City Secrets

by Jessica Burkhart

  Huh.

  I tried again, and when I got another error message, I clicked it so I could figure out what was going on.

  You’re already currently logged in on another computer. Please log off and try again. If you think you’ve reached this message in error, contact Customer Support.

  It was definitely a mistake—I wasn’t on my e-mail anywhere else. Ugh—I’d try again later. I closed my phone as Heather shut her laptop lid. She grabbed her purse off her bed, and we walked to the front door.

  The Fox penthouse was silent.

  “Should we tell your mom we’re leaving?” I asked.

  “Nope. I told her what time we were going and where. And do you see her running out here to say good-bye?” Heather asked, her voice low.

  I didn’t answer the question I knew was rhetorical.

  We left the apartment and took the elevator to the ground floor. Outside the sun was setting, and lights were starting to illuminate the city. We got in the car and I smoothed Heather’s dress as Paul drove us forward.

  “Have you been to Butter before?” I asked Heather.

  “A few times,” she said. “Depending on the night, it can get pretty crowded. But I didn’t have any trouble making reservations for tonight.”

  That made me relax a little. I was glad my first trip to a superstar restaurant wouldn’t be packed.

  “Does it really look just like it does in magazines?” I asked.

  Heather glanced at me, and passing car lights reflected in her eyes. “Yes, Silver. It does.”

  I could tell she wasn’t really annoyed—just amused at my babbling. Paul pulled up to the curb and Heather opened the door.

  “See you in a couple of hours,” she said to him.

  “Have a great dinner, girls,” Paul said.

  I got out of the car after Heather and stared at the restaurant’s glass window. The word BUTTER looked back at me, and I couldn’t believe where I was standing. My fave celebs had walked right here. It was crazy to think about!

  “We have to, you know, go inside to eat,” Heather said.

  “Right. Inside.”

  And when we stepped inside, everything Heather had said about Butter was true. It looked exactly like the magazine photos. Omigod. The decor was elegant but modern. The ceiling was curved, and there were potted trees in almost every corner of the room and along the walls. The soft lighting gave the place a, well, buttery glow.

  “We have reservations under Fox,” Heather told a man in a suit and tie. He typed something in in his laptop, then smiled at us.

  “Of course,” he said. He picked up two menus. “Right this way, please.”

  Heather and I followed him downstairs to a dining area, which looked nothing like the restaurant’s entrance. The low ceiling had flattened out and was covered with tree vines. Candles were on every table, and their light flickered across the tables. It was casual, but one of the coolest places I’d ever seen.

  The waiter walked us over to a corner table. “Is a table in the Birch Room suitable?” he asked.

  “Perfect,” Heather said.

  Our table was in front of a half-circle green couch. Heather and I slid onto the couch and the waiter filled our water glasses. He placed a basket of breadsticks in front of us with a small bowl of olive oil.

  “May I get you anything to drink?” he asked.

  “I’ll take a bottle of Perrier,” Heather said. I’d never had that kind of fancy water, but I’d seen it in the Trio’s suite.

  “One bottle of Perrier,” the waiter said. He looked to me. “And for you?”

  “The same,” I said. “Perrier sounds great.”

  “I’ll be right back,” the waiter said.

  He walked away and I glanced around. I loved the curved couches and how the entire room was filled with candles. I glanced up at the vines on the ceiling.

  Heather caught my gaze and looked up too. “It’s so creative,” she said. “I’d never be able to come up with anything like that. It could have turned out creepy or something, but the birch wood looks so sophisticated.”

  “It does,” I said. “It must have taken forever to design this room.”

  “Let’s check out the menus so we’re ready to order when the waiter gets back,” Heather said.

  “Good idea.” I picked up my menu from the thick white tablecloth and opened it. “Wow. Everything sounds so good!”

  I decided against “seared Hudson Valley foie gras” since I didn’t know what that was and was afraid to ask. But there were so many other choices that sounded so good.

