Jet Set

by Carrie Karasyov

  “Brilliant, right?” Oliver was beside me, dipping a stick of buttery pound cake into the velvety chocolate.

  “Yes, I’m literally high right now. This is beyond incredible,” I gushed. “I’m having the best time.”

  “Are you?” Oliver asked.

  “Yes, this is unlike any other party I’ve ever been to!”

  “Listen, Lucy,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. I would be lying if I didn’t admit I felt tingling where his hand was. As he moved me off to the side, I spotted Antony with his back to us ordering more ginger ales. “About Antony—,” Oliver started.

  “What is it?” I asked, turning my attention back to him and noticing the furrow in Oliver’s brow.

  “Just be…careful.” What the hell did that mean?

  “He’s a nice guy, Oliver. I’m not worried. Anyway, nothing’s going on—we just met tonight.”

  “All right, then, I just—” He paused, holding my wrist lightly in his hand. I almost fainted.

  Just then Antony walked up. Speak of the devil.

  “What, warning her about me?” said Antony with a sly smile.

  “No, no, I just—Have a lovely night,” said Oliver, and he left us. I saw Angelina waiting for him and he led her outside, where the cars were waiting to take everyone to the after party at Club Platinum.

  “So, are we going or are we going?” Sofia squealed, running over. “The night is but a fetus.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Club Platinum had dark banquettes all around the perimeter of the cool, dimly lit space. It was clearly the It place for people to mingle, and I saw many of my classmates, including Iman, Antigone, and Victoria, hug the bouncer upon entry, then warmly greet the maître d’ with a kiss on the cheek. Lola and Rocky, prominent DJs on the Euro club circuit, were spinning in the raised corner booth. Sofia was clearly soaking it all up as she described how “major” the scene was that night.

  “I mean, Lola and Rocky won’t play one record without a hundred thousand euros. They’re huge. They played the after party of the Duke of Faxington’s daughter’s wedding in Marbella. Oh! There’s Holly Bollycock of the Bollycock Tea empire.…”

  Her wide eyes drank in every sexy, preened teen in the joint, and Antony, who’d sat with us in a plum corner spot, laughed in amusement. “She’s quite something, your friend,” he murmured. “She’s like a Who’s Who compendium of the whole Continent.”

  “Try world,” I corrected.

  “Shall we have a go?” he said, gesturing to the packed dance floor where Antigone and Moabi LeTroux were practically Lambada-ing themselves into one being, and Iman and Morgan Wellington, the cricket star, were doing quasi-medical procedures on each other’s tonsils. While thoroughly grossed out by their PDA, I must say, I was jealous that they’d found someone they liked. Following him out into the crowd, I wondered if maybe Antony might be the one to put a little spark in my semester.

  As he twirled me around I saw Oliver walk in with Angelina. He looked at us, then looked away.

  Then I glanced over at Sofia, who was holding up her drink. But next to the glass I saw a huge cocktail ring I hadn’t noticed earlier. She sipped her drink and kept touching the big onyx ring with the other hand. In the whirling collage of thumping beats, glittering clothes, flailing dancing limbs, and blurred strobe lights, not a soul but me would ever notice. As I watched her carefully, I saw her touch the ring, adjusting it and moving her hand in different positions on the table. She kept lifting her hand for no reason, and tilting it at various angles. Suddenly, dancing to the music under the strobe lights, I realized that the onyx in that huge setting was hardly a simple piece of shiny black rock. It was the lens of a tiny camera that was quietly clicking away at the unknowing glamorous couples who shimmied and spun to the turntable music, beautiful heads thrown back in laughter, without a care in the world.

  Five days later when the glossy issue of GAB! hit the newsstands, the school was wildly abuzz with the explosive ten-page feature on Van Pelt. Antigone and Moabi’s hookup was now international news. Her whole country was practically planning the wedding for their new queen-to-be and her prince, Moabi.

