“I think I might be able to talk her into letting you come,” Tiff says. “But she’s kinda adamant about speaking to your mother first.”
“I got that,” I say. “It’s okay. I’ll make it through.”
“Your mom says that Crystal can call if she needs to,” Brit says to Tiff.
“I heard that,” Tiff says. “That would be so great if we could talk more than once a week.”
“I’m not sure how my mother would feel about that,” Brit says. “I’ll ask, though.”
“It wasn’t hard to get you on the phone,” I say.
“Yeah, that’s probably the case.” Then she giggles nervously. “As long as we don’t tell Megan.”
I sigh. Megan. All we care about is Megan.
“You going to be okay, Crystal?” Tiff asks.
I have to answer yes, because if I say anything else, they’ll know I’m lying.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “Today was just hard. You guys made it easier though.”
We talk a little more—or mostly, they talk, comparing schools some and constantly asking me how I’m doing. Finally, Brit says her mom’s coming, and she hangs up really fast.
Then Tiff says, “If it gets really bad, just come here, Crystal. We’ll work it out.”
But they wouldn’t. They’d tell Megan, and then we’d go to the Powers That Be, and I’d screw everyone up.
Still, I thank her. Because she tried. And I appreciate the try. I do.
And after I hang up, I cradle the phone to my chest.
Megan’s got her wish. My sisters are moving on. They’re becoming different people from the girls I knew. They have their own lives, and Tiff, at least, likes hers. Or doesn’t want to leave. Or something.
I guess I wouldn’t either with a nice mom like hers. And Brit’s just being a doormat, like always, worrying about what other people will think, worrying that she put out these people she really doesn’t know very well.
But that’s always been Brit, although she seems a lot more intense about it now.
Maybe that’s how she justifies staying until the winter holidays. She didn’t diss on her family, though. She just talked about how hard it was to learn the so-called real world things, her and Tiff, when I stopped talking about Mother.
Tiff’s in a good place. Brit’s going to stay where she is, and she doesn’t want me there, even though she’s trying not to say that.
Me, I’m stuck here. I guess I could draw little hash marks on the wall, like prisoners in old movies do when they’re in a cell. Wonder what Mother would make of that when the staff tells her.
I can’t even smile about that thought though.
I’m going to do my best to avoid Mother, no matter what. And I’m done talking to the boys. I’ll answer questions if I have to. I’ll go to school so no one yells at me.
Maybe there’s a countdown app I can get for the phone. But as soon as I have that thought, I discard it.
I can do the counting on my own—and I will.
Every minute that I can.
Getting to those stupid holidays will be my focus and then, no matter what anyone says, I’m headed home.
NINE
THE NEXT MORNING, I put on a pale green silk blouse over tight black pants. I bought some green ballet slippers a few weeks ago, even though Mother disapproves of the color. I was going to wear them when I got home, but screw it.
I’m wearing them now.
I pull back my stupidly styled red hair and tuck in some tiny green barrettes made to look like bows to hold it in place. Then I put the diamond studded ring back in my nose, even though Mother forbade me from wearing it.
I look in the three-way mirror in my closet and for once like what I see. I look like me for the first time since I got here.
Maybe if I change into a crop top, I can show off my tattoos.
Then I sigh and lean against my closet door. The room is filled with clothes I’ve never worn, price tags still hanging off them. Because I’m not allowed to wear what I want to school. And that’s not Mother’s rule.
That’s a school rule.
If I show up dressed like this—even without the crop top—they’ll send me home for my uniform. And if I refuse, they’ll call Mother.
Which is the last thing I want. Rebellion should end in something other than calling my mother.
I could just not go to school. I could use my credit card to get into the movies. I’ve done that before, just not when I’m supposed to be in class.
But that doesn’t feel really rebellious. It just feels lame.
So I sit on the little ottoman in the middle of the closet and pull off the ballet slippers. They’re really pretty and really comfortable and I’m almost tempted to put them in my book bag for later. But not even Melanie pulls off different shoes with her uniform, and if anyone would, it would be Melanie.
I take off the clothes carefully. Then I put on the stupid uniform, with its checks and school patches, but I leave my hair pulled back. I replace the green bows with white so that they match the uniform. I put diamond studs in my ears and start to remove the nose ring.
Then I stop.
I want something of mine today, not just the bows, which no teacher will object to. (Other students have already tested the hair ornament rules, and anything that’s a barrette is allowed.) I want something provocative, but not kick-me-out-of-school provocative.
It’s too soon for that.
As I stand up and tug on the uniform, I’m already mustering my argument.
Melanie wears forbidden things all the time and doesn’t get in trouble. Her forbidden items are always little things, like the nose ring, and that’s one reason no one takes her on, at least according to Veronica. But, Veronica says, Melanie’s status as the daughter of one of the richest people in New York allows her to get away with a lot too.
Well, Owen once said (loudly at dinner) he could buy and sell Melanie’s parents without even touching his principle (whatever that is). Later E explained to me that Owen meant he was richer than Melanie’s parents could ever dream of being. I’ve never taken advantage of that wealthy Manhattan kid status like Melanie has.
