Privileged

by Zoey Dean

  “Watch and learn,” Sage ordered. With a few quick mouse strokes, she thickened my eyebrows. “Although the Brooke Shields thing is so not a good look for you.” She thinned them out again.

  As the girls illustrated on Sage’s computer and I watched, I got a double-barreled lecture on correct makeup and hair for a girl with my particular features. Then they switched to a full-length body shot and treated me to a speech on body proportion, how to hide “figure flaws below the waist,” and making the most of what could kindly be called my modest cleavage.

  “Okay. Come to my dressing room,” Sage ordered. “Let’s see what you learned.”

  A moment later, she pushed me into a seat at her vanity. Rose opened what looked like a tackle box finished in pink pearl. Its pink-velvet-lined compartments were full of new upscale cosmetics.

  For the next hour, the twins worked on my face. Unlike Marco, they took pains to explain everything as they did it. Then they handed me step-by-step instructions so I could duplicate what they’d done if they weren’t around, simplifying things so I could do it no matter how clumsy my hands were. Then they handed me the box.

  Yes, it was mine. They’d bought it for me. Before I could begin to thank them, we’d moved on to my hair, which Sage deemed clean enough, because updos actually stay better if your hair is slightly dirty.

  Who knew?

  Sage flatironed it and slicked it up in a ponytail. “There are two key elements to making this look work,” she decreed, “Hair U Wear and tendrils.” With that, she brought out a gorgeous hairpiece, perfectly straight and exactly my color. She attached it over my own hair, and voilà, I had a ponytail halfway down my back. Then she artfully arranged tendrils around my face to soften the look and added a lavender grosgrain ribbon to the ponytail. Rose completed the process by spackling my lips with another layer of gloss. From the neck up, I looked fantastic.

  Rose had to run back to her room for something, and Sage placed her hands on my shoulders. “You do understand that you can’t wear the gown from the Red and White ball tonight, right?”

  “I—”

  I’d gotten no further than that one syllable when Rose reappeared with a lavender gown worthy of a princess draped over her arm. “Versace Atelier. Lavender is your color. Look at this.”

  She handed me a Scoop with Emmy Rossum in the “Purple Is Royal!” fashion section, wearing the exact same dress. And I had to admit that I did look a little bit like her. If she put on ten pounds, that is. “It won’t fit,” I protested.

  “Try it on,” Rose insisted.

  Off came my Juicy warm-ups and T-shirt. I was wearing only panties, a positive, they decreed, since the bodice would hold up my breasts. With their help, I dropped the gown over my head, then held my breath while Rose zipped it.

  “You can exhale,” Sage instructed.

  I stood up straight and faced them.

  “Oh, yeah. We’re good.” Sage offered her sister a fist bump.

  I turned to the mirror. The bodice was strapless and fitted. They were right; a bra would have been superfluous. The skirt was pleated chiffon and georgette.

  “How did you . . . when did you . . . ?” I stammered.

  “When you drop six figures a year on clothes, your personal shopper is your best friend,” Sage explained. “We gave her an order last night. It was here before breakfast.”

  “You look beautiful,” Rose said, grinning hugely.

  “I can’t believe you did all of this for me.”

  Sage nodded. “Me, neither. We must have been on drugs.”

  But I could tell she was kidding. Was it possible that I had gotten through her facade and hadn’t even known it?

  “Before you start giving yourself all kinds of credit,” Sage went on, as if reading my mind, “just think of the anguish we’re saving ourselves. If you went to the ball in an already-worn gown, we would have been totally humiliated to be seen with you.”

  I smiled in response. They handed me my new train case full of cosmetics, the diagram of instructions, and then shooed me out so they could get ready. I left, but not until after I thanked them. Sincerely. How would this turn of events fit in to my article? As I floated to my suite under layers of butterfly-wing-thin chiffon, I couldn’t help but think that the shallow Baker twins I’d planned to write about never would have done something like this. So who was shallow now?

