All These Beautiful Strangers

by Elizabeth Klehfoth

  Mariah smiled at me. “I hope we can be honest with each other right now, Charlie. Don’t feel pressured by what your peers might think, or what your family might think of your choices. I’m here to get a sense of where you want to see yourself.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But I just told you what I wanted. UPenn. The Wharton School.”

  “That’s a tough school to get into,” Mariah said. “And the acceptance rate is less than twelve percent.”

  “I have good grades,” I said. “And great test scores.”

  “Yes, and yes,” Mariah said. “A three point seven GPA and ninety-ninth percentile in test scores. I’m not questioning your intellectual chops, Charlie.”

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  “Well, a school like UPenn wants students who show they can handle the academic rigors of their program, but they also want to see well-rounded individuals. Students who are going to take an active interest in the university outside of their classes, forge their place in the school and out in the world. And you don’t have any extracurricular activities, which is very unusual for a Knollwood student. No social clubs or sports or special interests.”

  “I was going to write my college essay on that,” I said. “How the very fact that I don’t conform to the conventional mold is what makes me a unique, well-rounded individual. The average student’s résumé today is on steroids. Everyone is in orchestra and plays on the tennis team and serves on the student council. Not because they’re actually interested in all of those things, but because they feel they have to check all these boxes to prove their worth to their dream school. But I don’t need to be defined by my participation in a club or a sport. And that makes me a freethinking individual who will forge her own path at a school like UPenn and in the world thereafter.”

  “I was expecting that type of response from you,” Mariah said.

  “And what type of response is that exactly?”

  “Manipulative,” she said. She stopped and looked at me, hands in pockets, head nodding. “You’re smart, but I think that’s a detriment in your development, because you’ve learned to use your intellect to twist things to your advantage. You know how to play people.”

  Heat pooled into my cheeks. Mariah had never talked to me like this before. “Excuse me?” I said.

  “What concerns me is that you’ve even learned to manipulate yourself,” she said. “You genuinely believe what you just told me.”

  I didn’t respond. She had backed me into a corner. I could either say I believed it and be deemed a manipulator, or I could say I didn’t believe it and be deemed a liar.

  “I’d love to hear your take on things,” I said. “If I’ve twisted the facts, then untwist them. What’s the real reason I’m sorely lacking in extracurriculars?”

  “You lack empathy,” Mariah said. “You don’t connect easily with other people because you don’t trust anyone, and because you’ve been taught to think you’re better than everyone else. And you’ve been taught to exploit others for your own gain. In short, you suffer from narcissistic personality disorder.”

  I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. “Shit,” I said, because fuck manners at this point. “Tell me what you really think. Please, don’t hold back on account of my feelings, because apparently, I don’t have any.”

  “On the contrary,” Mariah said, “narcissists have deep feelings, but mostly about themselves. And I’m not trying to hurt you, Charlie. I’m trying to help you.”

  “What exactly does this have to do with UPenn?” I asked.

  “This has to do with your future, Charlie, with the type of person you want to become. It’s not too late to change, to turn things around.”

  Mariah took a piece of paper out of her shoulder bag and handed it to me. It was Knollwood Augustus Prep’s Club Day poster, the one I had found in my mailbox a few weeks ago.

  “Take a look at the opportunities Knollwood is offering you,” Mariah said. “Pick something that matters to you—if even a little bit. It’s still open period to join. Just try it. Try to open yourself up to a new experience, to new people. You may surprise yourself.”

  At campfire that evening, Counselor Kirk took out his guitar and started to lead everyone in a round of “Save Tonight” by Eagle-Eye Cherry. I didn’t have much of a singing voice, and I really didn’t feel like being around anyone, so I snuck away by myself to the edge of the space still lit by the campfire. I lay down behind a fallen tree and stared up at the night sky, at all the stars that were visible on a cloudless, moonless night.