But I’m going to do so now. I’m going to do a lot of things now.
I take one final look in the mirror, then pick up my purse and my book bag with my iPad inside as well as half a dozen books that I’m supposed to read but haven’t. Then I head down to the foyer, where all five of us kids meet every day.
E joins us in the foyer, only because Mother insists. On this day, he’s already there, in ripped jeans and a crisp white shirt, a bag with his computer draped across his chest. Gordon’s sitting on the little bench by the door, putting on his black shoes. His uniform makes him look even dorkier than he is.
The other two boys aren’t here yet. I curse softly. I was hoping I’d be the last one here so we could just leave without trying for small talk.
But the boys’ latest au pair isn’t here either, which means someone was acting out or someone was late or someone overslept. I don’t know, because I grabbed some cereal and coffee and took it back to my room, so I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone.
As we’re waiting, I realize E is staring at me. He touches his nose with one finger. I shrug one shoulder. He shakes his head, a very small movement, meant just for me.
But Gordon sees it. Of course, Gordon sees it.
He grins.
“Someone’s going to get in trouble,” he says in a sing-song voice.
“And it’ll be you, jerk,” I say. I’ve never used that tone in this apartment before.
He flushes, then glances at E as if he expects E to defend him. E grins at me, and for the first time, I see the resemblance between the two brothers.
“Typical bully,” I say, turning my back on Gordon. “You can dish it out but you can’t take it.”
“Hey!” he says. “What’s got into you today?”
I don’t have to answer him because at that moment, the au pair lead
s Fabe and Danny into the foyer. They both looked chastised. I don’t know why and I don’t care. I just pull the door open and lead us into the hallway.
We have our own elevator. Apparently, people who live on the lower floors don’t have their own elevator. They have to share a different one, the one I took accidentally my first week here. That was scary. I thought for a minute someone had magicked the top floor away, and I’d never find my way back to the apartment.
Back when I cared.
The au pair escorted us to the elevator, then picked up her business cell and texted the chauffer that we were coming. We’re not allowed to be alone on the way to school—or rather, the three youngest aren’t—because Owen is afraid they’ll be kidnapped. At least, I think Owen’s the one who is worried about it, because I’m beginning to think Mother doesn’t give a damn about anyone.
Maybe she just doesn’t want to be inconvenienced, and a kidnapping would be an inconvenience.
We troop onto the elevator. Gordon pushes the button for the parking garage. E pushes the one for the lobby. He’s allowed to walk to Columbia on his own or take the train or a cab or however he gets there. He’s old enough, plus he’s not Owen’s son.
At least, that’s what E told me when he found out that I’m allowed to go wherever I want as well. I’m not Owen’s kid either.
But when E told me that, it wasn’t reassuring. That day, I figured he was messing with me, but now I wonder if he was warning me about the difference in treatment that he had with the three youngest. Maybe E’s here on suffrage too.
I don’t ask him. He gets off at the lobby, and I’m tempted to do the same. Maybe that’ll be next week’s rebellion. Or tomorrow’s. It depends on how pissed off I am by the time we have to drive to school.
The three boys and I go silently down to the parking garage. The elevator doors open to reveal the chauffer. His name is Ron, and I notice (for the first time, I’m ashamed to say) that his uniform is worse than mine. He has to wear a stupid hat with a bill that shines in the dim fluorescent light, a military-kinda jacket with padded shoulders and matching pants. It looks as uncomfortable as my uniform feels.
His gaze meets mine, then goes to the nose ring, and back to my face. “Are you certain you’re ready for school?” he asks, keeping his gaze on mine.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Crystal’s decided to be a bully today,” Gordon says.
I roll my eyes. Ron’s lips narrow as he gives Gordon a nasty glance that, of course, Gordon doesn’t even notice. The other two boys aren’t saying anything at all.
“Well,” Ron says to me, “if you’re certain.”
“I am, thanks,” I say, and lead the way to the car.
It’s not quite a limo, according to E, because, E says, a limo would be too noticeable, and we don’t want to be noticed. It’s some big sedany kinda car, though, and Danny told me that it’s bullet-proof just like the President’s and any other dignitary that shows up for the U.N. (whatever that is).
All I know is that the backseat, while big, isn’t big enough for me and the three boys to be comfortable, so from the start, Ron let me ride up front—or “shotgun” as he calls it, for reasons I don’t understand.
I like it there. There’s a “privacy screen” that I can control from the armrest, which allows me to shut off those idiot boys. I’ve watched as Ron has used it, but I never have.
Maybe I would in the future. I have lots of choices now.
The chauffer pulls out of the parking garage and onto a side street. I love watching the city go by. That’s one of the great things about riding “shotgun.” I can see everything.
The city looks a lot better from the passenger seat of a car. On sunny days, the big buildings look like monuments. I love the way the sunlight reflects off them. Even the sidewalks seem friendly, the people like moving chess pieces, on their way to something else.
I like the way the car zooms through traffic. Driving in it almost feels like flying. I said that once to Ron and he grinned at me like I was making it up. And I couldn’t tell him that I actually knew.
