The Saints of the Cross

by Michelle Figley

  “Well, everything she’s told me has been good, so don’t worry,” I assure him with a smile. “I’m Evangeline Sweeney. Everyone calls me Evie.”

  “Evie Sweeney,” he repeats slowly, nodding in approval. “Someone was a poet, huh?”

  “Yeah, my mother.” I look at the dance floor in an attempt to escape his relentless, intriguing eyes. I change the subject, nodding toward the dancers. “Great party.”

  “I guess so, if you’re into that sort of thing,” Xander says, moving next to me. He leans down and folds his massive arms over the wall.

  “You’re not?”

  “Nah. I just come to be Camilla’s DD. Every year she makes me come, but every year she ends up spending the night here with Christian. I have absolutely no idea why she makes me come to these stupid parties. She knows it’s not my scene.”

  “Why don’t you just say no, then, if these parties make you so miserable?” Again I grimace, because I didn’t intend for that question to sound so biting.

  “You have met her, haven’t you?” he asks, looking at me with a surprised expression. I nod, with a look that says so what? He continues, “Then you must realize that Camilla never hears the word no. Never. She has a way of charming anyone into doing anything she wants. She’s like a modern-day Siren or something.”

  I consider that comparison for a moment and remember how she charmed the collective pants off my family members, so I know what he’s saying is probably true.

  “She and Christian are quite the pair, both too charming for their own good,” Xander concludes harshly.

  While Camilla’s charms aren’t entirely lost on me, Christian’s most certainly are not. “Do you think they sit around and swap secrets on how to charm the pants off everyone? Maybe they even keep a book of charm secrets,” I muse, laughing.

  “Like, Charming for Dummies?” We both crack up at the thought of those two having secret discussions on how to take over the world, using nothing more than their unprecedented charm and charisma.

  “What’s so funny, you two?” asks Camilla, appearing suddenly behind Xander. We were so wrapped up in our conversation, and each other, that we didn’t notice her approaching. Her dress is a wrinkled mess, and she’s barefoot, but she has an unmistakable glow about her. I have to admit, I’m a little bit jealous. Okay, maybe a lot jealous. Christian saunters up behind her, wraps his arms around her waist, and buries his nose into her hair. She turns her head and kisses him on the lips. Do I ever feel like a voyeur right now. But I can’t help noticing how amazing these two look together, with her dark, exotic beauty and his golden, blue-eyed good looks. I glance over at Xander whose face turning a bright shade of red. He notices me staring at him and averts his eyes to the dance floor. Well, that was weird . . . and uncomfortable.

  “Oh nothing,” Xander finally answers, interrupting their kiss.

  Camilla looks to me, then to Xander’s red face, then back to me. “Hmm, I’m glad you two found each other in this crowd. Saves me the time and trouble of introducing you.”

  “Well, hello there, Alexander,” says Christian, as if he hadn’t noticed Xander standing there the entire time. He lets loose of Camilla and lights up a menthol cigarette. The smell immediately nauseates me. “Can I get you a beer?” Christian cajoles Xander.

  “You know I don’t drink, Christian,” Xander says.

  “Oh right. What was I thinking?” Christian smirks. As his eyes narrow at Xander, my skin prickles as panic shoots through me. But then Christian’s face relaxes, and he turns his attention to me. “Well, have a good time, Evie. It was so very nice to meet you.”

  He gives me an obvious once-over with those incredible, blue eyes—a devilish grin tilting his mouth—then turns and walks off toward a group of people standing by the DJ table.

  Camilla glares at Xander. If looks could kill, Xander would be on the ground, dead, and Camilla would be under arrest. She exhales a deep breath. “I’m going to let the two of you get to know each other better. Evie, I’ll meet back up with you later. Okay?”

  I glance at Xander, who looks as if it is all he can do to keep his mouth shut.

  “Sure,” I shrug.

  “Thanks.” She gives Xander a side-long glare and says, “I’ll deal with you later, mister,” and then runs off in Christian’s direction.

  “What was that?”

  “That was Christian being a dick,” Xander answers, shaking his head in angered annoyance.