  I couldn’t help but think about everyone whose voice drifted over me. I knew all of my friends’ dream schools and career plans. Lately, it was all they talked about. I knew that Leo was planning on going to Harvard, where he was a legacy on his mother’s side, and that Drew had her heart set on studying political science at Wellesley, Hillary Clinton’s alma mater. Stevie had her eye on Berkeley, where she would be premed, and Yael was leaning toward Columbia, mostly because she wanted to be in the city. They were all so sure; they had their minds made up and their futures laid out, like me. I wondered if their counselors had shit all over their dreams like mine had—and not just their dreams, but them personally.

  I couldn’t help but think that it was just me. That there was something wrong with me. That what Mariah had said about me was true.

  A twig snapped just above my head and I looked up to see Leo standing over me.

  “Sorry,” he whispered. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Just thought I’d join.” He lay down beside me on the ground.

  “Hey, cuz,” I said.

  “I can’t wait for college,” Leo said, sighing. “Or just to get back to campus where there’s some fresh meat. I’ve hooked up with every upperclassman over a six already. There’s nothing here for me anymore.”

  “That is a problem,” I said sarcastically.

  “I found myself actually considering Sheila Andrews just now,” Leo said. “I caught myself looking at her over the glow of the campfire with Kirk’s sultry baritone crooning in the background and I thought, Maybe. And then I decided I’d come over here before I did something stupid.”

  “I’m pretty sure Sheila Andrews would cut off your balls if you messed with her,” I said. “So, I’d steer clear.”

  “What about Stevie?” Leo asked, wiggling his eyebrows at me. “It’s always the uptight prudes who turn out to be the most fun in bed.”

  “Fat chance,” I said. “Stevie is too smart to give you a second glance, much less her virginity.”

  “I like a challenge,” Leo said. “Maybe you could put in a good word for me? Wear her down a little bit?”

  Something occurred to me then, and the smile slid off my face. I sat up. “Tell me you didn’t put Stevie in your stupid game.”

  I’d never betrayed Leo’s confidence and told anyone about the Board of Conquests—not even Drew. But if he’d put Stevie on his board, I’d be forced to warn her. I couldn’t just sit back and let her get played.

  “Relax, I was joking,” Leo said. “Though, I have to admit, putting Little Miss Priss in the game would certainly make things interesting.”

  “Promise me you didn’t put any of my friends on the board,” I said, because I had to be sure.

  Leo looked at me and rolled his eyes, annoyed I hadn’t found his joke as funny as he did. “I promise,” he said. “So, how’d things go with your counselor?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Really, really good,” I said in a mock-cheerful voice as I lay back down. “Apparently I’m a horrible person.”

  Leo laughed.

  “No, really,” I said. “She flat-out called me a narcissist.”

  “You’re a Calloway,” Leo said. “We’re all narcissists. It’s, like, genetic.”

  I laughed. “I guess,” I said.

  Then I was silent and closed my eyes and tried to communicate like we had when we were children—the way we each used to feel what the other was feeling, even when we
didn’t have the words to convey it.

  I’m not a bad person, am I? I wanted to ask. We Calloways are selfish and manipulative and we have hard edges, but—but—but we’d never hurt anyone, not in any significant way, not in a way that really mattered. Right?

  It was stupid, the kind of thing I was glad I didn’t have to say out loud. But also, the kind of thing I liked to think Leo might have understood if I had said it. I lay there for a moment, my eyes still closed tight, and wondered if he had heard me. Then, in the darkness, I felt him take my hand.

  Sixteen

  Grace Fairchild

  Christmas Eve 1996

  For the third night in a row, I couldn’t sleep. Teddy’s parents’ house was easily the largest house I’d ever been in, but it didn’t feel like a home. Everything was cold and polished and untouched. It didn’t feel lived in. There were fresh flowers in the vase on my armoire in the morning, and at night when I returned to my room everything was tidied—my dirty clothes washed and folded and returned to my suitcase, the minty smear of my toothpaste wiped clean from the sink, the bedspread perfectly creased and turned down by the maid. Every trace of me neatly erased. It was so different from the house where I had grown up, where we were always leaving bits of ourselves behind—the old sofa in the garage that reeked of Lonnie’s pot; the smear of fingerprints on the wall by the front door where we’d balance ourselves as we leaned down to take off our winter boots; the permanent stain on the kitchen ceiling from when Will’s volcano experiment prematurely erupted; the dimples in the baseboards from our illicit kicking the ball around indoors.

