We left the plate on the counter and started back toward my guest room.
Heather opened one of the doors in my room and flicked a switch, illuminating a giant walk-in closet.
“Start unpacking and hanging up your stuff,” she said. “We’ve got a lot to do this week.”
“I’m so excited to be back in the city,” I said. “And to see your old stable.”
Heather just nodded. She watched me unzip my suitcase, and I began taking out shirts and putting them on hangers.
She started pulling jeans, breeches, and pajamas out of my suitcase.
“Silver.”
“What?” I turned away from the hangers and looked at her.
“Please tell me this isn’t all you brought. You did bring clothes for dinner and going out, right?”
“Duh,” I said. I rummaged through my suitcase and pulled out a flirty black skirt and a v-neck shirt. “This is totally cool for going out. I’ve got a great necklace that looks awesome with this shirt and—”
Heather raised a hand. “Stop. Now.” She sighed and rubbed her forehead, squeezing her eyes together. “You brought school clothes, not New York City clothes. I’m not walking around Manhattan for a week with someone dressed like that.”
I huffed and put a hand on my hip. “Then what am I supposed to do?”
“You’re not doing anything. Tomorrow we’re going shopping. Like, ASAP. Until then you can borrow something of mine for dinner.”
I wasn’t going to turn down shopping, but I couldn’t just stand there and let Heather get away with insulting my clothes.
“Fine, but—”
“Let’s go. Besides, if you think this room is cool, wait till you see mine.” Heather got up off the guest bed and walked toward the door.
I followed her, casting one last look back at my clothes. Whether or not I’d made the right decision to come, I was here now.
3
DINNER WITH THE FOXES
I FOLLOWED HEATHER TO A ROOM DOWN ANOTHER hallway—they all looked the same!—and took a step backward when she pulled open double doors. Heather’s room was like an oasis. Her bed was adorned with a black-and-red comforter and crisp white sheets. My feet sank into the bedroom’s plush white carpet. Two black chairs surrounded a small coffee table in front of an enormous sliding glass door that led to a giant balcony.
“Bathroom’s there if you’re going to hurl from jealousy,” Heather said, but her tone was teasing instead of mean.
“Your room is gorgeous,” I said. “And you have your own private bathroom?”
Heather nodded. “Go see if you want.”
I walked across the room and opened the door. A giant marble counter had two deep sinks. The shower was encased in glass, and there was another smaller counter with a chair tucked under it and a mirror surrounded by lights. Chanel, M.A.C., and Stila were among the half-dozen brands of cosmetics that lined the counter.
My fingers inched toward a cotton candy pink Clinique lip gloss.
“Try whatever,” Heather said.
I jumped and turned toward her. She was resting against the doorjamb.
“I know you have, like, an untreatable addiction for gloss. Just put it back when you’re done.” I could barely breathe at the sight of the lip gloss she had. And I’d thought my collection was envy-worthy. Mine had nothing on Heather’s.
I picked up the pink gloss and applied a thin coat to my lips. I checked my reflection in the mirror, smoothing my hair and wiping a few flakes of mascara from under my green eyes.
Reluctantly I left the bathroom and wandered back into Heather’s bedroom. Light shone from an open door and I peered into a walk-in closet the size of my kitchen at home.
Rows and rows of shirts, pants, skirts, and dresses hung from wall to wall. A rack of folded sweaters towered over me. Shelves of boots, heels, flats, and shoes for every imaginable occasion were aligned perfectly along shelf after shelf.
And I thought Paige had a lot of clothes, I said. I shook the thought away. I was at Heather’s—exactly where I needed to be to escape Paige, Jacob, and all the drama that lingered over the Canterwood Crest campus.
Heather shoved clothes to the side, obviously looking for something.
“I like clothes, but this is all my mom,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s ridic. I can’t take all of these to school and I need to start, like, giving them away or something.”
I touched a pair of red peep-toe kitten heels. “Maybe. But she’s obviously thinking about you when you’re not here and that’s why she’s getting you stuff.”
