Georgetown Academy, Season One

by Schwartz, Alyssa Embree

  She needed to find him and deal with this drama with their parents. Now.

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  CHAPTER NINE

  Sunday, 7:22 p.m.

  Click. Click. Click. The flashbulbs pulsed at an even greater speed than the time Taryn had seen fifty paparazzi descend on Katie Holmes and Suri Cruise while shopping on Robertson Boulevard back home.

  Taryn shivered, unaware if it was due to the intense wave of guilt and fear washing over her body or the chilly air pumping through the Rotunda. The room made an airport hangar look small with ornate art and columns snaking their way up the rounded walls to the immense domed ceiling that was covered with a Michelangelo style fresco painting. The red carpet they were walking on meandered through the room, past statues of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, as well as the freshly minted monument to Eleanor Roosevelt.

  She clenched her smile tightly, hoping it didn’t look as forced as it felt. Usually, she had fun taking photos at events, but the stress and emotional turmoil she’d been wrestling with since her conversation with Brinley and Patrick that morning had only escalated since arriving to the event, and she could barely bring herself to look at the lens. Every time new guests entered the Rotunda, she froze, waiting to see if it would be Hunter and Evan. And if it was, what would they do? Would they call her out in front of everyone? Would they tell the phalanx of reporters their version of what had happened?

  And at the same time, it was tearing Taryn apart that she couldn’t be honest about the situation herself. Hunter and Evan could’ve been seriously hurt in that crash. Yes, Evan had mistakenly taken her coat (and eaten the mints), so it wasn’t entirely Taryn’s fault, but she did bear some responsibility. If she came forward and explained her part in it all, it could help clear Evan from having a DUI on her record.

  And yet, instead, she was lying about it. It didn’t feel right.

  But she had gone along with what Brinley told her, the same way she had taken all her pointers about what to do and say at this party tonight. Because Taryn was living in fear of being the one thing getting in between her father and the vice presidency.

  It was the same reason she was standing here in this stifling red Ralph Lauren frock. There was nothing wrong with the dress per se, a conservative, flared A-line number a little longer than Taryn would’ve liked with a high, boatneck collar. It just wasn’t something she would ever choose for herself. She had won the vote of red versus blue with Brinley by explaining that blue was an unlucky color this month for those born in her Tibetan sun sign, but Brinley had forbid her from wearing red lipstick with it, gagging at the thought and calling it “too matchy-matchy.” Taryn felt horribly washed out, especially in the tight chignon her thick hair had been pulled into. She had no illusions she was going to end up looking good in these photos. But maybe Brinley was right. Maybe Taryn’s perception of what looked good was completely out of whack with what was appropriate for a daughter of a vice president.

  “Just a few more,” Taryn heard Thomas Madison murmur.

  Somehow the Madisons perfectly timed their arrival so they stepped out of their cars at the same time as Taryn’s family, enabling them to trail the Reyeses through the press lines. Brooks, in a navy suit that fit him so perfectly it must have been custom-made, had immediately given Taryn a quick, cursory hello before hanging back with his parents, maintaining the distance she’d unfortunately seen too much of that week.

  After their mixed message breakfast at Le Pain yesterday, Taryn had told herself to stop thinking about him. That it wasn’t worth being with someone who was going to play weird power games. But unfortunately, her feelings weren’t that easy to turn off. She missed Brooks. And she missed whatever it was they’d had and what really killed her was that it seemed too late to ever get that back.

  Just then, there was a huge hubbub at the entrance to the Rotunda as a new round of guests entered. Taryn couldn’t see what was happening from where she stood, but she immediately began hearing the questions from the reporters.

  What happened in the car accident? Any comment on the marijuana involved? Why was Evan Harnett driving Hunter’s car?

  Her eyes locked with Brinley, who raised an eyebrow, imploring Taryn to stay calm. Easier said than done.

