throw him an epic birthday party every year. When he was eight, they had the Guards Polo Club come and play a tournament just for him. When he was twelve, it was an appearance from David Beckham. Last year, I heard they had Guy Ritchie, Madonna’s ex-husband, give a special screening of his latest film before it hit the theaters!”
“What do you mean, ‘you heard’?” I said. “Weren’t you there?”
“Of course not. I’ve never been invited.”
“But you’re invited now?”
“Yes, same as you. Probably because of you, actually. We know Anders has a big crush on you, and he probably figures inviting me will convince you to go.”
I cupped my hand around my mouth and leaned into the wall in case Jo’s voice traveled out of the receiver. “First of all, we don’t know Anders likes me. All evidence points to the contrary, in fact. He’s a total jerk to me. And secondly, doesn’t he know you can’t convince me to do anything?”
“Come on, Maren, it’ll be fun!”
“Fun? What’s fun about spending an evening with an egomaniac?”
“Lots—if the egomaniac showers you with attention in front of Elsie and her crowd at his lavish mansion party,” she sang. “Wouldn’t it feel just a little amazing to have a handsome, wealthy . . .”
“Don’t forget obnoxious,” I said.
She ignored me. “. . . aristocratic lord wooing you?”
“Did you really just use the word woo?”
“It’s just one night,” she persisted. “You need to get out and have some fun! All you’ve been doing lately is staying home and moping.” She was right. I’d been miserable since Gavin left. I doubted he was sitting around crying about me. Maybe it would be good to flirt a little, mix things up. Gavin might even sense it and be overcome with a fit of cosmic jealousy. The idea perked me up a bit.
“All right,” I conceded. “I’ll go.”
“Just like that? Don’t you have to ask your grandparents first?”
“Oh yeah, good point.” I glanced over at my grandfather, who was at the kitchen table pretending to read the newspaper. He cleared his throat loudly and shook the pages for effect. “I’ll ask and call you back.”
“Tell them it’s desperately important to your social standing at school.”
“Since when do you care about that?” I asked.
“I don’t, but adults eat that stuff up. And I have to go, Maren, but I can’t go alone! This is my only shot! The gardens, the ballrooms . . . I’ve heard they even have a solid gold toilet. I’m going to pee on that toilet.”
“Fantastic visual,” I said. “Thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome,” she giggled. The funny thing was, I knew she wasn’t joking. Peeing on the Campbells’ gold toilet would be the highlight of her year. “Ring me back soon as you know,” she concluded.
Immediately after I hung up, my grandfather abandoned his paper pretense. “So, what’s this I hear about a party?”
“It’s nothing.” I shrugged. “Just a birthday party for a guy in my class.”
“And what fine gentleman is requesting your company?” he said, eyes twinkling.
“He is a gentleman, actually, by title or something. But I’m not sure he’s fine. His name is Anders Campbell.”
“Campbell?” my grandfather practically spat on the table. “Good-for-nothing clan, the Campbells. Their name means ‘crooked mouth,’ you know. Can’t trust ’em.”
“All of them?” I said sarcastically. “Every single Campbell is untrustworthy?”
“Aye. It’s in their blood. Just ask a MacDonald.”
“The MacDonalds hate the Campbells?” I smiled, since in America those two names suggested french fries didn’t like soup.
“Oh, Murdo,” my grandmother scolded, returning from her bedroom. She was wearing a bright blue sweater with a sparkly, brown brooch pinned to her shoulder. “Don’t tell her such things!”
“But ’tis true, Liz!” he protested. He turned back to me. “The Campbells broke the Highland code of hospitality.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“In Scotland, if someone asks you for lodging, even if they’re your worst enemy, you’re obliged to give it to them, to lay aside any grievances and promise no harm will come to them while they’re under your roof.”
“Don’t listen to him, Maren,” my grandmother said. “He’s talking about the 1600s. The Massacre of Glencoe. Really, Murdo!”
