I had to laugh at the thought. “Maybe when we’re fifty. But first things first. College apps and scores and all that red tape.”
“Let’s not talk about that,” Carly said. “It’s Friday night, we’re out on the town with two hot men, and we can sleep in tomorrow. It doesn’t get better than that.”
“Yes, it does.” Brett patted the chest pocket of his jacket. “I happen to have four tickets to Luna’s, if anybody feels like going.”
“Who’s playing?” I demanded, hardly able to believe it. Luna’s brought in the coolest acts for intimate performances. People lined up for blocks, but you either had to be on a list or have a look the bouncers liked. And sometimes even that didn’t work. Then another thought hit me. “Not that it matters. You have to be twenty-one to get in.”
“Not on nights they don’t serve alcohol. Which would be tonight, because it’s a family show.”
“Whose family?” Carly asked.
“Oh, just the Dylans.” Brett grinned as album covers flipped in our heads.
“Dylans,” I said. “As in Bob and Jakob?”
“Yep.”
Carly and I shrieked and leaped up to hug him. I knew for a fact that show had sold out to subscribers before the box office even opened. I’d never seen Bob Dylan live before, and how cool was it that being in the prince’s party made sure we had seats on the edge of the stage?
The evening was like something out of someone else’s life. I mean, I’ve had some pretty good seats at concerts before. Season tickets on the court at Bulls games. But I’ve never been escorted to my table by the club manager himself, or been taken backstage to meet a legend and his son at a whispered request.
When we finally fell into the limo at one in the morning, chattering a mile a minute while the final encore still played in my head, I had to conclude that dating a prince definitely had its perks.
The limo pulled up at Spencer’s front steps. As I got out, I felt like Cinderella coming home after the ball, or, to use one of Lissa’s sci-fi references, Luke coming back to boring old Tatooine after saving the galaxy.
The prince and the BGs climbed out after me. After a second, I realized Carly and Brett weren’t following, and a second after that, I realized why.
My face heating in a blush, I practically ran through the doors.
The BGs marched up the staircase, presumably to flush bad guys out of Rashid’s dorm room, which left the two of us standing in the reception hall. The normal weekday curfew of lights-out at ten p.m. was suspended on weekends. The only light came from a couple of the wall sconces and the upstairs hallway. The stairs were a swath of shadow.
I paused on the bottom step. “Well. Um. Thank you for a wonderful evening. I’ve never had one like it. Even being kicked out of TouTou’s turned out to be fun.”
“I am glad you had a good time.” He leaned on the banister, one shallow marble step below me. This put our eyes on the same level. “I, too, have never had one like it.”
“Really?” I whispered. He stood close. Closer. “Rashid?”
His eyes held pools of darkness. “I love the sound of my name on your lips.”
Oh, my. What a romantic thing to say. But I had no business getting romantic with him.
You want to.
I shouldn’t. I told Danyel I liked him.
Danyel isn’t here.
“Rashid, did you mean what you said before? That you came to Spencer partly because of me?”
“Yes. Our families have been connected since the sixteenth century.”
I blinked. Is that what Mom had meant by “a bunch of history”? The mistress of the understatement, my mom.
“And you and I played together as children.” He paused. “Of all the schools in this country, I wanted one where I knew a friend. School can be a very lonely place for someone in my position.”
My heart melted. I’d had my own issues with people trying to cozy up so they could get things out of me. I could just imagine how it was for him, never knowing if he was liked for himself or for his money.
“I’m glad we are friends.” Rashid leaned in, holding my gaze. My heart stopped melting and began to pound. I think I forgot to breathe. “And possibly—”
The front door swung open and Carly’s voice called, “Good night” as the limo’s engine started up outside and gravel crunched under its tires.
Rashid jerked back, and I found my guilty self halfway up the stairs before the door had even swung shut.
“Oh, hi, Rashid, are you still here?” Carly’s light tones echoed in the midnight silence. “Where’s Shani?”