  Socializing romantically with more than one person can be considered:

  (a)ludicrous

  (b)foolhardy

  (c)equestrian

  (d)decadent

  (e)misanthropic

  Chapter Twenty-three

  When Will picked me up that evening, he told me I looked beautiful. The weird thing was that I believed him. It was as if I’d started to see myself as the person I had pretended to be. Not rich, maybe—some fantasies are too ridiculous to buy in to, even for someone who had gotten as good at lying as I had—but pretty. When I looked in the mirror, I no longer saw Lily’s ordinary little sister.

  The annual Christmas Eve ball to benefit the Norton Museum of Art didn’t start until eight. We arrived in West Palm at seven, the better for Will to show me around the museum before the masses arrived. It was so early that the valets weren’t yet on duty and he had to park his car himself, but he was excited to lead me through before the paintings and sculpture had to compete with the couture and cocktails.

  The exhibition spaces were deserted of all but workers. Musicians were setting up and doing sound checks, and the waitstaff was loading buffet tables and stocking bars. No one paid any attention as Will walked me through the various exhibits.

  The Norton had sections for nineteenth- and twentieth-century European, American, Chinese, and contemporary art, plus an extensive collection of photography. It was in the contemporary collection where Will really came alive. We both loved a painting called Isaiah: Grass Will Grow Over Your Cities, depicting the biblical prophecy come to life in a modern metropolis.

  “Because everything is temporary,” I mused aloud. I was thinking about how true it was in my own life; I’d lost a job, and lost an apartment, and—

  “Merry Christmas, guys.” Thom clapped a hand on Will’s shoulder. He was dressed in a standard-issue white-jacket tuxedo with a waiter’s white towel draped over his arm. “Hi, Megan.”

  “Hey, Thom.” I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. It was nearly eight and the room was beginning to fill up around us. “Merry Christmas.”

  “You working, dude?” Will asked.

  “Money’s good.” Thom nodded toward the bar behind us. “Just wanted to say hi before the party really gets started. I’ll catch you guys later.”

  After Thom was out of hearing distance, I turned to Will. “How do you know him? I would have thought you guys ran in different circles.”

  “From the Heavenly. I try not to care about things like that,” he offered, and I wondered if he thought I did. How ironic that would be. “I’m the one who told Rose to go for him.”

  I spotted the twins and their friends making an entrance across the room. Sage was wearing a Bordeaux-colored chantilly lace gown lined in pale pink silk that made the dress look almost completely sheer. Rose wore a scoop-neck black sheath with feathers and gold beading trimming the skirt. Their reddish manes rippled down their backs. They were a living advertisement for a lifestyle about which most people only dreamed.

  Thom stood next to the bar, watching Rose’s every move. I waited for her to turn around and say “Merry Christmas,” or at least offer him a we’re-madly-secretly-in-love smile. Instead, she grabbed her sister’s hand and pulled her toward the central hall next door.

  “She doesn’t seem as open about their relationship . . .” I let the comment hang there.

  “Yeah, well, I understand why.” Will winked at me quickly. “Come on, I think we should probably see if the crowds have descended.”

  He took my arm and led me through the museum back to the enormous white-on-white central hall, whi
ch was serving as the main reception area for the party. Christmas revelers were scattered around the room, examining the art and taking Kir Royales from the passing waiters. A string quartet in one corner played carols, and the Christmas tree in the center of the room glowed with incandescent lights. Christmas presents were piled up under the tree.

  “Who are the presents for?” I watched an arriving couple add two more before melting into the throng.

  “They’re toys,” Will replied. “They’ll be shipped off tomorrow to the pediatrics unit at the University of Miami medical center. We do this every year.”

  “Nice.”

  “Yeah. Want a Kir? I’ll go track down a waiter.”

  “Sounds great. I’ll be here.”

  Will edged his way into the crowd. My eyes were following him—trust me, your eyes would have followed him, too—when I felt a gentle hand on my arm.