“There was a massacre?” Mention of an ancient mass murder piqued my morbid curiosity.
“Aye,” my grandfather answered, excited that he had my attention. “In 1692, a group of the Campbell clan asked for shelter from the MacDonalds. They were graciously accepted, of course, even had dinner with the clan chief. Late that same night, the Campbells murdered their unarmed hosts in their beds!”
“Murdo!” my grandmother chided again. “Why are you telling her all this?”
“She brought it up!” he protested. “She’s been invited to a party for Alistair Campbell’s son, she has.”
My grandmother blanched. “Oh, well, those Campbells are bad. Your grandfather’s right. Best stay away from their lot.”
Just stay away, I thought. Just stay away from the most popular kid in a class of only eighty-two students? Easier said than done.
I convinced my grandparents to let me go.
CHAPTER 16
I spent the afternoon of Anders’ party at Jo’s house, getting ready. I’d never been to a gala before—I’d never even been to a formal dance or a church social—and apparently I had a lot to learn. When I showed up at the Dougalls’ door, they immediately took pity on me.
“Oh, Maren, dear, it’s . . . You’re looking lovely,” Mrs. Dougall said, trying but failing to hide a smirk behind the back of her hand.
Jo was blunter. “Great dress, but what happened to your face?”
“What do you mean?” I asked. I didn’t usually wear a lot of makeup—just concealer and blush and sometimes mascara—but I thought I’d given myself smoky eyes rather well. Especially for my first time.
“I mean, you look like Cleopatra meets Catwoman meets a stripper,” she said.
“Jo!” her mom scolded, playfully slapping her shoulder. The simple loving gesture made me ache for my own mom. “It’s not that bad, honestly!”
They took me inside, sat me down at the small vanity in the bathroom, and proceeded to scrub my face clean to start over.
“Whatever made you think to put eyeliner on the rim inside your eyelashes?” Jo marveled. “Doesn’t it burn?”
“Well, yeah,” I admitted, gritting my teeth against the rough washing. “But I figured it was supposed to. Like how no one tells you how much high heels really hurt or how scratchy a bra strap is.”
“Did your mum never teach you how to apply makeup, love?” Mrs. Dougall clucked.
I shook my head. My mom was too busy fighting the forces of darkness, I thought bitterly. Before I could even start to feel sorry for myself, though, my brain conjured up an image of Gavin. I missed him with a pain inside that echoed how much I missed my mom. Maybe even more. I guessed this was what love was all about. When you reached a certain age, you stopped needing your parents and started needing a soul mate to love and to love you. I wondered if Gavin was my soul mate. Why else would I be so obsessed with him after so little time together? I would have given anything to see him again. If I could ga
ze into his eyes just one more time . . .
“Hey, dreamer,” Jo said. “Open your eyes.”
My reflection in the mirror startled me. Mrs. Dougall had worked a small miracle. My eyes were somehow brightened, and framed by dewy black lashes I didn’t know I had. My skin was glowing and a little sparkly. My blonde hair was suddenly shiny, and half swept up in a neat chignon with loose curls dancing on my shoulders.
“You clean up pretty good, Hamilton.” Jo grinned.
I smiled back, and noticed I had sticky lips. “Lip gloss?” I smacked. “Really?”
“Absolutely.” Mrs. Dougall pressed her hands against my arms. “Makes your lips extra kissable. The boys won’t be able to resist the pair of you!”
“Mummy!” Jo giggled.
There was only one boy I wished couldn’t resist me, and smile as I might, I was fairly sure I wasn’t going to see him.
I’d never been in the back of a British limousine. I’d only ever been in the back of an American one, and that was when I was five and the flower girl in my next-door neighbor’s wedding. I’d had too much soda and candy—everyone kept bribing me to shut up or stand still—and their plan backfired quite horrifically when I threw up all over the bride’s dress. I was hoping this ride would end better.