  Ditto for Iman, whose strict father sent emissaries to bring her home for the following weekend for fear the cricket jock would deflower his only daughter. There were even rumors that he was also humiliated by the makeout photos because he’d promised her hand to a diamond magnate family in Nigeria. Tongues wagged. Sofia beamed.

  I knew exactly what was going on but never brought up the camera I’d noticed on Sofia’s finger. That was until I read the “Hot Goss” blurb that described, verbatim, Maxwell’s dalliances with Mrs. Bristol. After the party the other night I’d finally gotten her to promise that she wouldn’t say anything about that piece of gossip.

  “Sofia!” I snapped, throwing the magazine down on her bed. “It’s one thing to take photos at Club Platinum—that’s your issue. But to print that Maxwell stuff? I mean, that woman is married!”

  “So? They did it—it’s their problem.”

  “But Antony told me that stuff! Now he’ll hate me.”

  “No he won’t,” she said. “Trust me. He won’t.”

  “How do you know?” I asked, still embarrassed by my big mouth.

  “He doesn’t read Gab! Take it from me. Don’t stress. Listen, when people have affairs, it gets out there! It’s not as if he’d be the only person who knew! Plus, hello, Lucy—he’d never in a million years put two and two together. Calm down.”

  I stormed back to my room. I suddenly felt really dirty and ashamed of even knowing about Sofia’s capers. I went online and found a message from Friend that read:

  Hi there, Lucy. Did you have fun at Jazzmatazz? You seemed to be enjoying yourself on that dance floor Into that guy?

  A smile crept across my face, as I certainly would never talk to Sofia about such things. The jury’s out, I typed. How about you? Did you have fun? I hit Send and looked out the window, feeling my heart race with nervous anxiety. When I didn’t get an immediate response, I took to the only place where I could get out my aggression: the courts.

  I think I hit the ball so hard I could hear little tiny screams coming from the fluorescent furry Wilson casing.

  “Wow, that’s some serve,” I heard Oliver call. I turned to find him picking up a ball in the hopper—something only the assistants normally did.

  “Hi, Oliver. What’re you doing here?”

  “Same as you, I suppose. Just wanted to keep going, you know, blow off steam.”

  “Yeah, well, you got me. I certainly have been stressed out lately,” I vented.

  “Course work? Or…other things?”

  “Not so much the academics, thankfully. Just other stuff, I guess.”

  “Listen, I’m here if you ever want to talk. I know how it goes here. It’s a bit of a hornet’s nest, this school.”

  “Yeah, well, I just hope I don’t get stung.” I smiled. “But thanks, Oliver. I appreciate it.”

  “Well, Lucy, I’ll leave you to your serve crunching, then.” He patted me on the back, smiled sweetly, and went to the court next to me with his full ball hopper. We made our serves for another hour, occasionally glancing at each other, an unspoken easiness settling over us.

  It would be nice to talk to someone about what was going on, but I felt strange opening up to Oliver, given his gentle attempt to warn me about Antony. I knew he was nice and was trying to be my friend, in a way, but why would he shoot down another guy? It was so out of the blue. It was clear Oliver was into Angelina, not me; they were always together. So what would be his problem with Antony? I had to get to the bottom of it, and fortunately the opportunity presented itself sooner than I thought.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A few days later, Antony called me for brunch, and I met him for a feast of chef-prepared pain perdu (aka French toast; perdu means “lost” in French, as in the bread gets lost in the egg, and subsequently my thighs). He was very flirtatious on
the phone, and I remembered how much fun we had dancing at the club. Maybe this could turn into something. Still, my feelings for Antony were conflicted. He was a handsome guy, witty and charming, and had more social ease than most guys I knew his age. I was flattered that he seemed interested in me. Guys were never exactly beating down my door, and quite frankly his attention made me semiswoony. But okay, full disclosure: even though I knew the prince (i.e., Oliver) could get any princess he wanted, there was something about him that made my heart flutter. Watching him on the tennis court could make me faint, he was so graceful. He was nice to me when no one else on the team gave me the time of day. And he was, after all, a prince. I mean, weren’t we all raised on Cinderella stories?