  And it wasn’t just the house that felt foreign; it was the people. Eugenia had been welcoming, asking me question after question about myself. Did I ride horses? No. Ski? No. Where was my favorite place to vacation? I haven’t traveled much. In her relentless quest to find some common ground, she had only proved we had none. Teddy’s father was reserved; Olivia and her friend Porter were too self-involved to pay anyone else much attention. Margot couldn’t be bothered to remember my name—she had called me “Gaby” once, and then “Gina.” Alistair was aloof—we’d been seated next to one another at dinner and he’d barely spoken two words to me, choosing instead to engage Porter in a convoluted conversation on existentialism and art. Even Teddy was different somehow. When it was just the two of us, he was fun and easygoing. But around his family, Teddy became a caricature of himself—lazy and flippant, as if he wanted to refute any expectations they might have of him and at the same time prove he didn’t care what they thought.

  I couldn’t seem to navigate the strange world I had entered into. At dinner, we were served foie gras in duck jus. I didn’t know what it was, and I was too embarrassed to ask, so I ate it. I’d never tasted anything quite like it before—it was light and buttery and melted on my tongue, a little slice of heaven. Olivia abstained from the foie gras and had a salad instead. When I asked if she was a vegetarian, she said she didn’t find the torture of animals appetizing. She explained, in excruciating detail, that the ducks were gavaged. They had a tube stuck down their throats twice a day and were force-fed corn boiled in fat until their livers grew to ten times their natural size—that was what gave the duck liver such a delicious taste and texture. When she finished, I set my fork down, horrified. I couldn’t stomach the cheese course or the dessert, a decadent chocolate soufflé.

  And tomorrow morning would be the worst of all. We would open presents after brunch. I’d enlisted Teddy’s help in picking out gifts for his family. He had taken me to Barneys, where he’d done all of his shopping. We’d stood at the counter and he’d shown me the sterling silver cufflinks he’d bought for his father (half my month’s rent) and the Hermès handbag he’d picked out for his mother (half a year’s rent). I’d had to settle for thoughtful gifts instead—a coffee table book on gardening for his mother, a shaving set for his father. I dreaded sitting in front of them as they opened them tomorrow—the feigned “ohh”s and “ahh”s and thank-yous, especially in the wake of the extravagant gifts they had probably gotten me.

  Deciding I could no longer lie there and stew, I threw back my bedsheets and got up. I pulled my swimsuit and goggles out of my suitcase, put the swimsuit on, and grabbed a spare towel from the bathroom. In the dark, I navigated my way through the cavernous hallways to the indoor pool Teddy had shown me after dinner.

  I’d lost count of my laps when I looked up and saw that I was no longer alone. Alistair Calloway was sitting on the far edge of the pool, near the chaise lounge where I had left my towel, his pant legs rolled up, his ankles dangling in the water. He lifted his beer in greeting when he saw me notice him, and I took off my goggles and swam over to where he was.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” he said.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” I said, pinching my nose to get the water out.

  “Room not to your liking?”

  “No. I mean—yes, it’s lovely. It’s just . . . it’s like staying in a museum,” I said.

  “‘Homey’ isn’t really Eugenia’s style,” Alistair said, taking a sip of his beer.

  It was the deep end of the pool, so I grabbed on to the edge to keep myself up. We both fell into an awkward silence. I wondered what he was doing here—if he was having trouble sleeping too, and if he usually came to the pool by himself late at night to unwind. But he wasn’t wearing a swimsuit; he was fully dressed. Had he followed me here?

