Jet Set

by Carrie Karasyov

  “I’m so sorry. I had no idea….”

  “Don’t let it happen again. I do not like it. Here to the left is Assistant Coach Albright and Sub-assistant Coach Clement. Liliana and Katrine are our ball girls. Suki and Heather are the trainers. Emme is the massage therapist.” I eyed the uniformed staff clad in burgundy zip-up suits with the Van Pelt crest; they almost outnumbered the actual team. “All right, line up, then, we’re doing drills.”

  “Tough luck, Lucy,” a snide teasing voice said. I turned to see Victoria jogging by to the other side of the court. Ah, torture the new gal. I got it.

  I sprinted over to the line and found I was next to Angelina.

  “Hi,” I said softly. “I’m Lucy Peterson.”

  “Angelina,” she replied in a businesslike tone, turning back to the net to prepare for one of the coach’s lobs. I felt myself redden even more. I was so riled up by Victoria that I missed the first shot, and I could feel Victoria’s smirk burn in my side. Focus, Lucy. By my second time I was able to slice a shot across the net that grazed Victoria’s thigh and then went past her. Who’s smirking now?

  “We’re not out to hurt our teammates, Peterson. Keep it civil.” shouted the coach.

  Again my face burned. Was everyone against me?

  “She’s just got a wicked shot, coach,” said the redheaded boy. Thanks! Chivalry is not dead! “But she hits like a guy,” he added, deflating my opinion of him at once. In tennis strength is usually thought of as a good thing, but the way he said it let me know he was somehow dissing me.

  The coach had us line up and do speed shots, where we hit the ball then ran around to the other side. The drills lasted an hour, and I was wiped out. Angelina and Victoria were good, but it was clear that I was better. I thought I’d have some serious competition, given the illustrious program Van Pelt offered, but it seemed all the private coaches and custom tennis outfits couldn’t beat natural talent. I really wanted to be top seed on the team. Sure, they had all the fancy rackets and outfits, but when it came to shots I was superior, even as a sophomore. At least that knowledge cheered me a little.

  “Water break,” announced Coach Sachs before he beelined into the clubhouse.

  Everyone else walked over to the water cooler on the side of the court, so I assumed that we were meant to bake in the still-boiling September sun while Coach got to relax in the shade. Nice. Clearly he took a page from the school’s unwritten diva book.

  I waited at the end of the line to get my chilled bottled spring water. As soon as Angelina took her two bottles, she walked off to the side of the court to stretch next to a guy who seemed very good-looking from afar. From the way she handed him a water, they appeared to be a couple. Victoria immediately followed, and I watched them curiously. It would make sense that Victoria and Angelina were friends, since they probably moved in the same circles outside of school.

  “So, you’re the newbie,” said the redhead, more as a fact than a question. “My name’s Maxwell.”

  “Hi, yes. I’m Lucy. The new girl.”

  “Where are you from?” he asked.

  “Well, I’m American, but my parents live in Germany.”

  “Bankers?”

  “No. Foreign service.”

  “Your dad the ambassador?” asked Maxwell, perking up. I guess my dad’s nonillustrious occupation was a rarity.

  “Um, not quite,” I said. “So is this the entire team?” I added quickly.

  “Naw, just the sophomores. Each grade practices among themselves.”

  “Oh,” I replied, and then Sachs came out of his office.

  “Team! Ten minutes left to break!” he barked, holding up his stopwatch before returning inside.

  “Gosh, it’s hot today, bloody torture,” said the guy who had been sitting with Angelina. He walked up and stood next to Maxwell. I was stunned. It was Prince OLIVER. And if he had seemed hot in his picture in the magazine? Hotter! It was like a gust of romantic wind slapped me in the face. Seriously. He was tall and in shape, was still tanned from the summer, and had golden flecks in his brown hair. He had piercing blue eyes that crinkled in the corners, and eyebrows that were just a little bit darker than his hair color, which I found to be so hot. All of a sudden the workout and the heat made me feel a little dizzy.

  “Yeah.” Yeah? That’s all I could say? Pathetic.

  “I’m Oliver,” he said, sticking out his hand.

  “Prince Oliver,” added Maxwell in a snotty tone.