“How is it that Anders can have a big party on a Friday night when he didn’t even go to school today, and hasn’t even been for more than two weeks?” I asked Jo, who was perched next to me on the slippery leather seat. I still couldn’t believe they’d sent a car to pick us up. “Everyone knows he’s been back from the Bahamas for days. You can just skip school in Scotland?”
“The Campbells can do anything they want,” Jo replied, staring out the tinted window. “They practically own the whole county.”
“Is it true what they say about the Campbells?” I asked. “About them murdering innocent people in their beds?”
She turned back and grinned wickedly. “Where’d you hear that?”
“My grandfather. So, is it true? For all their wealth and fanciness, do people secretly hate the Campbells?”
“Not everyone. Elsie and her pack would change their name to Campbell in a heartbeat. But, yeah, a lot of the Highlanders don’t like the Campbells. There’s a famous hotel in Glencoe, near where the massacre took place, called Clachaig Inn. They have a sign that says, ‘No Campbells.’”
“Shut up!” I said.
“No, ’tis true. I’ve seen it.”
“That’s awesome,” I said.
As the car pulled into the sweeping, circular drive, I got my first peek at Campbell Hall. “Hall” really didn’t describe it. Neither did “mansion.” It was a palace crowned with two giant turrets, glittering lead-paned windows, numerous carved stone balconies, and a four-story entrance more ornate than the front door of a cathedral. There was something eerily familiar about it that made the hairs on my arms stand on end, but I couldn’t place what it was.
“Why is it black?” I asked Jo, noting the eerie color of the stones on the front façade.
“Soot,” Jo answered. “They made their money mining coal on their property. I guess everything comes with a price, even the biggest private residence in Europe.”
A giant, glistening fountain, big enough to swim laps in, stood in front of the house, circled by a line of chauffeured cars like ours.
From the car to the foyer, we were greeted by five different people (“Servants,” Jo whispered in my ear). A uniformed man opened our car door and helped us step out; another man opened the huge, carved front doors and welcomed us; two stiff-lipped women, one for each of us, took our coats; and a man wearing bright white gloves escorted us down the hall to the grand ballroom.
The walls were set with stone columns and lined with tapestries and huge paintings of scowling men, all wearing the same dark-green-and-blue tartan. Our heels clicked on the marble floor, and I grabbed Jo’s arm tightly, terrified I might slip and break something. Jo was spinning around, taking it all in, and literally shaking with excitement.
“Are you all right?” I asked. “Do you have a fever or something?”
“This is exactly how I imagined it. Only a little better,” she whispered. “I can’t believe I’m here. Me. A Dougall, in Campbell Hall!”
Our guide pulled open a six-paneled door, and we were blasted in the face with a song. “It’s getting hot in here! So take off all your clothes!”
I had expected a string quartet and crumpets, but it seemed even Scottish lords had MTV-style birthday parties. The room was dark but bouncing with strobe lights, a huge disco ball, a DJ booth, and more than two hundred revelers.
Jo was apparently expecting exactly this, since she grabbed my arm and dragged me inside, shaking her body to the pulsing beat. Thankfully, she was too shy to actually join the mob, so we skipped past the throbbing mass on the dance floor and headed directly for the back wall. It was lined with long banquet tables covered in food. Turns out there were crumpets after all . . . and sushi, sausages, shrimp, mini meat pies, and even iced “biscuits” that had “Happy Birthday Anders” printed on them.
Just as I picked up a cookie, Elsie and her friends spotted me. Game on.
“Love your dress, Dewdrop,” Elsie said. “It really flatters your bits.” She motioned at her breasts, and I realized she was making fun of mine.
“Yours too,” I replied, happy that I had practiced for this very insult since my first humiliating day at Kingussie. “Better to hide the bee stings, yeah?”
I hardly got to enjoy her shock at my Scottish comeback highlighting her own lack of “bits,” because her friend jumped in.
“Let’s go get some britneys,” she said, steering a speechless Elsie away from us.
