Other than her obsession with who should sit where and who is and is not worthy of her company, Alyssa could be cool at times. I’m probably remembering more of our middle school days than the time we’ve been at Settleman’s because it seems like our progression into high school inflated her head just a little more—if that were even possible.
The visual of Alyssa’s inflated head makes my smile more genuine. Her long micro-braided hair is pulled and stacked high on top her head tonight with a few loose strands, I guess to give a softer look to the hairdo. It’s okay, I mean I think braids are nice. Except on Alyssa they seem to give her the impression that she’s a goddess instead of just wearing the styled goddess braids that she purchased at the Hair Gallery in the mall.
“That outfit looks divine on you.”
Are you kidding—“divine”? What fifteen-year-old says that? “Thanks,” I say because it’s polite. “You look nice, too.”
Now that’s true, and it is most of the time. Despite her personality flaws, Alyssa definitely has a flair for fashion. Her dress is name brand—I know that for sure even though I don’t know the name exactly. It’s just that if it doesn’t have a name, Alyssa doesn’t wear it. Her dress is a little too snug for my tastes but hugs her curves that look years older than her fresh fifteen. It’s purple with cap sleeves and about a three-inch slit on both sides, and the hem comes just below her knees. Her shoes, again designer, probably Italian leather, are black and square-toed, so she doesn’t look overly dressed, but certainly well-dressed.
“This dress is so old, but yours is just great. Hey, we should definitely hit the mall sometime. God, can you believe we have to go in there with all those boring adults? This is so lame.”
She’s mirroring the thoughts in my mind. The ones about this being boring and lame, not about going to the mall with her. While I’m game for shopping, I don’t know that it’ll be that great of an experience to go with her.
I must have had a strange look on my face because she quickly starts shaking her head, loose braids swishing around, and I think instantly of Medusa. The goddess with snakes for hair whose stare, if returned, would turn you into stone. This Greek stuff is really starting to stick in my mind.
“I didn’t mean anything bad about your parents or their little open house. It’s just not my idea of fun.”
I realize she’s talking and figure I’d better start paying a little more attention to what she’s saying. “Ah, no, no problem,” I say, hoping that covers it.
“So maybe we should stick together tonight,” she suggests.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mother approaching. She’s dressed all in cream, a long skirt with a split up to her knee on the side and a jacket with her diamond pelican broach on the lapel. Her dark hair has been straightened so that it’s hanging down her back, held away from her face by two diamond barrettes.
“Actually,” Alyssa says, moving closer to me and lowering her voice like she’s about to tell me something scandalous, “I’ve been thinking you could help me with something.”
“Something like what?” I probably shouldn’t have even asked.
“I’ve seen you with that new girl Krystal. God, I can’t stand her. She thinks she’s better than everybody when she’s really nothing. You know she was the reason Camy moved away.”
First, what is the saying—something about the pot calling the kettle…? Second, what the hell was she talking about? Camy Sherwood and her family moved out of Lincoln about two weeks ago. Now, while I will admit that Krystal’s little friendship with the ghost of Ricky Watson sort of brought the whole sordid incident to a head, Krystal certainly didn’t push Camy to the brink. Camy Sherwood and her I-wanna be-like-Alyssa attitude did that to herself. She’d started posing for nude pictures and who knew what else with that pervert teacher Mr. Lyle (who by the way is probably in some prison cell getting the same treatment he dished out to those young girls). So once again, Alyssa is way out of line.
“Krystal didn’t make Camy move,” I say in the most restrained voice I can manage.
“She’s just such a pain. And now she’s walking around with Franklin on her heels like they’re some love-struck couple. It’s sickening.”
I shrug. Krystal and Franklin were like glued together at the hip lately. “Well, Franklin pursued her, if you must know.”
She is twirling one of those braids around her finger and looking around the room as if searching for someone. “Yeah, well, guys don’t know any better. He probably took one look at her mixed hair and got all flustered.”
What did her hair have to do with anything? Alyssa is definitely in a world of her own.
“Anyway, it’s time she was brought down a notch. Put in her rightful place, and you and I can make that happen.”
I am about to say something else when we are interrupted.
“Well, look at you two, don’t you look lovely,” my mom says, coming to a stop, touching one hand to my shoulder and the other to Alyssa’s.
“Hello, Mrs. Carrington,” Alyssa says politely.
“Hi, Mom,” I say in a tone that just doesn’t match the general excitement coming from the two of them.
“You’re both just what we need. You’ll be the spokespersons for the youth of the Oaks Club.”
I don’t like the sound of that.
Alyssa, on the other hand, smiles prettily, her amber eyes just about glittering with anticipation. Alyssa likes a title, and I can tell this is going to take her ginormous ego to another level.
“Sure, we’d love to, Mrs. Carrington. Just tell us what you’d like us to do.”
Hoping she’ll say, “change your clothes and go out for a cheeseburger” is wishful thinking.
