“What?”
“Thinking so much. You should rest that pretty head of yours occasionally, Caggs.”
“How do you know my nickname?” I ask.
He shrugs. “You’re a popular girl.” He steps his second foot off Fifth onto the Kensington campus. “So what does one do around here for fun, anyway?”
“School?”
He rolls his eyes. “You think school is fun? I thought we were alike. Don’t tell me I pegged you all wrong.”
I cross my arms. “I doubt we’re alike.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You’ve got some secrets too. My guess is you don’t love it here, it’s not your jam.”
I shift my bag on my shoulder. “And what would make you say that?”
He runs his eyes over my face and steps closer. I can smell him. Expensive cologne. Cinnamon. Thick and heady. “Because you’re here right now, talking to me.”
My head starts beating, the blood pumping strong in my temples.
He leans forward even more. So close now it should be illegal. On school grounds, at least. “Have dinner with me,” he says. “What?” I yank myself back. I blink a few times. It feels like I just went unconscious for a moment. Did he just ask me out? He smiles. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“Dinner?”
“You’ve heard of the meal, no?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Why?”
“Why not?” he asks.
“Why would you want to have dinner with me?”
He shrugs. “You seem tolerable. Slightly.” He looks me up and down. “Plus I don’t really know anyone at Kensington. I thought you could show me the ropes.”
“Trust me, I don’t know them.” My heart is racing. I try to quiet it, but it’s no good. What is it about this guy that makes me feel on the edge of something?
“I’ll bet that’s not all true.” He leans forward again. “And I think we’d have fun together.”
“I don’t think so,” I say, but something inside me has unlocked, loosened up. Maybe it’s the cologne. God help me, I kind of want to say yes.
Then he turns away from me and strolls out of the Kensington gates. “I’ll pick you up at six,” he calls over his shoulder.
“Don’t you have class?” I ask. “It’s history,” he says. “We conquered some people. Some people died. Some art was made. I get the general picture. See you at six, sweetheart.”
“Don’t you need to know where I live?”
He spins and faces me, winks. “I’ll be there,” he says. “Have a little faith, Caggs.”
My head is still foggy from Astor when I see Trevor in English.
He manages to secure the desk next to me, and I can’t pay attention. I feel distracted by everything. The pencil sharpener by the chalkboard, the stack of books on Mr. Tenner’s desk. The clock, beating its way toward six.
I keep catching Trevor looking at me, and he’s distracting too. The blue of his shirt, the curve of his arm. The way his fingers hold his pencil, his thumb wrapped around. I think about those hands. The beds of his fingers are dark, stained brown from working at George’s Coffee House on Eightyfirst and Amsterdam.
“Hey,” he says.
I nod, but only meet his gaze for a moment. I look back down at my notebook.
When Kristen comes in, no one really makes a fuss about it. A few people look up, but they go back to checking out Blake Keeley’s paparazzi photos—she’s been snapped all over the park making out with that guy from the Disney Channel show about witches.
Kristen waves at me, and I wave back. So far so good. Maybe I can trust her after all.
I make it through the period, just barely, and manage to escape before Trevor can follow me.
At lunch I check my phone: one new message from Claire.
There are no chestnuts dwntwn.
It makes me smile. Ever since I was little, I’ve always loved chestnuts. They sell them on the street uptown and they’re delicious—roasted and unshelled. When the weather gets cold, I buy a bag a day. The best vendor is by the Plaza on Fiftyninth Street, but come fall you can pretty unseasonably much find chestnuts anywhere uptown. When Claire first moved to Tribeca it was August, but cold, and we were helping her unpack when I really wanted chestnuts. We went downstairs and wandered around a few blocks, but we couldn’t find any. At the time, I was sad Claire had left the UES and I remember saying to her, all bitter and everything, “You see? There are no chestnuts downtown.” She thought it was hilarious, and since then she’ll say it for just about everything—when one of us can’t find a restaurant or store we’re searching for, and, she says, when she misses me. It’s our code.
I wonder if they r in bklyn? I text back. She was supposed to see Max last night, but I haven’t spoken to her yet. Needless to say, she didn’t let me listen in. My phone immediately lights up. Need to give u details!
Come over tnite??
I jump to respond, but then pause. I shouldn’t really consider this thing with Astor tonight. He’s not even going to show up. He was kidding, I’m sure. But instead of telling Claire yes, what I actually write is:
fam stuff. Tmrw?
Lame!
I drop my phone in the side pocket of my bag and check my watch. I can’t believe the day is only halfway done. “Hey, Caggie!” Abigail swings into the gates with Constance and Samantha behind. Her red curls bob next to her head like pulled Slinkys. “We missed you at lunch today.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Homework.” For a preparatory academy that prides itself on being an Ivy League feeder school, I sure lie pretty often about the amount of work I have to do.