Heather laughed. “Puh-lease. She doesn’t get me any of this.” She yanked a shirt off the hanger, and the black boat-neck shirt dangled from her fingertips. “This came from my mother’s personal shopper. My mom has nothing to do with picking out my clothes. She just tells Sienna to get whatever is in style and buy it.”
“But that’s pretty cool! You get New York City clothes sent to you that no one else has.”
Heather started to say something, but pressed her lips together. “Yeah,” she said finally. She turned back to the clothes rack and shuffled through a bunch of dresses. She pulled out a royal blue cap-sleeve dress and handed it to me.
“There. Think you can manage to pair that with the right accessories?”
That I could manage.
“Yeees,” I said, instantly regretting my snarky tone. Heather was trying to help. “Thanks for the dress. I should have thought to bring something fancier—I didn’t think I’d need it.”
“Manhattan mistake number one,” Heather said. “You always need something glam on hand or you’ll be . . . well, caught like you just were.”
I looked up and saw a shelf at the back of Heather’s closet that glittered with gold and silver trophies. Stepping around Heather, I walked over to the shelf and reached for a trophy.
I took one and, holding it, read the plaque. First place: Floor exercise.
I glanced up at Heather. “Floor exercise? Like, gymnastics?”
Heather shrugged and pulled her blond hair into a loose, messy ponytail. “Yeah. I used to do gymnastics before I rode horses.”
“You did?” I stared at her, shocked. “I never knew that.”
Heather looked up at the trophies—polished and gleaming. She looked lost in thought for a second before she took the trophy from my fingers and put it back on the shelf. Heather turned and walked out of the closet. I followed her, laying the dress on the bed, and we sat in the chairs overlooking the balcony. The Manhattan skyline stretched out in front of us, and I looked down at my hands, unsure what to say—if anything.
Finally Heather sighed. “I did gymnastics before I even knew what a bridle was,” she said without looking at me. “I loved it so much. I spent every second I could at the gym with my friends, practicing.”
“I’ve watched some of the Olympic gymnastics,” I said. “What were you the best at? Like, floor or beam?”
She looked at me with typical Heather cockiness. “All of them. Please.”
Her answer made me grin. “Sor-ry.”
Heather glanced at her closed bedroom door, then drew her legs up to her chest. “I loved every second of gymnastics. I had a great coach and she encouraged me to compete. I spent a lot of weekends on the road with my team and we traveled everywhere for competitions.”
“Sounds like you worked as hard at that as you do at riding,” I said.
“I did.”
I shifted in my chair, wondering if she’d keep talking if I just listened.
Heather’s blue eyes focused on something in the distance. “I was at my friend Isobel’s house and a bunch of us were sleeping over to celebrate a championship win. She had horses for pleasure riding and asked if anyone wanted to ride.”
I nodded. Heather had never talked to me at this length before. Ever.
“And let me guess,” I said. “You were the first one up for the challenge.”
Heather smiled. “Of course I was. I was
the only one who wanted to try it—the other girls were too afraid of getting injured before a gymnastics competition. But I wasn’t scared. Isobel let me ride her horse, a Quarter horse–Arab mix, and we went on a trail ride. Everything felt . . . natural to me. I fell in love with riding and knew I had to convince my parents to let me ride.”
We both jumped when someone knocked on Heather’s door.
“Come in,” Heather said.
Kay peered inside, smiling at us. “Need anything?”
Heather looked at me and I shook my head.
“We’re good, thank you,” Heather said.
Kay nodded and closed the door behind her.
“Did you think it would be hard to convince your parents to let you ride? I mean, was your dad focused on making sure you were only serious about gymnastics?” I asked Heather.
“I had to make a deal,” Heather said. “Three extra hours in the gym every week if I wanted to ride for an hour every Saturday.”
I shook my head. “How old were you?”
Heather shrugged. “Eight or nine, I guess.”
I felt for her, but I didn’t dare say it. If I did, Heather would say she didn’t want my pity and she’d toss me out of her room.