But I didn’t wait. The sound of my high heels clacking on the marble was too loud for me to hear his answer, anyway.
Chapter 8
IROLLED OUT OF BED just in time for brunch on Saturday, but only because Mac was making so much noise trying to be quiet that I finally gave up on sleep. Carly and I took turns in the shower and stumbled downstairs, where we gulped coffee and considered the waffle maker.
“Too much work,” I finally muttered, and settled for fruit and yogurt.
Carly, for whom kitchen appliances will do backflips and spins, had a couple of waffles made in less time than it takes to tell about it, complete with raspberry syrup.
“About time you guys turned up.” Gillian put her MacBook Air on the table and sat across from us. “We were going to send in the EMTs.”
“It’s Saturday. We’ll sleep in if we want to,” Carly informed her around a mouthful of waffle.
“I heard what happened.”
“We got to see the Dylan show at Luna’s,” I told her. “It was amazing. Front row seats, and backstage passes. I met Bob Dylan. How cool is that?”
“Très cool,” Gillian agreed. “But I meant before that. I heard about the fracas at TouTou’s.”
“TouTou’s.” Carly made the name sound like a snort. “I’m so over that place. What did you hear?”
Instead of answering, Gillian flipped open her notebook. SeenOn.com’s lead article filled the screen.
Playboy Prince Does More Than Study
Look out, California fashionistas! Prince Rashid al Amir, who’s spending an exchange term at the elite Spencer Academy boarding school in San Francisco, is already hitting more than the books.
Spotted last night arriving at TouTou’s, celebrity hangout and de rigeur stop for a night on the town, were the prince, the Loyola dynasty heir, and two lovelies who may have been unknown to this writer, but who definitely have their style chops down. Check the Roberto Cavalli and the more conservative choice of the just-out Rykiel leather mini. Spencer students? Or budding style icons? Only their publicist knows for sure—until we find out more.
“Doesn’t sound like a fracas to me. Check out these pictures.” I studied a profile shot of Carly and me. “Lucky I remembered to suck in my stomach when I got out of the car. That dress has zero forgiveness.”
“You have zero stomach,” Gillian reminded me. “I bet your percentage of body fat is in the single digits.”
“Nope. But my mom’s right, on the rare occasions she dishes maternal advice. Good posture hides a multitude of sins.”
“Funny you should mention sins,” Gillian said in a smooth segue, “because I hear there was more to this story than your Prada sandals.”
“Such as?” Carly prompted, with a glance at me.
Gillian leaned in. “Did you guys really get kicked out of TouTou’s? Is that even possible?”
She looked so aghast that I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “We were trying to keep it on the down low, but I guess that’s too much to expect. Getting kicked out is only the beginning. And if you want accurate, we were refused service.” I made quote marks in the air. “But you don’t refuse service to the heir to the Lion Throne and get away with it. I predict the real fracas is yet to come.”
“He was pretty ticked,” Carly agreed. “He was going to make the owner serve him on his knees.”
“I’d have bought a ticket t
o see that.” Gillian leaned on both elbows, enthralled. “They seriously refused to serve you? No wonder SFTonight-dot-com said something nasty about you guys knocking back the fastest drinks in the west. Next thing you know, you’ll all be alcoholics on the way to visit Betty Ford.”
“That’ll impress Rashid,” Carly said. “He doesn’t drink anything but water and iced tea.”
I glanced around the nearly empty room. I didn’t feel like dwelling on what I couldn’t change. “Where’s Lissa? And Jeremy?”
“Lissa went to get her hair trimmed,” Gillian said. “Who’s up for a group pedi and a hot stone massage this afternoon at the Tea House? She said she’d meet us there—we just need to call her.”
Carly and I both put our hands up. “We’ll tell Mac,” Carly said. “Chicas only. It’ll be fun.”
“Lissa could use some fun,” Gillian said. “While you guys were out last night, her dad came by and took her out for coffee.”
Now that principal photography for The Middle Window was done, Gabe Mansfield holed up mostly on the Ranch doing post-production, or at the house in Santa Barbara, and only came into the city when he absolutely had to.