  “He seems okay to me,” I shrug, trying to diffuse the situation. Actually, I was worried that Christian was going to slug Xander, although it would’ve been an idiotic move on his part. Xander outweighs him by at least twenty pounds and is about five inches taller. One jaw-connecting punch from Xander would probably put Christian down for the count.

  “Really? Because I’m pretty sure he just checked you out right in front of his girlfriend.”

  “What? Nooo,” I answer, but I know he’s right, and I feel a twinge of guilt for having enjoyed Christian’s attention.

  “Don’t let the Prince Charming act fool you. He’s the stereotypical rock-band guy. It only makes it worse that he’s pretty. Girls seem to get stupid around the pretty boys,” he says, his voice dripping with contempt. I feel a little bit guilty—and silly—when I think about my initial reaction to Christian; how I’d been so mesmerized by that perfect face. However, I don’t understand why Xander keeps referring to Christian as a pretty boy, when Xander is just as good-looking, only in a more rugged way.

  “I’ve seen him out with other girls on more than one occasion,” Xander whispers, looking in the direction we last saw Camilla as if he’s afraid she might overhear that bit of information.

  “What?” I exclaim. “Have you told Camilla?”

  “No, and please don’t tell her. I don’t want to be the one to break her heart. She’s a pretty tough chick, which you’ll find out in time. But when it comes to Christian, she’s a completely different person—so fragile. It kills me to think what it would do to her to know that he plays around.”

  I see the worry and sadness in his eyes, and the idea dawns on me that perhaps Xander is in love with Camilla.

  “You really care about her, don’t you?” I give him a gentle pat on the shoulder. Looking into Xander’s conflicted face, I feel something stir in me, and I am taken aback momentarily, because it’s not something I’ve ever experienced before. I feel an overwhelming desire to protect him and I don’t know where it’s coming from. I swallow hard to calm the anxiety that the sensation causes in me.

  “Yeah. I’ve known her since we were babies. Our moms are best friends, and they practically raised us together,” says Xander, staring off into the distance to some faraway place, some long-ago time.

  “I can understand why you’d love her,” I say, dreamily contemplating the romanticism of being in love with someone you’ve known your entire life.

  “I do love her, but not in a romantic sense” he explains. “She’s like the sister I never had. Seriously, there are pictures of us as toddlers naked in a bathtub together.” Xander wrinkles his face into a grimace, then laughs. “I threaten to dig them up and post them on the Internet whenever she starts getting too bossy with me.”

  “Oh, that is just wrong,” I giggle. “I’d be mortified.” My mind’s eye produces an image of a panic-stricken Camilla viewing the scandalous pictures on a social-networking site, and it’s just too funny.

  “Yeah, but it is excellent ammunition against her,” he laughs, and I nod heartily in agreement.

  The night air has grown cool and damp since I first came onto the patio with Jude. I shiver against the night breeze and wish I’d brought a cardigan to wear over the sleeveless dress. Xander removes his leather jacket and drapes it over my shoulders.

  “There you go,” he says, while making a big production of straightening the jacket’s collar. “It actually looks nice with that dress.”

  “Thanks.” I smile up at him. The jacket is still warm from his
body heat, and I pull it tight around me. The combination of his woodsy cologne and the leather smells wonderful.

  “Would you like to sit down?” Xander asks as he motions toward an area of tables topped with votive candles.

  “I’d love to, actually. My feet are killing me,” I sigh, pointing down to the ridiculous stiletto pumps that I allowed Camilla to buy for me at Gucci.

  We talk for what seems like forever, sipping Diet Coke and people-watching. Occasionally, Xander points out people and gives me the 411 on them—their names, what they do, who they date, whether or not I’d find them interesting. According to Xander, ninety-five percent of students at Holy Cross are boring elitists. The other five percent are merely tolerable buffoons. In what I’ve discovered is his endearing, self-deprecating humor, he includes himself in the latter category. He tells me that if I want to meet interesting people, I’ll just have to go out to the clubs sometime with him and Camilla. He tells me that Christian’s band is neo-punk, and I’d meet all sorts of strange characters at their shows. As if on cue, Laurel and Jude walk up, hand in hand.