  Heather nodded. “I know. Their food is awesome.”

  The waiter appeared with our drinks and set the pretty green glass bottles in front of us. He held up his pad of paper. “Are you ready to order, or do you need more time?”

  Heather looked at me and I nodded. “We’re ready,” she said.

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  Heather looked at the menu. “I’ll have your seared local mackerel and a romaine salad.”

  “All right,” the waiter said. “And for you, miss?”

  “I’ll take the grilled chicken and the soup of the day,” I said.

  “Fantastic,” the waiter said. “We have a delicious lobster bisque that I’m sure you’ll enjoy.” The waiter closed his notepad and dipped his head at us. “I’ll be back as soon as possible with your orders.”

  “Thank you,” Heather and I said.

  I glanced around, trying not to look as if I was scanning the place for celebs, even though I so totally was.

  “Even if Scott Ryder would happen to walk by,” Heather said, “he’d be so scared of you and your Oh-my-God-I’m-totally-gonna-freak face. Chill.”

  “Right, sorry,” I said. I picked up a breadstick and dipped it in the olive oil.

  “And no double dipping,” Heather said. “Eww.”

  “You’d definitely catch something from me now, especially since, I don’t know, I’ve been using your lip gloss and we’ve been living together for almost a week.”

  Heather rolled her eyes at me and tore off a piece of breadstick. The waiter served our soup and salad, and we downed them.

  People on the outside probably thought we hated each other and couldn’t begin to understand why we were hanging out together or even friends. But the way Heather teased me wasn’t the same anymore. She wasn’t attacking me with personal digs that would have made me furious or on the verge of tears. We were bantering back and forth, and it was meant to be playful—not to hurt anyone.

  I was surprised to look up a few minutes later and see our waiter—they served food fast at an upscale place like this.

  The waiter set down our plates and collected our soup and salad bowls.

  “I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Heather and I said.

  Heather took a bite of fish, and I started on my chicken. It. Was. So. Good. I’d never thought herb-roasted chicken could taste this good. I kept taking bigger bites, then glanced at Heather as I felt her eyes burning into me.

  “I’m not doing the Heimlich on you if you choke because you’re shoveling food into your face,” Heather said.

  Yeeeah, okay. She was kind of right. I slowed down and enjoyed my food. The lobster bisque had been amazing, just like the waiter had promised, and I loved the Perrier water. I think it ruined my taste for any other kind of sparkling water.

  I raised my fork to my mouth and turned to Heather. “This place is really awesome—”

  I stopped midsentence when I saw Heather’s eyes widen. She turned to me.

  “Um,” she said. “Uh.”

  I’d never heard her talk like that.

  “What? What’s wrong?” I looked up and almost dropped my fork.

  18

  SHOT DOWN

  PAIGE AND TWO OF HER FRIENDS WERE WALKING toward us. They were following a waiter, who set menus down on a table just a few feet away from Heather and me.

  Paige ha
dn’t seen us yet. I didn’t know what to do! She was going to spot us eventually, and then what? If she wanted to talk to me alone, I wasn’t sure I was ready for that. Even though I knew I couldn’t keep avoiding the situation forever, I still didn’t feel ready to talk about it. Especially not when I was having such a fun dinner.

  I kept my eyes off Paige’s table and concentrated on my food. Every few seconds I felt Heather’s eyes on me. I wanted to ask her what I should do, but it wasn’t her fight. She’d already given me enough advice. And there wasn’t anything to do. If Paige had seen me, she wasn’t approaching me. So maybe she’d gotten the hint from my nonresponses to her texts that I wasn’t in a place where I wanted to talk and I’d come to her when I was.

  “She has to know better than to come over here,” Heather said, her tone low. “She’s with her group of friends and you’re with me. It would be so uncool if she came over.”

  Heather had just finished her sentence when movement across the room got my attention.

  Paige, standing, whispered something to her friends and started walking in our direction. She, too, was dressed for Butter in a silver and black bandage dress. I couldn’t help looking at her face, and our eyes were locked as she walked over to my table.