“That was pure dead brilliant!” Jo exclaimed.
“It was, wasn’t it?” I said. “Thanks for teaching me the bee stings slang, but what’s a britney?”
“A beer,” she replied. I stared at her, not comprehending at all. She expounded: “Britney Spears . . . beers . . .?”
“Because it rhymes?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Jo confirmed. “Like ‘baked bean’ refers to the queen, and ‘brown bread’ means ‘dead.’”
“I don’t even want to know how those last two are related,” I said, biting down on what turned out to be a surprisingly good cookie.
Jo and I soon figured out that there was more on tap than just britneys. A full bar in the corner of the room was staffed by three very busy bartenders, all handing out free liquor as fast as kids could grab it.
Jo handed me a crystal tumbler with clear liquid and a lime hanging on the rim for dear life.
“Vodka?” I guessed.
“No, club soda,” she answered. “My mum has a portable breathalyzer at home. She’d literally kill me if we drank.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s kind of harsh.”
“My dad was an alcoholic.” She shrugged. “I guess she’s just afraid it runs in the genes.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I assured her. “You’re nothing like your dad.” I realized how lame that must sound, since I didn’t know her dad at all.
“Yeah, well, I don’t want to make things more difficult for my mum. She has enough to worry about. But once I go to university, all bets are off! Cheers!” She clinked her glass against mine. I smiled and took a drink. I was surprised to see a sparkly lip print on my glass. I wasn’t used to wearing anything on my lips, and the remnant grossed me out. I smudged it away with my thumb.
Judging by the number of people chugging beers and cradling their own champagne bottles, Jo and I were the only ones attempting to stay sober. We learned that aside from the staff, there wasn’t an adult anywhere in the building. Anders’ parents were in Tenerife, an island off the coast of Spain, at their vacation villa. Jo said they were hardly ever home. I wondered if that was why he was such a jerk.
By the time a cake the size of a small car was rolled into the middle of the room, and a half-naked woman jumped out
and started making out with the birthday boy, I was ready for a break. Jo and I found double doors that led outside to a stone balcony, and we happily snuck away.
The balcony was bigger than the first floor of my grandparents’ house. Topiary trees twinkled under tiny, perfectly spaced lights, and industrial patio heaters hummed softly.
Jo and I walked to the stone railing.
“Wow,” I exhaled.
While the front of the building had seemed massive enough, I now saw that it was only a third of the entire structure. Two more wings, each covered with double French doors and smaller, private balconies, stood impressively on either side. The giant courtyard below seemed to spread for acres—from a manicured landscape out into the forest.
Rows and rows of tall, precisely trimmed hedges lined the garden. Hundreds of rose bushes hugged the hedge bottoms. I marveled at the luscious fruit trees, their branches heavy with the weight of snowball-sized blossoms, and the carved marble benches, their seats held high by miniature gargoyles. In the middle, a fountain corralled life-sized granite horses swimming among arcs of shooting water. A flagstone path wound around the entire garden, set at precise 90-degree angles. Glowing lanterns hung from the trees and small footlights hidden along the base of the stones bathed it all in a soft, shadowy light.
“Why are the bushes all cut with square edges?” I wondered.
“It’s a labyrinth,” Jo replied. “A hedge maze.”
“No way!”
“Yeah, you can’t tell from up here, but I’m guessing those bushes are taller than both of us.”
“Actually,” a new voice added, “they’re exactly ten feet high.” It was Graham. “The yew trees took fifty years to grow that tall, and the gardeners are required to keep them trimmed within a half inch.”
I smiled at Graham. He was wearing a turtleneck and blazer, and I couldn’t help thinking how nice he looked. Not handsome like Gavin, but he was the kind of guy you could take home to meet your family—polite, soft-spoken, and well-mannered. I thought about Anders licking icing off the cake girl’s cheek, and wondered how he managed to miss all the good breeding of his cousin. Graham would never do something so gross in front of a room full of people.
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