  Alistair was the most difficult member of Teddy’s family to read. He had been kind and charming at the charity ball, easy to talk to. He’d been exactly the way Jake had described him to me years ago when we’d sat in our tree house above Langely Lake and he’d spread out his yearbook on the plywood boards and told me about his friends, pointing to their pictures. I remembered Alistair’s portrait—his light blond hair and ice-blue eyes; he was quite handsome and striking in his school blazer. There was something haughty in the way he looked out at you, the tilt of his chin. I almost hadn’t believed it when Jake had told me Alistair was one of his first friends at Knollwood, how Alistair had taken him under his wing in tennis. But the other night, Alistair had barely looked at me when we were playing Two Truths and a Lie, and tonight at dinner, he’d ignored me. I didn’t understand what I could have done or said to put him off.

  “You said you used to swim in high school?” Alistair asked.

  I was surprised he’d been paying attention.

  “I won state champion in breaststroke,” I corrected him.

  Alistair whistled. “I wasn’t aware I was in the presence of greatness.”

  I bit my lip and sent a spray of water in his direction.

  He laughed and stood.

  “I’ll race you to the other end,” he said. He pulled his shirt off over his head, revealing his flat muscled abs. I looked away as his hands moved to his belt buckle. “Let’s make it interesting. Let’s wager something.”

  “Why does everything in your family have to be a competition?” I asked, half joking.

  “Where’s the fun if you don’t stand to lose something?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I said. An idea had dawned on me. “If I win, you have to trade me one of the gifts you got for your mom—a good one. And you can give her my coffee table book instead.”

  “A coffee table book?” Alistair teased. “You drive a hard bargain.”

  He slid into the water next to me in his boxers.

  “All right,” he said. He exhaled deeply, adjusting to the cool temperature of the pool. “And if I win,” he said, “I’m going to kiss you.”

  I couldn’t tell by the way he said it if he was joking, if I was supposed to laugh.

  “You’re going to kiss me?” I said, waiting for the punch line.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because I want to.”

  “You shouldn’t want to.” It was the only thing I could think to say.

  “And you shouldn’t make a wager you don’t intend to win,” Alistair sai
d. “Or don’t you think you can beat me?”

  He had that haughty look in his eye—the same one I recognized from that old yearbook photo. I narrowed my eyes at him.

  “On the count of three, then,” I said, lowering my goggles onto my nose. “One, two, three.”

  I pushed off hard from the wall. I was a little tired from all the laps I’d swum, but I had the advantage of being warmed up, while Alistair was going cold into a full sprint. I propelled myself forward as fast as I could, my breath in hot short gasps. In my peripheral vision, I could see Alistair keeping pace with me. My strokes were faster, but he had the advantage of height. He took one stroke for my every two. At the last moment, he reached out and tagged the wall a half second before me.

  I stood. We were in the shallow end now. I was breathing hard, my breaths racking my body. Next to me, Alistair appeared winded, too. Smug, but winded.

  “You’re faster than I thought you’d be,” he said.

  “Not fast enough, unfortunately,” I said.

  When we’d both caught our breath, Alistair scooted closer to me along the wall so that we were almost nose-to-nose. He looked at me. He had blue eyes, just like his brother, but there was something different about them—darker, colder. While Teddy’s eyes were like a bright cloudless summer day, Alistair’s were like the Arctic Sea. He leaned into me, and at the last moment, I turned my head. I felt the stubble on his jaw as his lips grazed my cheek.

  When he pulled back, anger flashed in his eyes.

  “That wasn’t a kiss,” Alistair said.

  I shrugged. “You weren’t very specific in defining it,” I said. “But that’s hardly my fault.”

  I started back across the pool, this time at a slow, leisurely pace. A few seconds later, I heard the movement of the water behind me as Alistair followed.

  I was about halfway across the pool when I felt Alistair reach out and grab my ankle. He pulled me toward him, against the hard warm panes of his chest. I could smell his scent—a hint of spice and something exotic and sweet, like tuberose blossoms. He looked down at me, and I knew he was going to kiss me before he did. He tilted my chin up to meet him. He grazed my lips gently, and then his hand slid into my hair, and he pulled me harder toward him. He opened my lips with his tongue and kissed me roughly. I was breathless, my heart hammering in my chest, the apex of my thighs aching.