  “Sasha,” Paige said, her voice soft. “Hey, Heather.”

  Heather opened her mouth, probably about to say something snarky, but I didn’t need her to get involved.

  “Paige,” I said. “Heather and I are in the middle of dinner. I know you want to talk about what happened, and we will, but now’s not a good time.”

  I saw the hurt on Paige’s face and it made me feel awful, but she’d been horrible to me the night of the party. I wasn’t ready to talk yet.

  “Sasha.” Paige’s green eyes stayed on mine. “Please. Can we just step outside for two seconds? We can definitely talk more at school, but please, just let me talk to you for a minute.”

  I paused. Part of me wanted to say yes. But a bigger part said no.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I hope you have fun with your friends. But Heather and I are finishing our food, and then we’re going back to her place. We’ll talk at school.”

  “Bye,” Heather said to Paige in a cheery tone.

  I didn’t want Heather being mean to Paige, so for Paige’s sake, I hoped she just walked away.

  And with a defeated look, that’s exactly what she did.

  19

  PHONE FEAR

  HEATHER AND I FINISHED OUR DINNER AT Butter and left. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and back to Heather’s. We didn’t talk about Paige for the entire car ride. Heather seemed to sense I didn’t want to talk about Paige—and she was right.

  We got back to her penthouse, changed, and met up in her room.

  “Want to have popcorn or something and watch reruns of something dumb but entertaining?” Heather asked.

  “Def,” I said.

  I noticed Heather staring at her phone.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Heather said. She paused. “Well, I don’t know. Troy and I have been texting a lot and I was thinking about calling him.”

  “You should!” I said. “Just be supercasual and say hi and ask what he’s doing.”

  “Isn’t calling him like, weird, though? Would he think that was strange if I just called him instead of texting like we’ve been doing?”

  I shook my head. “No way. I think he’d be surprised and happy that you called. Just do it.”

  Heather got up from her chair and walked over to her phone. She put her hand on it, then yanked it back as if the phone were was hot.

  “Nah, never mind. I’ll just text him later.”

  Heather’s cheeks turned the same color as her bright pink T-shirt.

  “C’mon. Heather Fox doesn’t get scared of anything. Call him. He might not even answer—you never know.”

  That seemed to make Heather relax a little. “That’s true. Hopefully I’ll just leave a message and that’ll be it.”

  “Right. And if he answers, you’re not going to be on the phone forever. Just chat a little and tell him you have to go do something. Then there won’t be awkwardness or anything.”

  Heather took a deep breath. “Good idea. Okay. Whatever. I’m calling him.”

  She grabbed the phone and scrolled through her address book for his number. I hid a smile. I understood how she felt about being nervous, but it was also amusing to see her this intimidated by a boy. The girl would jump stone walls, gallop her horse at top speed across a pasture, and deal with her crazy dad. But a boy? Terrified.

  Heather sat beside me on her bed and held the phone between us so we could both hear. It rang once and then she pulled the phone away from her ear and ended the call.

  “What are you doing?!” I asked. “You just hung up!”

  “I know!” Heather flopped onto her back and covered her face with a pillow. “Omigod. I just called him and hung up. That was superlame.”

  “Uh, yeah, but I think you have a little more to think about than it being ‘lame.’”

  “What’re you talking about?” Heather uncovered half her face.

  I held up her phone. “There’s this magic thing called caller ID. He’s going to see you called him since you’re already in his address book.”

  The pillow went back over Heather’s face. “Omigod!” Her scream was muffled.

  I reached over and touched her shoulder. “He might think you called him by accident. I dial the wrong people all the time.”

  Heather took the pillow off her face and sat up. “Of course you do, Silver. But . . . yeeeah. Maybe he’ll think it’s a mistake and not even wonder about it. He’ll probably just text me like always.”

  “Maybe. Let’s watch TV and forget about it,” I said. “Unless you really want to call him and not hang up this time.”