  Taryn risked a glance down the line, and saw only Mr. and Mrs. McKnight stepping onto the red carpet. Was it possible Hunter and Evan had stayed home? A wave of relief hit her, followed by intense guilt. What if they were too hurt or sore from the car accident to come? Who was she becoming?

  Tears began welling in her eyes as reporters screamed their questions to Bill and Jackie McKnight. Is your son okay? Does your son do drugs?

  That was the moment Brooks chose to look at her, a concerned expression on his face. He gave Brinley a sharply questioning look, but she merely shrugged innocently and tapped their father on the shoulder. “I think it’s time we head inside, Daddy.”

  Forty minutes later, the photographers were still clicking away, though Taryn had at least managed to take a few deep breaths since the red carpet. She and her family had moved into the reception in the National Statuary Hall, a semi-circular hall of epic proportions that boasted fifty different statues of important people in American history. In fact, they stood in front of the statue of Junipero Serra now, a positioning that apparently was Patrick’s idea. Another way to subtly highlight her father’s appeal to the Latino community. The whole thing felt like blatant pandering, but she was too distracted by her own guilt and fear to be outraged. The McKnights were swirling around the party somewhere. How much did they know?

  Suddenly, Taryn saw her father wave his hand at someone near the room’s main entrance, a massive white double door at the peak of the semi-circle, and whisper to her mother, “It’s Marilyn. Let’s go say hello.”

  Taryn caught a quick glance of Ellie in a fuchsia sheath, her hair sleeker than usual, looking as at ease as Taryn wished she did.

  Her dad took her mother’s hand, motioning for Taryn and Ryland to join them as they strode through the center of the room toward Ellie and her mother.

  The Madisons, who had been standing off to the side, now immediately fell into step behind them, Brinley quickly dashing up to puff out Taryn’s skirt and smooth out a few creases as she’d been doing at the behest of Katherine Madison all evening.

  In another time, Taryn might’ve enjoyed Brinley Madison doting on her like a lady-in-waiting. But now, Taryn was completely reliant on her, all while hating how reliant upon her she was, like some kind of weird Stockholm Syndrome.

  “You’re doing fine,” Brinley told her. “Try to relax your face a little more.”

  Taryn barely heard her because Mr. and Mrs. McKnight had materialized out of the crowd, congregating behind Marilyn, the entire scene reminding Taryn of a musical number from West Side Story. All she needed to do was start singing “America.”

  As Alan reached Marilyn and clasped her hand, Taryn finally noticed Hunter standing just behind Ellie. He was here.

  Taryn gulped, her hands instinctively grabbing onto her brother’s. Hunter must have skipped the press line; though if he were trying to avoid the press’s scrutiny, he wasn’t entirely successful. Several photographers snapping photos of Marilyn and Alan turned their flashbulbs toward him. He stood rigidly as if he didn’t notice. There were several bruises on his face. From the accident. Taryn paled. This was wrong. Suddenly he shifted his eyes toward her, but Taryn immediately looked down, too shamed and filled with self-loathing to meet his gaze.

  “What�
��s wrong?” Brinley whispered from behind her.

  “Look at Hunter. I feel really bad,” Taryn whispered back.

  “Stop,” Brinley said brusquely, leaving no room for argument. “Do you want your dad to be veep or not?”

  As the photographers continued clicking away around them, Taryn wasn’t sure she knew the answer to that question anymore.

  Taryn slowly added a new layer of mascara as she looked in the mirror of the large Capitol powder room, though really she was only here to waste a little time. She’d left the Statuary Hall right after her father and Marilyn exchanged hellos, too anxious at the thought of running into Hunter and being forced into some kind of confrontation with him.

  But she’d been holed up for almost fifteen minutes now, and if she didn’t return soon, a search party would probably be sent for her. She took a few deep breaths and swiped her lips with the red Viva Glam lipstick she’d covertly hidden in her purse to give herself a small boost of much-needed confidence. Time to face the crowd again.