  “Megan, darling. Don’t you look lovely!” Laurel greeted me. She wore a floor-length black gown and a single strand of pearls with a diamond clasp as large as my knuckle; her blond hair was twisted into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She had on the lightest application of makeup, just enough to make her skin look luminous and her features flawless. The French really did understated elegance better than any other women on earth.

  “Laurel, hi. When did you get back?” I asked.

  “This afternoon. I try to be here for all the major events during The Season, but it’s difficult. You know about the New Year’s Eve ball at Les Anges, of course. The benefit for my foundation?”

  I nodded. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Last year we raised two million dollars for women to start their own businesses on the African subcontinent. This year I’m hoping for three. And who is your escort for the evening?”

  Remarkable how she could skip from philanthropy to my date without missing a beat.

  “Will Phillips,” I said, hoping that wasn’t a breach of tutor etiquette. “He went to get drinks.”

  “I knew.” Her eyes twinkled. “I saw him pick you up. He is a lovely young man. How goes it with the twins?”

  “Improving every day.”

  She nodded. “I’m sure you expect them to put in some time tomorrow, Christmas or not. The examination test will be upon us in no time, yes?”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Absolutely.”

  Laurel spotted a couple she knew and excused herself, giving my hand a squeeze. “Have fun tonight, Megan.”

  The twins wouldn’t be happy to hear they were working on Christmas. I wasn’t, either. How could I fit in a study session and still spend time with James? God. Thinking about him made my insides fold like an origami crane. What kind of girl blows off her boyfriend so she can go to a ball with another guy? Answer: the kind of girl I would not like and certainly didn’t want to be—

  And then, as if my conscience had willed it, there stood James in the flesh, sipping a glass of merlot and admiring the enormous Christmas tree. I did the only reasonable thing under the circumstances: I fled, scurrying out of the main hall and into the gallery for Chinese art, past the orchestra and the dancing couples, and then out the emergency exit that the party organizers had so graciously left open. I found myself alone in an outdoor sculpture garden, and I hid out behind a well-placed Richard Serra curved metal wall.

  Think, Megan, I ordered myself. Think.

  Will was inside, presumably looking for me. James was inside, not expecting to see me. What could I tell him? Even worse, what if he and Will met? It was certainly possible—James would seek out the Baker twins for his own amusement, the Baker twins would find Will, James and Will would—

  Breathe. Think logically.

  Okay. I’d be safer inside, trying to keep them apart, than I was outside, where no one could find me.

  With a fortifying deep breath, I marched back inside . . . and directly into James.

  “Megan? You’re here?”

  Oh, God. I flung myself into James’s arms, doing a quick scan of the room over his shoulder. Where was Will?

  “What a great surprise,” I whispered in his ear. “But I’m still undercover. You’ve got to help me out.”

  He held me at arm’s length, brows knit. “You’re the surprise. I thought you were sick.”

  This called for instant improvisation. “I was sick. But the twins wouldn’t take no for an answer. They’re such spoiled brats—they practically made me come. So here I am!”

  “You don’t look sick,” he pointed out.

  My hands flew to my stomach. “Intestinal thing. One minute I’m okay, the next I’m running to the loo.”

  The loo? I never said the loo. The twins said the loo. Anyway, no time to dwell on that. Stomach flu would give me a perfect excuse to disappear every few minutes to find my date and keep him away from my boyfriend.

  “What about you?” I asked as my eyes darted around, searching for Will. “I thought you were going to hang with your family.”

  James looked uncomfortable. “I am with my family. My parents are here somewhere, and—”

  “James!” a voice cooed. “There you are.”

  No. Not possible. He’d come with her?

  “With Heather’s family,” he finished as he was joined by Heather the Perfect, a vision in peach chiffon and with a glittering silver neckline showcasing that perfect cleavage.

  On second thought, maybe I wasn’t so fucked. He was.