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Carly said. “I’d love it if my dad did that.”
“He had some news for her.”
“Uh-oh.” Not good.
Gillian nodded. “She needs some bestie-love right now. Her dad came to tell her that he and her mom decided to separate. Officially. With paperwork and everything.”
“Oh, no.” I sat back, my breakfast lying heavy in my stomach.
“That’s the last stop before the D-word,” Carly said in the voice of one who knows. “Poor Lissa.”
“Her dad’s pretty cut up about it, but he doesn’t know what else to do. But with him working up here and Patricia still keeping not just her maiden name, but her house in Beverly Hills, you kinda have to wonder how long this has been in the works.” Gillian closed her notebook and sighed. “Anyway, after they got back we had a long talk, and I tried to encourage her. It’s not like it’s her fault.”
“Or that she can do anything to get them back together,” Carly said.
“I officially declare this a man-free day,” I said. “We’re going to focus on Lissa today and nothing else.”
“Build her and ourselves up,” Gillian agreed, nodding. “Good plan.”
“Done.” Carly mopped up the last of her syrup. “Gillian, you call her and tell her we’ll meet her at the Tea House at two. That’ll give us all time to get it together and take a cab down there.”
So, that afternoon found us kicked back in our chairs at the Tea House, which really did serve green tea while the aestheticians massaged your legs with warm oil and hot, round stones before they got down to serious business with your feet.
“Bliss.” Mac sighed as she chose a crisp ginger cookie off the tray. “This was a wonderful idea.”
“I know why we’re here,” Lissa said. “You guys are the best friends ever.”
Carly reached over and squeezed her hand on the padded arm of the chair. “We’re so sorry about your parents. It totally wrecks.”
Normally, Lissa looks as though she’s walking around in her own personal sunbeam. It’d be enough to make you hate her, if you didn’t like her so much. But now the beam was dimmed and her skin looked pale, even in the Tea House’s flattering studio lights.
“You got that right. But, like Gillian told me yesterday, it’s their thing. I still love them and I know they love Jolie and me.” Her lower lip trembled, then firmed up. “But I still wish I could do something. Do you think if I moved home it would do any good?”
Lissa leave? Split up our gang? Bad enough it would happen when we graduated. No way could it be sooner than that. “But they aren’t home,” I said. “Your mom’s not staying in Santa Barbara, is she?”
Lissa shook her head. “She’s working on a big fund-raiser for Habitat for Humanity with Brad Pitt. That means she stays at her place in Beverly Hills.”
“Is she going to the premiere with your dad?” Gillian wanted to know. “Because if it isn’t all over the tabs now, it will be then.”
“I don’t think so,” Lissa said. “He said something about that when he was here. I think I’m his date.”
“Kaz won’t like that,” I said, my mouth five seconds ahead of my brain as usual.
“He’s still coming.” Obviously it had gone right past her. “You all are. The Saturday before Thanksgiving weekend. Don’t forget—we’re all going to L.A. and staying at Mom’s.”
“I can’t wait,” Carly said. “But won’t that be awkward if we’re at your mom’s and we’re going with your dad?”
Lissa shook her head. “That’s the confusing part. They’re not fighting or anything, and while we were having lunch, Dad called Mom to make sure she hadn’t booked a limo for us, because he had one. Is that abnormal or what?”
“They’re being civil because of you and your sister,” Mac put in. “Putting a good face on it. Consider yourself lucky they aren’t throwing vases and shrieking.”
“So that’s the thing—where would you move?” I asked. “Even if you went to live in L.A., what good would that do?”
“I know, I know.” Lissa’s hands flopped uselessly on the arms of the chair. “But I can’t help thinking that my being around one of them at least might help. That I could talk to Mom and maybe change her mind.”
“You’re talking to her now,” Gillian pointed out. “So is your dad and probably your sister, too. Lots of talk and it makes no difference.”
“It’d be different in person.”