  “Max, cut it out,” said Oliver, sounding embarrassed.

  “I’m Lucy.”

  “You’re a darn good tennis player,” said Oliver. “Saw you out there,” he said, nodding to the clay court. “Killer volleys.”

  “Thanks,” I said. Okay, why did I have to get so red? I must have looked like a burn victim, seriously, because my face was on fire. Had I never talked to a boy before?

  “Look, she’s blushing!” Maxwell pointed out the obvious. Jerk.

  “She’s not blushing; it’s just a million degrees out here,” said Oliver gallantly.

  “Oliver! Angelina just told me the funniest story. Come here!” shouted Victoria from the bench across the court.

  “I want to hear it!” shouted Maxwell, dragging Oliver over to the girls. I watched as Oliver plopped down next to Angelina and leaned against her.

  I stood frozen by the water cooler, mortified. I wasn’t invited across court to hear the hilarious story, so I looked like a complete tool. I pretended I needed more water, and when that didn’t kill enough time I became very involved with rewrapping the tape on my racket as if my life depended on it. I could hear the laughs and chatter from the little gang and felt wildly insecure and out of place. I couldn’t wait for Coach to return, and almost as though he could feel me willing him, he made his entrance.

  “Okay, now, we’ll practice the serves,” commanded Coach, clapping his hands furiously.

  We lined up and each took a turn. Victoria’s ball landed in the net. Angelina had a weak serve that made it over the net and in place but without any power. Oliver was pretty good, but Maxwell slammed across the net in the best effort of the day so far. When it was my turn I took a deep breath and whacked the ball. It landed perfectly in the corner, slicing over the net. I beamed. This was where I excelled.

  “Good shot, Peterson,” said Sachs. “But we have to do something about that racket. It’s as old as Chris Evert.” He exited, his massive staff in tow.

  “Oh my God!” Victoria squealed, looking down at my hand. “You’re going to need to buy a racket that was made in the twenty-first century. I mean, helloooo, that’s like one step above those wooden ones!”

  And with that, my day was ruined.

  Chapter Six

  “Um, this seat is saved,” said Antigone, putting her hand out so that Sofia and I couldn’t sit down at their table.

  “Saved? All five seats are saved?” demanded Sofia.

  “Yes, for friends,” said Antigone, who then turned back to Iman and Victoria and laughed. It was so childish, it was insane.

  “Fine,” said Sofia, whisking up her tray and walking over to another table. I followed.

  “I would never have even tried to sit there, Sofia,” I said, embarrassed.

  “Why not? They don’t own the lunchroom,” she said, slamming down her tray.

  “But it’s clear they are not interested in being friends with us,” I said.

  “My relatives are just as royal as theirs,” she huffed. “I couldn’t give a rat’s arse about them, anyway.”

  I watched Sofia as she took a sip of her steaming skim latte, perfectly frothed by the professional baristas who worked in the school cafeteria (“Cocoa or cinnamon on that?”). Clearly she had a thorn in her side about the Diamonds. I mean, I wasn’t into them either, but she seemed more undone by their bitchiness.

  It was my fifth day at school, and I felt like I was getting into some semblance of a groove. I finally knew where my classes were, I knew when to get to pract
ice (I hadn’t been wrong; Oliver told me that despite the schedule saying practice is at ten, we’re supposed to get there at nine.) I knew the social ladder, and I clearly wasn’t at the top. The Diamonds seemed to be the clique that everyone wanted to get into. They were the most confident, the most decked out, and in a way the prettiest. Not really individually, but as a collective. However, though they might rule the roost as a group, the person that everyone—including them—wanted to be friends with was definitely Angelina, the Queen Bee. She remained aloof. It was not that she was unfriendly; she just kind of kept her distance. She wouldn’t have bothered me at all, except for the fact that it was clear Oliver was into her. He was really the only one she talked to, and I saw them now and then having deep conversations. Not that I could ever get a guy like him, but it was a bummer to have him taken.

  We settled into our table across the room and started to eat our pasta. I had only taken a bite of my macaroni and cheese with shaved white truffles when Sofia got to her favorite topic.

  “So what did Angelina wear today?” she asked. She was as obsessed with Angelina as everyone else, and she made me give daily reports on her outfits at tennis.