  That said, Antony was still interesting to me. We ended up having a really nice time at brunch, and then he walked me down the path to my dorm.

  “So how are you finding it here?” Antony asked as we approached the garden.

  “I like it. It’s, you know, different. I’m not really used to this kind of scene.”

  “I know, I know. I can imagine it would be very different from the places you grew up,” said Antony.

  “That’s an understatement,” I said, nodding.

  “This place is probably pretty feeble,” he said.

  I smiled. I liked that he had a sense of humor. “Totally. I mean, the fact that they only have one maid per room? What kind of a school is this?”

  Antony looked at me, at first surprised, but then he smiled. “Right. Never thought of that.”

  “I mean, what am I supposed to do when it’s her break? Pick up my clothes myself?” I said, continuing to joke. The absurdity of this place was now hitting me.

  “I know, right? I am the biggest slob. I need someone to look after me at all times!”

  “And what’s up with the heavy textbooks? Couldn’t they find someone to carry them for us? And the sheets! They may say the thread count is four hundred, but it feels like two hundred to me.”

  “I’m astonished! Really?” said Antony, looking mock horrified.

  I clucked my tongue dramatically. “Yup, there’s no place like home, I tell you. No place like home.”

  “Well, your home must be pretty spectacular,” he said, taking my hand. He rubbed his thumb against my palm and squeezed, sending shivers to the tips of my toes. We were in front of my dorm now, and I knew that there might be people in the lounge who would be witness to this, but I didn’t care.

  “It is,” I almost whispered, caught up by the intense look in his eyes.

  “I’d love to see it sometime,” he said softly, leaning in close. I felt woozy.

  “Sure” was all I could squeak out.

  “Well, bye now,” he said gently, with a final hand squeeze.

  “Bye,” I said.

  I watched him walk away down the path. He turned around once and waved, and I blushed, embarrassed that he knew I was watching him go. It was so surreal for me to have this cute guy in a tweed blazer and gray flannels, the picture of elegance, be into me. I couldn’t believe my luck.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “So are you with Antony now?” asked Iman, her arms folded in a huff and her eyebrows raised. I knew I had felt someone’s eyes on me through the curtains.

  “No, um, I mean, we’re friends.”

  “First you go for Oliver, and now his arch nemesis? You really try to get around,” she said snidely.

  What was she implying? So many girls and guys here were hooking up, why was I being singled out for “getting around”? Pathetic.

  “That’s so not the case, but whatever. And what’s your problem, anyway?” I asked, feeling quite brave.

  Iman seemed genuinely shocked that I dared question her. “No problem,” she said evenly. “Just noticing.”

  I was dying to ask her about the background of Oliver and Antony being enemies, but I didn’t want to engage her with any more conversation. Instead I stomped up the steps toward Sofia’s room and knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” she called.

  “I’m fed up with those Diamonds! They know how to ruin every good moment!” I practically yelled as I slammed the door. Sofia’s mouth curled into a smile.

  “What’ve they done now, love?”

  “Iman is implying I’m a slut. She says I am flirting with Oliver and Antony, which is a total lie!”

  “Why, are you into Oliver? Or Antony? Or both?”

  “No! How could I be? Oliver’s a friggin’ prince, and he’s totally unavailable—it’s not like I’d ever go for him. And Antony—I’m not sure yet. But why do they even care?”

  “Because they’re bored, sad girls who have nothing better to do. I told you, they’re awful!”

  “Meanwhile,” I probed, “do you know anything about Oliver and Antony? Some kind of falling-out?”

  She whipped around. “No. What is it?”

  I immediately regretted that I’d said anything. Now I never knew when I was talking to Sofia as a friend or as a spy for Gab! “I don’t know,” I said lamely. “Iman said something about it.”

  “Interesting,” said Sofia, eyes sparkling. “I’ll have to get to the bottom of that.”

  “Please don’t, Sofia,” I begged. “Let this one go. I feel pretty nauseous about all this stuff now.”