  She exited into the long narrow corridor, walking toward the reception, the cacophony of music and voices emanating from the room.

  As she pulled open the large door, someone called out from behind her.

  “Hold the door, please!”

  First Lady Lydia Goldman strode toward her, a few Secret Service guards following fifty feet behind. She was a tall, statuesque woman, with dark hair pulled into a French twist, and jaw-dropping ruby earrings.

  While her father had met both the president and First Lady since coming to D.C., this was Taryn’s first time. Despite the stomach pit of guilt and nausea she was battling, Taryn instinctively flashed a broad smile, feeling a small tingle of excitement at meeting a woman she’d admired from afar throughout the president’s campaign.

  “Thank you,” Lydia said gracefully as they entered the room together. “You’re Alan Reyes’s daughter, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Taryn replied, though the mention of her father suddenly sobered her. This was the kind of situation Brinley had been prepping her for all weekend. If she embarrassed her father in any way during this conversation, the First Lady would definitely let her husband know.

  “I’m Taryn,” she added more softly, watching the inflections in her voice like Brinley had instructed her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Taryn quickly scanned the room for Brinley, expecting to find her eyes locked tightly on her, but instead, she was engaged in a close conversation with Patrick at a nearby cocktail table, seemingly unaware Taryn had even re-entered the hall.

  “Likewise,” the First Lady replied, pausing in front of a statue. “I love this room. So much history in here.”

  “Definitely,” Taryn agreed. Now what? She tried to remember some of the First Lady’s hobbies Sarah Corliss filled her in on the other night, but was coming up blank. Should she comment on the statue in front of them? A quick look to the nameplate told her it was a monument of Jason Lee. Great. Up until this second, the only Jason Lee she knew was the actor with the mustache from My Name is Earl.

  Usually, Taryn would’ve owned up to that straightaway and hoped for a laugh or maybe even a “Me, too!” exclamation. After all, she couldn’t be the only person in the room who didn’t know who this guy was. But she could picture Brinley and Patrick having an epileptic seizure over any admission of ignorance, especially in front of the president’s wife. Better to play it safe. The First Lady was staring at her expectantly and she had nothing appropriate to say. She quickly scanned the crowd again, looking for anyone who could help her out of this…her parents, her brother, even Brooks. But no one was nearby. She was on her own.

  And for maybe the first time in her life, she thought, What would Brinley do?

  “All the figures are so inspiring,” Taryn heard herself say. “It really reminds me of the greatness of America.”

  “Indeed,” the First Lady responded and Taryn could’ve sworn she saw her stifling a yawn. “And how are you liking D.C.?”

  Suddenly, she managed to remember a snippet of what Sarah Corliss had told her the other night at the party—that the First Lady was a tennis buff.

  “I love it. But the weather makes it a little trickier to get out on the tennis court as much as I’d like.”

  It was a bald-faced lie. Taryn occasionally played tennis back home at the Brentwood Country Club, but like her mother, she preferred forms of exercise that didn’t require sneakers, like yoga, Pilates and dance.

  “That’s too bad,” the First Lady replied. “I’ve never played much myself.”

  What?! She could’ve sworn that’s what Sarah Corliss said…wait a second. It was golf. Golf was what the First Lady enjoyed.

  The First Lady’s eyes darted just past Taryn, clearly ready to leave this boring conversation. Taryn was ready to leave it herself. It was like she was trying to shoehorn her personality to fit into platform pumps three sizes too small.

  “Well, it was lovely chatting with you, Taryn,” the First Lady said, already walking away.

  “Totall—I mean, yes. Lovely,” Taryn agreed, while wondering if she’d ever used the word “lovely” in real life.

  As soon as the First Lady was out of earshot, Taryn exhaled deeply. She debated walking over to Brinley and Patrick, then ultimately decided to join her parents who were laughing with her father’s chief of staff in the far corner of the room, her brother Ryland standing in between them and looking fairly miserable as he picked mushrooms out of the goat cheese tarts.