  “I don’t know, white!”

  “You’re pathetic. Was it designer?”

  “There was a little interlocking C and D on her warm-up jacket.”

  “Hello? Christian. Dior. Nice. I didn’t know they made tennis clothes, though they probably don’t. Just for her. What about her jewelry?”

  “We’re not allowed to wear jewelry.”

  “Not even earrings?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  “You’re so cute, Lucy. You’ll learn!”

  Just then Victoria and Iman walked past our table.

  “Nice pants, Evert!” Victoria sneered, looking down at my plain black pants. They giggled conspiratorially and walked off. Pathetic. I wanted to not care, but why did they have to be mean?

  “What’s that about?” asked Sofia.

  I filled her in on Coach Sachs’s mockery of my racket, which seemed to have further fueled Victoria’s juvenile teasing.

  “He should be one to talk, since before he worked at Van Pelt he manned a second-rate gym in East Berlin,” said Sofia, again displaying her knowledge of everyone’s backstory. “But those slags should really shut their mugs!” she said icily.

  I sighed. “What can I say? I’m no fashion plate.”

  “That’s true, love,” she said, but then, seeing my look, quickly added, “but I can help you.”

  “How? I can’t revolutionize my wardrobe with my stipend.”

  “Yes you can! I can give you some tips, like a fun makeover,” she said, leaning back and assessing me.

  “I don’t think so…,” I began, but my voice faltered.

  “You’re sooo pretty, dahling! Really, your face and bod, you could be a knockout. You just…don’t have experience with this, is all. And some makeup could work wonders. And highlights!”

  I found myself touching my light brown hair. “I was blond as a baby,” I said, trying to joke.

  I had thought of myself as a somewhat together person who was smart enough and athletic enough to get into this school and go off, away from her parents and sister, and try to make life better. And now I felt like the Gap had thrown up on me while everyone else was in Milan’s latest.

  “Why do you think they hate me?”

  “They don’t hate you,” said Sofia. “Victoria’s just threatened because she was always number one on the tennis team and word is that you might replace her.”

  Really? She was? Still, that was no way to behave. “But why do they all have to be nasty?”

  “They stick together like glue. They know they have more power as a pack. Listen, they’re going to make your life hell if they think you have something they want, which you do: your tennis skills. These girls are used to getting whatever they want. They’re all like Veruca Salt from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I just want you to be prepared.”

  “Great, I feel so much better,” I said, a bite of macaroni stuck mid-esophagus.

  “But don’t worry about those hos,” Sofia comforted, with a hand on my arm. “One way to do it is to not give them any unnecessary ammunition. So if you ever want to raid my closet, you’re more than welcome.” Somehow her English accent relaxed me à la Julie Andrews as Mary Poppins or Maria von Trapp. Thank goodness I had Sofia.

  But despite Sofia’s soothing words, when I got back to my room I collapsed on my bed and hot tears came rushing out in a bout of homesickness. All I wanted now were my family and to be home in my tiny house on the base. I grabbed the princess phone on the desk and dialed.

  “Hello?” It was Amanda, my big sister! Finally someone to show me some love.

  “Mandy! I’m so bummed,” I said, my voice choking.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” she asked sympathetically.

  When I had finally calmed down enough to fill her in on the details—the insensitive comments by Coach and the random meanness of the Diamonds—there was silence on the other end of the phone.

  “Macaroni and cheese with white truffles?” she asked. “Don’t truffles cost like five hundred dollars?”

  “I guess,” I said, wiping my nose with my shirt. “But that’s not the point. I just miss you guys. It’s very intense here.”

  “Yes it is the point, Lucy. I mean, yeah, it sucks that the girls are bitches, but what did you expect?”

  “Well…I…just thought they wouldn’t be so harsh,” I sputtered in surprise.

  “Well, life is harsh. And I’m sorry that those girls are snotty, but grow up. You’ve told me about your giant bedroom with the plasma TV and the amazing food and the cool classes you get to take, like International Waters Law and Dissection of Fairy Tales, and you’re like, hobnobbing with royalty, and then you cry ’cause one girl tells you that you need to dress better? Give me a break.”

  “You don’t understand….”