  “What are you doing here, Alexander?” Laurel asks, folding her arms across her ample chest. In an attempt to hide my lack of one, I pull the front of Xander’s jacket closed.

  “Hey, Xander!” Jude gives him an enthusiastic fist-bump. “Are you going to soccer practice tomorrow?”

  “Depends on how late Camilla keeps me out.” Xander shrugs. “I don’t think an eight a.m. practice is sounding too good right now.”

  “I hear you, brother,” Jude commiserates.

  “You didn’t answer my question, Alexander.” Laurel’s hands are on her hips, and the scowl on her face is the stuff of legends.

  “That’s because I was ignoring you, Laurel.” Xander finally turns his head to her, defiance narrowing his eyes.

  Laurel crinkles her face at Xander. Her stone-gray eyes fall on me with the same horrid disdain. She huffs something under her breath and then abruptly turns and storms off, a plethora of obscenities filling the cool night air around her.

  “That’s a real peach you’ve got there, my friend,” Xander says to Jude as we watch Laurel stomp away.

  “Yes, I know,” Jude exhales. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, Xander. Evie, make sure this bloke makes it home. Camilla sure won’t.” Then Jude is gone, chasing after Laurel like a lost puppy as she weaves through the crowd.

  “What was that all about?” I ask, a little shell-shocked from the drama. “I feel like I’ve walked into an episode of ‘Gossip Girl.’”

  Xander guffaws long and hard, then looks at me with serious eyes. “That show can’t even come close to the craziness that goes on around here, Evie. There are definitely no saints at this Cross.”

  Yeah, I’m already starting to realize that.

  CHAPTER 8

  Xander was right. Camilla did end up spending the night locked away with Christian in his room. I only saw her come out once to go to the kitchen. On her way back to his room, she glanced over at Xander and me sitting on the sofa in the family room and flitted me a look that said: go for it!—which I ignored. I found it distasteful that she left me alone with complete strangers, all of whom—save for Xander—were completely stoned off their rockers. But then again, I understand why she did it: for the love of a man. Who am I to judge?

  I find talking to Xander incredibly easy and enjoyable. He keeps the conversation light and polite, never asking me questions that might be considered too personal. We mainly discuss Washington, DC: the sights, the sounds, and all the cool things to do. He makes me promise to go out with him and Camilla as soon as I am settled in my new surroundings. I don’t discuss my life back in Spain, my relationship with Javier, or my recent dreams-slash-memories of my mother. I just want to enjoy his company and not end up a sobbing mess.

  Most of the party-goers have left by eight a.m. at which time Camilla finally pulls herself away from Christian and stumbles into the family room, where Xander and I still sit talking. To say she looks like she’s been hit by a Mack truck is an understatement. Her hair is knotted up in a mess on top of her head and her makeup is nonexistent, except for a smudge of mascara across her right cheek. She’s wearing a men’s Harvard Lacrosse t-shirt and, apparently, nothing underneath. She squints at us through heavy eyelids.

  “Hey, you two. I wondered if you’d stay all night.” She yawns and plops down on the chair next to the sofa.

  Xander grumbles and exhales a deep, long breath. “Oh, you really wondered, did you, Camilla?”

  She looks at him with wary eyes.

  “What?” she asks defensively.

  “Every damn year you make me come to this stupid party so I can presumably drive your drunk ass home, but every damn year you end up spending the night in Christian’s bedroom, and I’m left waiting on the off-chance that you might decide to go home because you get in a fight with him. At least this year you had enough common courtesy to bring along someone beautiful and interesting for me to talk with. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  For a second, I think I see steam rolling out of his ears, but I take the comment about me as a compliment.

  “Xander, you ass! I make you come so you can meet people, you pathetic jerk. So you can meet a girl.” She looks over at me and gives me a wicked wink. “Not so you can drive me around. Damn, who are you calling idiotic? You’re dense as hell!”

  “Jesus Christ, Camilla! I don’t need your help finding a girlfriend.” Xander’s face goes three shades of red, and I feel a twinge of sympathy for him.