  But as she rounded one of the large columns, she almost ran smack dab into a party guest, grabbing hold of his arm to keep her balance.

  “Oops. Sorry,” she said, realizing as soon as she’d straightened up, that it was Gabe.

  He gave her a quick smile, helping steady her. “There you go.”

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey,” he replied. She and Gabe had ended on fairly amicable terms, but that didn’t mean it was completely comfortable between them.

  But Gabe’s attention was already focused elsewhere. Taryn followed his gaze to a bronze statue a few columns over where Ellie and Hunter were engaged in deep conversation, whispering closely.

  Her stomach dipped faster than when she rode Superman at Magic Mountain, pure fear overtaking her entire body. They had to be discussing the Evan mint situation.

  What if Ellie told her mother? If she knew the full story, there was no reason for her not to make it public. Evan and Ellie were close friends. Ellie would obviously want to help her out of this mess. She could expose Taryn as someone who not only brought pot candies to a party, but allowed another innocent girl to take the fall for her…which was even worse than if Taryn had just owned up to the edibles straightaway.

  Why had she let Brinley talk her into this? All her enthusiastic insistence that no one could “prove” anything suddenly seemed silly.

  Hunter now pulled Ellie in to a tight hug, the two of them still whispering to each other intimately.

  Gabe shifted his weight, as if Hunter and Ellie’s embrace didn’t have the slightest effect on him, but he was tapping his foot impatiently and Taryn could tell he was dying to walk over there.

  Finally, Hunter and Ellie pulled apart. But as Hunter walked away from Ellie—after a final hand squeeze Gabe inhaled sharply at—his eyes landed on Taryn’s across the room. And the searing look Hunter shot her way left no doubt in Taryn’s mind what he’d been discussing with Ellie.

  “Wow. What’d you do to him?” Gabe asked her.

  “I have to go,” she said quickly before rushing away. She knew it was ridiculous to keep running. It was only a matter of time before Hunter or Evan or Ellie confronted her. Or went to their parents. Or the press. But for the moment, all she could think of was escaping.

  She weaved through the throngs of people, anxiety pulsating through her entire body, trying to find her way outside the room, maybe even to some fresh air, where she could breathe. But every direction she turned only led to more peo
ple or dead ends.

  Finally, she found a door, pushing her way through and gasping for breath as she entered the relatively empty hallway. She wasn’t sure what throbbed more, her head or her ankle. She wrenched off her nude Miu Miu peep-toe platforms, grateful she’d thought to bring her gold metallic Tieks in her purse. She slipped on the ballet flats so at least now her feet were comfortable. The rest of her…not so much. She felt like she was jumping out of her skin.

  “Taryn!” Brooks, looking the opposite of how lost and disheveled Taryn felt, entered the hallway, a concerned look on his face. “I saw you rushing out here. What’s wrong?”

  She bit her lip. Despite his hot and cold treatment all week, now he stood before her, looking worried. Taryn knew she wasn’t supposed to care about him anymore. But he was the only person she wanted to talk to.

  However, as much as she was dying to unload the entire story, she didn’t want to rope Brooks into the web of deceit. At least right now, he still had what she’d heard Brinley and Patrick refer to as “plausible deniability.”

  “Talk to me. Are you okay?” He led her gently to a small side hallway off the main corridor that was completely empty.

  “Not really,” she mustered, though she didn’t elaborate. If she were being honest, she was too embarrassed to confess the full extent of it, scared Brooks would think she was an idiot for having made yet another huge mistake in less than twenty-four hours.

  “Is it because my sister wouldn’t let you wear those hideous furry boots?”

  She smiled in spite of herself and allowed herself to meet his gaze. But there were tears below the surface threatening to spill over at any moment.

  “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad,” Brooks said soothingly. “I know why you thought you needed to listen to Brinley after everything that happened yesterday, but you should stop if it’s making you this miserable.”

  “I can’t,” she replied helplessly.