“So you obviously took the deal and started riding,” I said.
Heather and I gazed at the balcony as a pigeon flew up to the rail and perched there. The fat gray bird didn’t even look at us.
“It was worth it.” Heather paused and played with her ponytail.
I felt as though I had to say something. Something to assure her that she could trust me.
“I’m not going to tell anyone about this,” I said. “You know I won’t.”
Heather stared at me. “I know you won’t ’cause you’d be afraid for your life if you did.” She smiled sweetly at me.
I laughed. “Exactly.” And yeah, that was kind of true.
Heather got up and walked over to the cabinet near her desk. She opened the doors and revealed a violet mini-fridge. She grabbed two Cokes and handed me one.
“Thanks.”
We took a few sips and Heather set down her can. “I really only wanted to ride for fun. It was one hour every week that I had to myself. I rode this suuuuper old Appaloosa gelding and got basic lessons so the stable owner would let me go on group trail rides.”
I grinned. “I love that image. Was he able to trot at least?”
“Shut up,” Heather said, but she laughed. “He could trot—so there. Anyway, after a few weeks the instructor called my parents and told them she thought I had natural talent for riding and she wondered if I was interested in trying one-on-one lessons and seeing how that would go.”
“Was your dad immediately like, ‘No way’?” I asked, sipping my Coke.
“He said no at first, but I guess my instructor told him I might have the potential to be a good rider.”
I nodded. “That was all he needed to hear, right?”
Heather took a long drink. “Yep. I started taking lessons a couple of times a week, entered my first show, and won. I loved gymnastics, but it became really obvious that I was a better rider, even in a short amount of time, than I was a gymnast.”
“So did you try to juggle both?”
Heather shook her head. “I couldn’t. It was too many hours at the gym and the stable and with school . . . it was too much. I quit gymnastics and started riding full-time.”
“Did you miss it? Did your dad care that you quit?” All of this was new to me, and I had so many questions.
“Omigod, you’re, like, Oprah right now,” Heather said. She tilted her head at me. “I missed it for a while, but I fell in love with riding. And my dad really didn’t care what I did—as long as I was the best at it. And I guess I’m like him—’cause I wanted to be the best. And riding was it for me.”
That was Heather Fox. The cutthroat, win-at-all-costs girl who knew how to excel at whatever she did. I envied that about her sometimes—not the way she handled some competitions or the way she treated a lot of people, but her confidence.
“Gross,” Heather said, getting up. “That was, like, a lame Lifetime movie. Go unpack your . . . ‘clothes,’ get ready for dinner, and come back. I’ll tell you all you need to know for dinner with the Foxes.”
4
TRAPPED IN THE FOX DEN
I GRABBED MY MAKEUP CASE, FLAT IRON, and Heather’s dress and tiptoed down the hallway to the guest bathroom. When I clicked the lock, the tightness in my chest eased a little. I hadn’t wanted another run-in with Mrs. Fox so soon. I sat at the edge of the claw-foot bathtub, sighing and looking at the bathroom’s decor. There were cream-colored hand towels that looked too expensive to use, a dish of tiny soaps that definitely had to be for decoration, and a glass cabinet filled with bath towels. Beside the cabinet, a wicker basket overflowed with body wash, shampoo, and conditioner with French names that I couldn’t even begin to pronounce.
For a second I wished Paige were here. She’d know what to do and how to handle, well, everything. Paige, a true Manhattan girl, had been to every type of soirée from the Lower East Side to SoHo and she’d know exactly what to do at a fancy dinner. I sighed and slid out of my clothes, picking up Heather’s dress. I didn’t want to be thinking about Paige or wishing she were here. I wanted her to apologize for our fight at the Homecoming dance. But she’d tried that night and you didn’t let her, I told myself.
I slipped into Heather’s dress and vowed to stop thinking about Paige.
I looked in the mirror and ran my hands over the blue fabric, smoothing the dress. My hair had started to get a little wavy, so I spent extra time flat-ironing it. It felt like I was getting ready for an important Canterwood dance or something. I hadn’t put on much makeup this morning because I’d been in a hurry to get out of my dorm room . . . and away from Jacob, Eric, Callie, and all the discomfort at school.