“Well,” my mom begins in her sugary sweet voice, the one that makes me grit my teeth every time I hear it, “what I was thinking is that you two can rally up some of your friends. You know, get them excited about the club and all the possibilities.”
“What are the possibilities?” I ask because I still can’t figure out why our little town even needs an exclusive club.
I mean, really, there are about four thousand people living in Lincoln. Maybe fifteen hundred of them are well off like we are. (That’s just a guess because it’s not like I work for the Census Bureau and actually know the statistics.) But anyway, we’re a small town, in Connecticut, of all places. We’re not in Beverly Hills or Dallas or any other metropolitan city. Our town sits right on the edge of Connecticut, just beneath West Haven. The larger part of the town is sided by the Atlantic Ocean and the other part runs right along the highway.
We aren’t like hillbillies or anything, but we’re far from the sophisticated city life. Far from being big enough to split off into specific social groups. Looking around me, I can see my point—if vocalized—will go unheeded.
“We want the youth to be involved in this venture. You are our future, after all.”
Oh please, that line is so played out.
“You two will be responsible for recruiting all the teenagers in our little circle. Get them excited about the club and all that it will offer them and their futures.”
Brainwash them basically, is what I figure she means.
Alyssa, on the other hand, is happier than a pig in slop, clap ping her hands together and smiling enthusiastically. “That’s a great idea, Mrs. Carrington. We’d love to help.”
We would?
“Don’t you worry about a thing. Sasha and I will start recruiting right away.”
We will?
“Thanks, girls.” My mom gives us another award-winning smile and leaves us alone. Finally.
But just when I’m about to turn and tell Alyssa she’s crazy for agreeing to this stupid little task, I see something—or someone, I should say—that stops me cold.
I can see into the dining room, and, just as a group of adults walk away, I can see a man and a boy from school. A boy who just happens to be the boyfriend of my fellow Mystyx.
“Who’s that
man with Franklin?” I ask Alyssa, still wondering why Franklin Bryant would be here in the first place.
Alyssa follows my gaze. “Oh, that’s his dad. Don’t you recognize him from television? He does the weather on channel eight.”
That’s right, he does. Walter Bryant is the local meteorologist, and he and about three or four other reporters at the station are the closest thing Lincoln has to TV stars. But what is he doing here? I’m sure that even though he’s on TV, he’s not making Hollywood-type money, which is exactly what the other guests of this party and the hopeful sponsors of the club are.
“My mom said he was only invited so we could get some free publicity. He was at my house a couple nights ago talking to my dad about this research project he’s working on. I was supposed to be studying in the den but I could hear them through the walls. Mr. Bryant’s working on some type of research project, something about really strange weather events and the impact on the environment.”
Unknowingly, Alyssa answers my question and piques my curiosity. I wonder if Krystal knows about this project. Maybe she’s already started pumping Franklin for information about it.
Alyssa keeps right on talking like she’s having this conversation all by herself. “Plus I think Mr. Bryant’s father was connected with the government or something like that. He might really be kind of famous in an off sort of way. You know, useful but not really belonging.”
My neck hurts when I turn to stare at her quickly. Her last remark reminds me why I don’t really like hanging with her or this crowd of people my parents want so desperately to be around. So I quickly excuse myself from her presence and wander away wondering if I can just slip back upstairs into my room.
Being alone with my thoughts would beat being in this room full of phonies and wannabes.
Being dipped in a fiery pit headfirst would probably beat being down here.
six
I’m near the steps, my getaway almost perfected when I hear my name being whispered.
“Over here,” the voice says after I’ve twisted and turned, trying to find out who’s calling me.
I see his head then, peeking from behind the sliding doors that lead into the small coatroom a few feet from the front door.
Antoine? What the hell? Is this the night for surprise visitors?
Crossing the floor quickly, I look around, hoping nobody sees me stepping into the coatroom, pushing Antoine back inside at the same time.
“So what happened the other night?”
His voice is still barely above a whisper, but it’s just the way I remember it.
“What are you doing here?” I join him in whispering be cause the last thing I want is to have to try and explain why he’s here on this night. Antoine is definitely not a member of Lincoln’s elite and therefore not invited to this little party. Not that I think for one moment he’d be invited to anything else at this house, either—which is probably the biggest reason I don’t want to like him.
There isn’t a lot of room in the coatroom. Still, I try to back up, to put some space between us. Antoine only closes that space, his eyes trained on mine as he does.
“Stop running, I’m not gonna hurt you.”
His voice is a little lower, a tad sexier, and my heart does like a backward somersault in response. He’s real close. I back up more, falling through some coats before my back hits the wall. He’s right there, in my face, his hands flattening on the wall on both sides of my face.
I lick my lips. I do that a lot when I’m nervous. Either lick my lips or bite on the bottom one depending how edgy I’m feeling. Right now I probably could have bitten right through my lip, began bleeding to death and still not be able to move a muscle to get away from him.
“I’m…ah…I’m not running,” I stammer. No way am I going to let him catch me speechless.