  Heather shook her head. “No, thanks. I’ll pass.”

  She got up and grabbed the TV remote. She turned on our fave channel and sat cross-legged next to me. I leaned back against her headboard, relaxing. So she might not have talked to Troy, but at least she’d called him. Sort of.

  Buzz!

  Heather and I both jumped as her phone lit up between us.

  “It’s Troy!” Heather screeched, looking at the screen. “Omigod! What should I do? I can’t answer it!”

  “You have to! Or it’ll look like you did call him and chicken out. Just answer it and be cool.”

  Heather stared at the phone for another second before she grabbed it and answered.

  “Hey, Troy,” she said, her voice a little higher than usual. She listened for a few seconds, then laughed.

  “I was such a dork,” she said. “I started to call you and dropped my phone.”

  Good line, I thought. Heather could totally do this.

  I wanted to give her some privacy while she was on the phone. I motioned toward her laptop.

  “Can I check my e-mail?” I mouthed.

  Heather nodded, not even listening to me. She was too distracted.

  I picked up her laptop and sat in the chair by the sliding glass door. I opened it and pulled up Hotmail.

  Weird. My e-mail address was already typed into the box. No password, but I had no idea why my e-mail address would be in the box.

  Heather doesn’t use Hotmail, duh, I reminded myself. My address was probably still there from the last time I’d checked my e-mail on Heather’s computer, days ago. In my rush to get out of Canterwood, I’d forgotten my own laptop, and Heather had said I could use hers if I needed to.

  I started to type in my password.

  “I’ve gotta run, Troy, talk to you later,” Heather said quickly. She tossed down the phone, ran across the room, and snatched the laptop from me.

  “Hey!” I said. “What’re you doing?”

  “Excuse me,” she said. “What are you doing?”

  “Checking my e-mail,” I said.

  Heather closed the laptop. “So you just take someon
e’s laptop and use it?”

  “I asked you! You were on the phone and I whispered if I could use your computer. You nodded, so I took that as the universal gesture of ‘okay.’”

  Heather’s shoulders relaxed. “Sorry,” she muttered. “You did ask. I just was so into my talk with Troy, I forgot I said yes. Here.” She started to hand it back to me.

  “Never mind,” I said. “We’re watching TV. I’ll check it later, after I’m sure that you heard me ask you.”

  Heather smiled. “Okay. Deal. I’m going to ask Helen for a snack. Be right back.”

  Settling back against a couple of fluffy pillows, I shook my head. I couldn’t figure her out sometimes. I thought we were past Heather thinking I’d snoop through her personal stuff on her laptop. And it wasn’t even like I’d try to sneak away with it, lock my guest-room door, and use it. I was checking my e-mail right in front of her.

  Heather walked back with a tray of food and closed the door with her foot. “TV time,” she said.

  “Most def.”

  And minutes later I’d forgotten about the weirdness over the laptop and we were laughing at the ridiculous antics of the latest cast of Our World: NYC.

  20

  GET YOUR GAME FACE ON

  IT WAS BARELY DAWN ON FRIDAY MORNING when Heather and I stood near the front door, pulling on our riding boots.

  “I’m so ready to practice,” I said. I was surprisingly awake this early in the morning, but the vanilla cappuccino Helen had made me earlier might have had something to do with it.

  “Me too,” Heather said. We were both in black breeches and long-sleeve shirts. My cranberry-colored shirt was waffle knit and Heather’s hunter green v-neck looked sophisticated with her breeches.

  “Heather?”

  I wanted to hurry into the hallway the second I heard Mr. Fox’s voice.

  “Yes, Dad?” Heather called.

  “What’s your plan for today’s session?” he asked, striding into the room.

  He held a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a copy of The Wall Street Journal in the other.

  “We’re going to work on everything,” Heather said, picking up her helmet from the floor. “Flatwork and jumping. We’re doing posture exercises, too, and some new techniques I read about—almost like yoga in the saddle.”