  Sofia smiled. “Don’t. Look, I know you are conflicted, but, well, I didn’t want to say anything…”

  “What?”

  “The Diamonds are somehow under the impression that you’re like this major slut. There’s even a rumor that you, um, you know, with Oliver.”

  The blood drained from my face. “What?” I gasped.

  “Look, I told them it’s a lie, right away. And I think they knew that. But the point is, for some reason they think you’re a threat, and they are going to spread rumors about you. So maybe it’s time we do the same for them.”

  I thought for a minute. “Like what?”

  “Nothing weird. I mean, you know how Tiggy passed out in the hall after Jazzmatazz?”

  “She did?!”

  “Yes, I thought everyone knew that. Now next time we just need a picture. That will say it all.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Look, you have to discredit these people. Once they have no credibility, no one will believe their lies about you.”

  I lay back on her mass of pillows and pondered.

  “Come on! We just need to catch them doing something mean or bad. Give them a dose of their own medicine. Catch them in a lie, or hurting someone. You know they made Rioko cry?”

  “They did?”

  “Yeah. They were pissed at her for practicing early one morning and interrupting their ‘beauty sleep’ so they took her violin and threw it to one another, almost breaking it! That thing is worth, like, a million bucks.”

  “Oh my gosh, that’s so evil. She is the sweetest—”

  “That’s what they are! Evil,” said Sofia, flipping her hair back and straightening the pleats in her skirt. “That’s why we have to stick up for the little people!”

  “We’ll see. If the opportunity arises…”

  “Great!”

  The opportunity arose faster than I thought it would.

  Chapter Twenty

  I awoke to the sound of a little ping from my computer, which I’d left on by accident. Thank goodness. I wearily rose to see what had arrived in my in-box. It was from Friend.

  Lucy—I hate to be the loathed messenger, but I wanted to tell you that Iman and her gang are doing something to your door….

  I jumped up and opened it abruptly, hearing titters of laughter and running footsteps down the hall. No one was to be seen. I looked at my door, which was covered in a collage of all kinds of Playboy centerfolds with my face taped on the heads. I was astonished. One was even nude with a tennis racket. Jesus. I started ripping them down piece by grody piece. When every last tape remnant had been peeled, I smashed it all into the trash and took to my computer.

  Thanks, Frien
d. These girls are such raging beeyotches to me and I have no idea what I’ve ever done. Ugh…did you see them doing the deed?

  I hit Send.

  A few minutes later, the reply:

  I have my eyes in many places. I just want to look out for you…they’re pretty terrible.

  Hmm…maybe it was Rioko? I knew she was on a par with me in loathing those snobbish freaks. I couldn’t be sure, but this time I was really mad. My parents always joke that I am so easy and laid-back unless you cross me and then I have a huge temper. It takes a lot to provoke me, but once there, I really go nuts. And I had reached the boiling point. I was so sick of the petty tricks these spoiled girls were doing. Enough already!

  I knocked on Sofia’s door.

  “So, ready to rumble?” she said, framed by the carved mahogany.

  “Abso-friggin’-lutely.”

  Cue the Mission: Impossible music. With eyes darting in either direction, Sofia took my hand and led me into her room, closing the door behind us. There was a metal trunk at the foot of her bed. She expertly opened it, and I was stunned to see a Quantico-level amalgam of wires, plugs, and small boxes inside.

  “Um, is that a bomb?” I asked naively.

  “Hello? I’m an aspiring journalist, not a terrorist!” she replied, incredulous. I wasn’t quite sure how she was a journalist per se, but whatever. “These are state-of-the-art bugging devices. Daddy just had them shipped. These tiny fiber optics will watch and hear their every move.”

  She started nimbly connecting wires and cables together like she’d done it a million times before. I stood motionless, brow furrowed, once again oscillating between my full-body loathing of Iman, Antigone, and Victoria and the diametrically opposed yearning to be above them and just brush it off. But the vision of my head on the greased-up tanorexic bods on my door continued to make my blood boil.