  “Oh really? I don’t think the last one you had was such a gem, Xander. And you found her all on your own,” Camilla says, her expression smug.

  “Shut up, Camilla.”

  “I’m just sayin’.” She shrugs and stands up. Addressing me, she says, “I better get you home before your dad calls out the troops. I’ll get changed and be right back.”

  “He’s actually a sailor,” I yell after her as she bounds off toward Christian’s room. Xander bursts out laughing.

  “See what I mean about her?” he says, shaking his head. “She’s insufferable.”

  ***

  Camilla drops me off at my house at noon. When I find my phone sitting atop my dresser, it’s chiming with the voicemail alert. Great. I snatch it from the dresser and the display is flashing three voice messages: two from Javier and one from Coralea. I listen to Cora’s first:

  “Hey, hooker. Just calling to check on you. Did you make it to DC safe and sound? Anyway, call me back a-sap. Just wanna make sure you’re okay. No news on this front, if you know what I mean. Later, babe.”

  The sound of Cora’s voice and her usual too-cool-for-you shtick make me smile. I click on Javier’s first message next:

  “Corazón, call me as soon as possible. I need to talk to you. Don’t text me. I need to talk to you about something.”

  I don’t know why, but a feeling of dread begins to work its way through me. Feeling the anxiety numbing my extremities, I click on the next message he’s left me:

  “Eva, I have something very important I need to tell you. Please call me as soon as you get this message. Where are you, anyway? Why don’t you have your cell phone on?” Then a moment of throat clearing followed by another moment of silence. “Bueno, I’ll talk to you soon.”

  I hit the call-back button, as panic grips me. What could possibly be so important that would make Javier, usually level-headed, sound so anxious? The call goes immediately over to his voicemail, and my heart sinks.

  “This is Javi. Leave me a message.”

  If I could kick myself right now, I would. How could I be so careless as to leave my cell phone at home on the first weekend away from Javier? I leave messages four more times before my grandmother calls us down for dinner. I’m guessing that he’ll call me back sometime late during the night, as there is a six-hour time difference between Madrid and DC. It is seven p.m. in DC right now which means it is one a.m. in Madrid.

  We’re
not allowed to have our cell phones at the dinner table, but when I hear the familiar ringtone coming from the direction of my bedroom, I promptly ask to be excused. Without waiting for an answer, I run up the stairs and slam the door behind me. I grab the phone and see that it’s not Javier calling. It’s an unknown number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Evie. I see you made it home alive.” I recognize the voice; it’s Alexander Bartolomeo.

  “Yeah, finally. What’s up, Xander?” I hope I don’t sound too impatient—but I’m about to crawl the walls waiting for Javier’s call. “Wait. How did you get my number?”

  “Camilla got it from her dad,” he reveals, a bit defensive. “I guess your uncle gave it to her dad, so that she could contact you when you moved here. Something about showing you around and introducing you to people.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say, with an apologetic laugh.

  “Camilla and I are going to a club in DC tonight to watch Christian’s band. Want to come?” He sounds nervous, and I feel a little guilty. I may have given him the wrong idea last night.

  “Thanks, but I’m waiting on an important phone call, so I should probably stay home tonight.”

  “Really? Sounds like an excuse to me.” His voice is teasing, but I suspect he truly means it.

  “No, I promise you, I’m really am waiting on a call.” I laugh, trying to lighten the conversation and my stern tone.

  “Well, you have a cell phone, right?” Now it’s his turn to sound impatient.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then I don’t understand why you’d have to sit alone at home waiting for a phone call when you could just as easily answer it at the club,” he reasons. I know I’m defeated in this argument. “Besides, I need someone to talk to. Camilla will be all over the front of the stage giving the evil eye to all the other chicks swooning over Christian. She’s all about marking her territory at these shows.”

  I laugh at the visual of Camilla ardently defending her territory. It could be pretty entertaining for a Saturday night, and, true, I could take Javier’s call there. Although I don’t think he’d appreciate me being underage in a club with people I barely know, which brings me to my next, more pertinent argument.