I washed my face and started over with my makeup. I dotted concealer under my eyes, put on a light coat of dark brown mascara, dusted NARS blush across my cheeks, and applied a coat of Bonne Bell Lip Glam in Iced Pomegranate. It was pink, but not too bright, and had just a hint of sparkle. I didn’t think Heather’s parents would be impressed if I showed up for dinner wearing lots of makeup.
I stayed in the bathroom as long as I could, taking twice the amount of time I usually spent on hair and makeup, but still looking the same as I always did.
Just go out there, already. It wasn’t time for dinner yet and maybe being around Heather would make me less nervous. I left the bathroom, put my clothes in a neat pile on top of my suitcase, and put on a pair of small, silver hoop earrings before wandering back to Heather’s room.
“Hey,” I said as I walked inside.
Heather looked me up and down, nodding in approval. “That actually looks good on you.”
“Gee, thanks.” I sat at the end of her bed.
Heather had changed into a royal purple cocktail dress and had paired it with a gold drop necklace that warmed her skin tone. She walked over to one of the chairs facing the balcony and turned it toward me when she sat down.
“Just because I don’t want you to embarrass me at dinner, I’m going to give you the rundown on how it’s going to go, ’kay?” Heather asked.
I nodded. “Okay.” My voice was squeaky.
Heather took a breath and held up a manicured finger. “First, my dad has sworn he’ll make it to dinner on time. He knows my mom hates it when he’s late. But guess what? He’s, like, never home before ten. So Mom will already be in a bad mood before dinner starts because she’s going to make us wait for him.”
“Maybe your dad will call and tell her he’s going to be late,” I said.
Heather closed her eyes, rubbing her forehead. “That’s not my dad’s style. He comes home when he wants. Half the time Mom isn’t here anyway. Whatever—it doesn’t even matter.”
“Sorry,” I said quietly.
Heather glared at me. “Puh-lease. Waste your sympathy on someone who n
eeds it. I’m just telling you this so you know what to expect.”
“Right. Totally.”
Heather played with her necklace. “So while we’re waiting for Dad, my mom will tell endless stories about how she was a Canterwood legacy and how I should be doing as many social activities as I can besides riding. You know, to keep up the good family name.”
I wanted to ask Heather why her mom didn’t care that her daughter was happy as a rider, but I didn’t want Heather to stop dispensing advice.
“The last thing to know,” Heather said, “is that my mom is going to . . .” She paused for a second. “She’s going to, well, try to make you feel exactly like I did when you first came to Canterwood.”
I gulped and my palms started sweating.
“Let’s go,” Heather said. “It’s time for dinner with the Foxes.”
I followed Heather out of her bedroom and to the massive dining room. A giant chandelier hung above the table. Placemats, silverware, empty glasses, cloth napkins, and china plates were already on the table. Heather sat in one of the high-backed chairs. I took a seat next to her and looked down. There was a soup bowl, a small plate, and a dinner plate underneath. But beside the plate were more forks, knives, and spoons than I’d ever seen.
“Are these all for me?” I whispered to Heather, even though no one else was in the room.
Heather leaned over. “Start from the outside. Forks—salad, dinner, dessert.” She pointed to each one on the left side of my plate. “Soup, dinner spoon, and the knife is obvious.”
“I’m never going to remember that!” I tried to fight back the panicky feeling in my chest.
“Just watch me.”
Heather looked away when Mrs. Fox walked into the dining room. She sat across from Heather and stared at both of us. I was sure her eyes lingered on my—well, Heather’s—dress for a second, but she didn’t say anything.
Heather reached for her napkin and smoothed it onto her lap. Copying her, I did the same.
I felt like I could hear my own heartbeat in the silence. I looked up in relief when one of the staff walked into the room. She wore a black skirt and a starched white shirt. Her dark brown hair was back in a tight bun.
City Secrets Page 2