“I don’t know,” Carly said. “I was right in the same house with both my parents and nothing I said did any good. They still split.”
“Is your mother still going to marry that man you don’t like?” Mac asked, her eyes closed. Her chair hummed as it gave her a back massage.
Carly made a face and nodded. “Nothing I say does any good there, either. She’s acting like everything’s peachy and Richard Vigil is one of my best buds. I got an e-mail this morning telling me to go to some wedding site that tells you the best bridesmaid dress for your figure type. Like I didn’t know that already.”
“I think a butt bow would be perfect for your figure type,” Mac said, deadpan.
“And ruffles.” Gillian sat up as the aesthetician wrapped her calves in a steaming white towel. “Lots and lots of ruffles. Below the knee. Ooh, a fishtail gown with ruffles. And a butt bow. Can you see it?”
“The horror! The horror!” Lissa covered her eyes, flinching away from Carly, who was sitting on her right.
“You guys, that would be totally wrong for her,” I told them. “You know she secretly wants the Scarlett O’Hara dress, complete with floppy hat and parasol.”
Lissa pretended to gasp and pressed both hands to her chest. “Oh, Mama,” she said in her best Georgia accent, “a butt bow just for me. You shouldn’t have, bless your heart.”
“Stop, stop!” Carly waved her hands. “My eyes are bleeding—don’t make me look in the mirror!”
Behind her hands, Carly flashed a look at me. That girl would make fun of her own self all afternoon if it would bring the light back into Lissa’s face. And by four o’clock, when we left all buffed and polished and (in my case) sporting Chocolate Shakespeare on my toes, we’d done some good work in cheering her up and helping her remember there were still reasons to smile left in the world.
After all: Carly in a butt bow. How good can it get?
When I turned my phone on in the cab on the way back (there being a silly no-cell-phone rule in the spa), I already had three messages. I goggled at the message screen. Two from Rashid and one from Danyel? Whoa. Better stop at the 7-11 and buy a lottery ticket, too. But I couldn’t call either of them from in the cab, squashed as I was between Gillian and Mac. Instead, I had to wait until we got back to school and everyone clattered up the staircase to the dorm. I slipped out into the deserted quad and sat a
t a table in the sun.
Wow. Not one, but two guys trying to get to me. How cool was that? Though my first instinct was to call Danyel, Rashid had left two messages. If it was something important, I needed to call him back before I found Farrouk looming out of the shadows and hauling me away by the arm.
He answered his cell on the first ring. “Shani. I have missed you.”
Missed me like his call rolled to voicemail or missed me like a guy missed a girl? Never mind. I had no business thinking like that. “I had to do an intervention for a friend.” I left off the details. “What’s up?”
“I had hoped to catch you earlier to see if we could study together.”
“Oh, I’m sorry I missed it. Homework on a Saturday afternoon? That sounds like gobs of fun.”
“Gobs? My English is very good but I have not heard of this before.”
“Sorry. Lots of fun.”
“With you, even the gross national product of Canada would be fun.”
He sounded so sincere that I laughed. It was true that with the right company, homework could not only be fun, but romantic. It wasn’t my fault I was thinking romance. I’d made it all the way through high school without anything you could remotely call a date, and now suddenly two guys were on the hook. What was that song? It’s raining men?
“Would you like to go out this evening?” the prince asked. “I promise it will not be dinner at TouTou’s.”
I laughed. “Fine by me. Listen, what kind of music do you like?”
“I like what you like.”
“Give me a break, Rashid. Tell the truth.”
“I like hip-hop and flamenco and Tchaikovsky and the music from the streets and bazaars of my country.”
“Have you ever heard the blues? Live?”
“No, never.”
“I saw a poster downtown that Kenny Wayne Shepherd was playing at the Fillmore. He’s great. You’d like him.”
“I am sure I will. I will have Bashir arrange for tickets and dinner.”
“I can do that, Rashid. Don’t bother the guy when he’s busy watching for ninjas in the bushes.”
Who Made You a Princess? Page 7