  “No I don’t. And unfortunately I won’t. Because you were the lucky one who got to go there. Me? I had to sign up for ROTC to pay for college, so one day I could be shipped out to God knows where while you’ll get a tennis scholarship if you play your cards right. Suck it up, sis,” she said, slamming down the phone.

  I sat there in shock, holding the silent phone. I couldn’t believe Amanda had hung up on me! I wanted to cry, but I took deep breaths to calm myself down as I thought about what she had said. I was lucky. Sure, these girls were nasty and snobby, but I was here for myself. I just needed to keep my head down, get a great education, go to a stellar college, and make something of myself. Stay the course, as my dad would say.

  Taking another deep breath to pull myself together, I stared at myself from every angle of my giant three-way mirror and realized that maybe, just maybe, I could use a little touch-up. I could never wear short skirts or big jewelry, but maybe it could be fun to be a tad more girly.

  Chapter Seven

  I walked down the hall toward Sofia’s room and was about to knock when I heard something odd.

  I couldn’t quite believe my unpierced ears. My hand hovered by the gold knocker on Sofia’s door as I held my breath. I knew the difference between the sound of a TV and a live speaking voice, and what I distinctly heard was Sofia’s voice—the exact tone and cadence—but with an altogether different accent. Gone was the clipped, perfect, lilting chirp of the queen or her great-nephew Prince Oliver. In its place? Two words: Oliver Twist.

  My lungs filled instantly with a rush of air at the realization: Sofia had been affecting an accent! She really spoke in thick street-urchin cockney. It couldn’t be.

  “Awl right, awl right!” she snapped into the phone. Her words sounded completely different. “Oy am doeen me best!” I heard the phone slam down. I stepped away from the door, letting go of the knocker gently.

  I heard Sofia clear her throat. Then, in a magic millisecond, she flicked her aristocratic aura back on and out came her other E
nglish. “Is someone there?” She said there in her singsongy, charming and precise British manner, a far cry from the “Bri-ish” pickpocket-ese I’d heard only a moment before.

  I panicked. “Um…Sofia? Hi! I was…just walking by—” Stupid! Ugh. Okay, Lucy, play dumb.

  The door whipped open. Sofia stared at me skeptically, eyelids at half-mast. “How long were you out there?” she said, studying me as she awaited my answer.

  “No time at all!” I stammered. “Um, just was walking by and I heard the phone hang up. I was hoping you were free to get a snack…I’m starving.”

  She leaned on her door frame, her tall, lithe body draped in a fancy lace-trimmed silk robe. She folded her arms and squinted her eyes. My body quietly shook as I felt like a defendant about to hear a jury’s verdict.

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “I’ll come. I’m hungry as well.” Phew.

  We went to Caffè VP, one of the four on-campus restaurants (with menus in seventeen different languages and currencies), and I practically deserved an Oscar for my performance. It was as if I still thought of her as my posh neighbor slash budding friend who I looked up to to show me the ropes. Only now I knew she was hiding something from me. I listened attentively as she identified the crowd of beautiful people, each bedecked with a different set of logos and bling.

  “There goes Leigh Ofer. She is one of the coolest girls in school. Her boyfriend graduated last year, and he’s one of the top polo players in Argentina. That’s Fifi von Fabercastel from Germany—her uncle makes every eyeliner in the world. Oh, and there’s Shyla LeCreuze. She’s from Belgium, and her dad invented chocolate.”

  “Um…I think the ancient Mayans invented chocolate as we know it—,” I carefully corrected.

  “Whatever. He’s major in the chocolate world. When you say ‘Belgian chocolates’ you’re talking about them.” As she studied everyone around us, I simply studied her. The way she said “Whatever” was more like “Wha-eva,” with tiny peeks of the Dickensian cockney shining through. What was her deal? Why the smoke and mirrors reflecting a moneyed and socially connected life when she was talking to someone as decidedly unglam as me? I was curious. I didn’t quite know what to think let alone say, so I remained quasi-mute for the rest of lunch. I had to play it very safe here—she was my only friend so far, and I couldn’t let on that I knew. I needed a sure-footed strategy. She was the quick jackrabbit type who ran up to the net to swat volleys dramatically, and I would be the one slowly swinging at the baseline, soberly returning shot after shot after shot.