  Argument Essay—

  Write a response to the following statement:

  Because parents bring their children into the world and care for them, financially and emotionally, they deserve to play a role in making the children’s decisions for their entire lives.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Aminute of excruciating small talk later, Heather excused herself, and James walked me into the photo gallery. It had been designated the conversation room by the organizers. There were neither musicians nor a bar, but comfortable love seats had been placed around the room. We found an empty settee under a Maria Magdalena Campos-Pons triptych.

  “I can explain,” he told me.

  “I can listen,” I said faux-sweetly. He wasn’t the only one hiding information about the evening, but he didn’t know that.

  “First of all, I’m not here with her,” James offered. “It was her parents who offered us the tickets for tonight.”

  “You could have mentioned that.”

  “And I would have, except my mom didn’t tell me. I walked into the beach house, and there was Heather in a bikini on the back deck.”

  Okay, there was really no need for him to hit me with the bikini image.

  “She and her folks are staying overnight with us. They’re leaving tomorrow for Turks and Caicos. My mom said we should all come.”

  I could definitely see James’s mother coaxing him into going to the ball with Heather. Fine.

  James took my hand. “So are we good?”

  We were, actually . . . until I saw Will wander past the entrance to the gallery. He had one empty and one full Kir in his hands, and a big frown on his face. I grimaced.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Stomach.” I grasped my abdomen, praying that Will would not, could not, check this room. “Gotta get to a bathroom.” I jumped up. “I’ll find you!” I sprinted out of the room, dodging dowagers dripping jewels.

  Shit. Which way had Will gone? I caught a glimpse of him just as he stepped into the room with the orchestra. I sneaked up behind him. “Looking for a girl in a lavender dress?”

  He smiled. “Where’d you take off to?”

  “Oh, you know, dozens of guys asking me to dance. I had to beat them off with a polo mallet.”

  He handed me the full drink and clinked his empty glass against mine. “Drink or dance?” he asked.

  This was so not a night for alcohol.

  “Dance. Definitely.”

  Will handed our glasses to a passing waiter and led me to the parquet dance floor while the orchestra played a ve
rsion of “Something” that I’m sure made both John Lennon and George Harrison roll over in their respective graves. Dancing proved an exercise in movement anxiety. I kept maneuvering Will so he was between the entryway and me; I was thankful for every inch of his height.

  He peered down at me. “You okay?”

  “Sure!” I relaxed against him for a moment, then tensed when I thought I saw James. False alarm.

  “You seem . . . stiff,” Will noted. His right hand slid down my back, dangerously—and amazingly—close to my tailbone. Ordinarily, I would have loved this. However, this was not ordinary. This was a Marx Brothers movie come to life.

  Think fast.

  “Oh, I have this little stomach thing.”

  “You’re probably hungry. Let’s hit the buffet. This caterer is famous for coconut-crusted shrimp. You have to try it.”

  Though the concept of food was as repugnant as the idea of alcohol, I had no choice but to follow Will to the main room’s buffet. The room was so crowded that we took nearly ten minutes to thread our way to the buffet table. I was just about to take the small white china plate that Will was offering me when I saw James get in line at the other end.

  It’s remarkable how quickly stomach cramps can come on.

  After promising that I’d be right back, I hightailed it to the ladies’ room, which was almost as crowded as the rest of the party. After a suitable flu-worthy delay, I headed back, looking for James this time.

  And now let me wax philosophical for a moment: Some people find it impossible to look away from a car crash. I understand that; I really do. It’s horrible, but it’s not you, so you can’t help but gawk with some kind of sick fascination. Evidently, this can also be true if it’s your own car that’s heading toward the concrete barrier at a hundred miles an hour.

  When I came back to the ballroom, I found myself looking at James. And at Will. Together at the bar. They were clinking martini glasses like long-lost friends.

  Will saw me first and waved. “Megan! Come here. I had to battle this guy for the last coconut shrimp.” I desperately hoped that Will didn’t see James wink as I approached. “Megan, this is James Ladeen. He just graduated from—”