I peer at him sideways. I wonder what he’d do if I called him Ron. I’m supposed to use his last name, but I can never remember it. The boys don’t call him anything. They barely see him.
He sees me staring at him. “I’m going to drop the boys off first today, Miss.”
He never uses my last name either. Maybe he’s forgotten it or maybe he never knew it. We decided to make it match Mother’s, but Crystal Chandler really doesn’t feel like me. I’m a one-name kinda person. (Like Cher? E asked when I said that once. Fortunately I knew who Cher is because she’s been in some of my favorite movies, like Moonstruck and Burlesque.)
Ron takes a different route than usual, but of course, the boys don’t notice. We end up at their school, which is so exclusive that it has its own parking area too. That way, famous kids can get dropped off without the paparazzi photographing them.
My school doesn’t have that. We have to suffer with the usual street-corner business, although the school actually has staff that go around confiscating cameras and one police officer who cites people for trespass if necessary.
The car stops underground in the parking garage. It’s even fancy down here, with decorated beams and a beautiful window treatment on the first layer of entrances. (Everyone has to go through security at their school and mine, and that’s deep inside those layers of windows.)
The boys get out without saying good-bye. Only Fabe looks back, and he seems surprised to see me still in the front seat. I guess he didn’t realize that we hadn’t stopped for me.
Tells me how much attention they pay to me.
That thought stabs at my heart and I clench my right fist, digging my French-manicured nails into my palm. I’m not going to let any of this bother me anymore. I’m not.
Ron waits until the boys go through the glass doors before driving off. When we stop at the street exit, he says to me, “You sure you don’t want to go home? Fix your face?”
“Are you worried about my nose ring?” I ask.
“It’ll get you in trouble.” There’s sympathy in his voice. It’s like he has a second layer to his words, one that adds, You don’t need any more trouble, Miss.
“I’ll be okay,” I say. “I got a plan.”
“Excuse me for saying, but there ain’t no plan for this that’ll work, Miss. They won’t like it, and then they’ll have to tell the household.” And by the household, we both know he means Mother.
I smile at him. “When the school goes after my friend Melanie, she reminds them how much her family contributes to school events.”
“Your family doesn’t, though, does it?” He pulls out into traffic, one hand on the big wheel, the other on the armrest. It’s like the car is part of him, not really a machine or something.
“Mother told me that they paid extra to get me in,” I say. “And everyone knows that Owen is one of the richest men in the country.”
“In the world, Miss,” The chauffer says. “One of the richest men in the world. Don’t you forget that. In the world.”
He’s warning me. I suddenly realize that he’s sincerely trying to help me. And I find that weird.
I shift in my seat. “How come you’re being so helpful?”
I almost add today, but then I realize that he’s been helpful all along. He’s made sure I understand the security protocols at the school. He’s helped me figure out my address and how to avoid the paparazzi, and he even showed me how to unlock my phone.
He doesn’t strike me as one of those crazed stalker guys from the movies that Brit binges on, but if those movies taught me anything, it’s that crazed stalker guys don’t seem like crazed stalker guys in the beginning.
“I’m not supposed to talk outta school,” he says, almost to himself.
“You’re not in school,” I say.
He grins at me. “See, Miss, that’s why I like you. You’re refreshing, you know?”
&nb
sp; “No,” I say. “I don’t.”
He sighs and turns the car again. We’re going around the park. My school is not very far from the boys’ if I were to walk, but driving requires us to go along a really strange route because, Ron said back when he first started driving me, there’s no direct way from here to there as the crow flies.
Took me a while to realize there was no crow, either.
“Talking outta school,” he says, “means saying stuff you’re not supposed to say. So I didn’t say it, okay?”
“Um, okay,” I say.
“Like, confidential between us, you know?”
“Oh,” I say. “Like me and Megan.”
“Exactly,” he says.
We pass the usual grocery stores and bodegas that crowd the blocks near my school. Then he turns the car on the side street in front of the school. Other cars are lined up so that their kids can get dropped as close to the doors as possible.
He doesn’t look at me. He keeps watching the road, like someone’s watching us.
“You asked how come I’m helpful,” he says, “which is just sad. I mean, they should all be helping you. You come in all excited from Greece and expecting them to be family, and they don’t treat you so good. And I hate that. Because you ain’t done nothing wrong. You’re a pretty girl, the spitting image of your mom, and she’s just not willing to…”
He stops, shakes his head just a little, then smiles slightly.
“What I mean is that you don’t need more trouble. And that nose ring? It’s trouble. It’s like you’re inviting it.”
“Maybe I am,” I say.
He sighs. “That kind of attention, it don’t get you nowhere. Better to put your head down and work hard, learn some things, and show your mom what’s what.”
We ease forward in the car line. Another car has pulled in behind us.
“I don’t know what you mean, ‘what’s what.’”
“Be better than her,” he says. Then he shakes his head a little again. “What’m I saying? You are better than her. But be better in a way she notices, and regrets, you know what I’m saying?”
“Not exactly,” I say. But it’s an intriguing idea. Impress Mother? How do you impress someone who doesn’t want you?
Crystal Caves Page 8