“You look real pretty in skirts, Sasha.”
“Thank you, but you didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m here because you ran from me in the club the other night. And you run from me every day at school. I figured if I came to your house you wouldn’t have anyplace else to run.”
Logical, I think, but not wise. “Well, you picked a really bad time. My parents have company.”
He nods. “So let’s leave.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? You said your parents have company, not you.”
He’s got a pretty good point there. Besides, I’ve already had my fill of being nice, smiling and making small talk. Seeing Franklin’s father was a shock, not to mention my mind’s still trying to figure out what his research project is about. That I would discuss with Jake and Krystal at the library tomorrow. And the thought of having dinner with Alyssa sitting beside me complaining about Krystal and just about waging an all-out war against her is more than I want to deal with.
So why am I turning Antoine down this time?
Why can’t I just slip out with him? He’s already proven it’s possible to sneak into this fortress my parents call a home. I should easily be able to slink out unnoticed.
“I can’t,” I say regardless.
“Can’t or won’t? What are you so afraid of, pretty girl?”
I’m not afraid of him. Or at least I don’t think I am.
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Then come on, let’s go.”
Before I can say another word, Antoine grabs my hand, opens the door and is leading us out into the foyer. I can hear the light music and conversation coming from the dining room. The only thing down this end is the front door and the coat closet. If anybody were to leave early they’d see us. Dinner hasn’t even started yet so that’s probably not an issue. Still, I walk a little faster.
We reach the door without a problem and slip out into the night air. It feels great against my skin. It was stuffy and crowded in the house with all those people. Antoine is still holding my hand. He’s like a couple inches taller than me. I like that.
“I just wanted to see you.” He starts talking the moment we clear the front steps and the stone path that lead down to the sidewalk in one direction then around to the back of the house in the other.
We’re heading around back. There’s a gazebo there just before you get to the swimming pool. I didn’t think Antoine knew this because he’s never been to my house before. Yet that’s exactly where we go.
“Why do you keep saying I’m running from you?” I ask the minute we arrive at the gazebo. Antoine sits down on one of the two steps that lead you to the large center. I just keep standing in front of him.
“Because you are. Or at least you have been since the dance.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is,” he says seriously. “Look, you came to me asking all these questions about my brother who’s been dead for months. Then when I try to talk to you about normal stuff you disappear. I kinda thought you might be feelin’ me so I asked you out. You turned me down. Running. Then you show up at the club that I invited you to and disappear after the first dance. Running again.”
“Wait a minute, I was at the club? At Trends?” He’d said that before, in the house, that I’d left him at the club.
I can’t believe I actually just said that out loud. I mean, I’m thinking it of course. That night was a dream, that’s what I decided. But he’s saying it’s true. I have to know if that’s what he’s saying for sure.
“Yeah.”
“When?”
He looks like he thinks I might be losing my mind. Still, he shrugs and answers, “Friday night.”
“Oh my god,” I sigh. It was true. But how could I have been in my bed sleeping, with Mom and Casietta trying to wake me up, and at the club dancing with Antoine at the same time?
He reaches out, takes both my hands in his, pulling me until I’m standing between his outstretched legs.
“So I still think you’re feelin’ me but I don’t know why you keep running from me. You’re gonna have to just come right out and tell me. Do y
ou like me or not?”
Oh please don’t ask me that question. Please don’t look at me with those really dark brown eyes and wait for me to give you an answer. Please, please, please.
“Answer me, pretty girl.”
“That’s not my name,” I say as a way to dodge his first question.
“But that’s what you are.”
Okay, my heart’s not supposed to beat this fast. I’m almost positive it’s not.
“It’s not that I don’t like you, Antoine.” I figure this is the best answer I can give. Surely he’s going to accept it.
“So if that’s true, just say you do like me.”
I should have known he’d be difficult. “Why?” I ask instead.
“Why do I want to hear you say it?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Why do you like me?”
“That’s easy,” he says with a smile. “I like the way you look. The way you walk through the halls at school like you really want to be there. And I like that you’re different from the other Richies.”
“Different? How?” Because I really don’t want to be like the rest of them. I just want to be me.
“You don’t think you’re better than anybody else,” he answers simply.
Hmph, after tonight I’m not so sure that’s true. I mean, hadn’t I just stood in the room with a bunch of Richies talking about opening an exclusive club? If that doesn’t say we’re better than everybody else, I don’t know what else does. But I don’t tell Antoine that. He doesn’t need to know.
Because I’m feeling comfortable with Antoine and the spring air is finally seasonal, with just a light breeze and temps over about sixty degrees, I sit quietly on the step just below him. He startles me by putting his fingers into my hair. I left it out tonight because that’s what my mom instructed. Two crystal clips hold it back from my face.
“Your hair is soft,” he says.
“Thanks.”
It’s quiet, but I want to say something. I want to keep talking to Antoine, to find out more about him. It’s crazy, these weird feelings I have for him. One minute I don’t want to see him and the next I can’t see him soon enough.
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