Abigail looks me up and down. “I saw you talking to Astor,” she says to my stomach.
What is up with everyone seeing everyone else having conversations around here?
“Uh, yeah. He’s . . . a friend.”
That isn’t even slightly true, but the words tumble out. Abigail makes her eyes wide.
“I thought he was new here,” she says. She’s fighting a smile, I can tell. She practically sings out the words. “He is,” I continue. “He’s an old family friend.” That’s not technically, in fact, untrue, seeing as how he told me he went to school with Peter. He also told me he was a high school graduate who had opted out of college, not someone who got kicked out of a London school. I suddenly feel kind of sick about bailing on Claire tonight.
Abigail gives a nod. “His family is loaded. Like European shipping money or something,” she says.
“His dad was on the cover of Forbes,” Constance adds. “Since when do you read Forbes?” Samantha asks. Abigail clears her throat and Constance rolls her eyes. Abigail moves closer to me. “He’s cute, don’t you think?” “Not really my type.”
“It seemed like you’re his.”
I cross my arms. “Is there something you want to ask me, Abbey?”
Abigail narrows her eyes for a moment, and then her face breaks out into a smile, like some invisible string has pulled all her features outward. “Not at all! I just thought, with you and Trevor broken up, we might see you have some fun.”
Constance and Samantha squeal beside her.
“Well, thanks, but I’m all good on the fun front.” The chimes sound. “Gotta go. See you—” I dash off toward the math wing. Abigail wants me to have fun.
Right. This is clearly all part of some complicated ploy to keep Astor for herself—isn’t that what Abigail said she wanted? He can be another prince to play house with.
For the record, she dated a real prince last year, in between Tripp. He was the heir of some tiny eastern European country that sounded like the name of a vampire, but he had a title.
I’m not sure why they broke up, exactly, but it didn’t last long. I know she didn’t make it up, though. One thing about Abigail: It’s easy to tell when she’s lying.
By five thirty I’m home and checking my watch. I’ve changed out of my school uniform into jeans and a white top—I’d do that anyway, I remind myself—and washed
my face. I’ve never been a big makeup person, to my mother’s dismay, but I fish some lip gloss out of my bag and swipe it across a few times. It’s just because they’re chapped, I reason. The summer sun kills them.
At exactly six our doorbell rings. I’ve been hanging out in the foyer, flipping through a magazine in a chair. I’m not sure whether or not I knew he’d come, but I’ve been sitting here, haven’t I? I didn’t go visit Claire. Either way, the doorbell makes me jump. Now that he’s actually on the other side, I’m not sure if I want to open it.
But I do, and as soon as I see Astor, my stomach jumps, like a frog on a lily pad. He’s on the second step, wearing jeans and a white button-down, his hair gelled up a bit at the top.
It’s obvious he spent some time on this look, and I don’t feel guilty anymore about my run-in with the lip gloss.
He smiles. “You’re here.”
“I live here.”
He slips a hand behind his neck and pulls. It does something funny to the back of my neck too. “I’m happy you answered.” I bite my lip. Keep it cool, Mcalister.
“I just thought you might leave me hanging,” he continues. I inhale. Instinctively, I think about making up an excuse.
It’s like second nature lately, or something. “Yeah, well, I’m about to. I have all this homework . . . ,” I start.
He shakes his head. “No way. It’s the first day of school. You can’t con a pro, Caggs.”
I sigh. “Just come in, okay?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
I hold the door open, and he walks in past me. He brushes up against me, and when he does, my pulse seems to lurch forward, like an airplane taking off. “Nice place,” he says.
“How did you find it, anyway?” I ask.
“I remembered.” He looks at me until I look away. “I’ve never been inside.”
I blow some air out my lips. “Do you want a drink or something?” I ask.
“Scotch?” He peers around the door that leads to the kitchen. “I meant water.”
He looks back at me. Laughs. “I was kidding.”
“I know.” I run my toe through the carpet. It’s got this geometric print on it, and I try to follow in a semicircle using my pinky toe. Another thing my mom changed about our house this year. “Are you hungry?” he asks me.
I glance up. He’s staring at me. His eyes are gorgeous.
He’d be hard to miss, he really would. “Sure.”
“Italian?”
“Whatever.”
He laughs. “I like a girl with a strong opinion.” He strains again toward the kitchen. “Do you have to tell anyone you’re leaving?”
I shake my head. “Nah. My mom won’t be home until later.” I don’t mention Dad . . . no point. He isn’t here, and if he was . . . well, I don’t think my safety is of the utmost concern to him right now.
“Okay. Let’s go.” He takes one final sweep of the foyer, like he’s surveying it. Then he nods, pulling the door open. He holds it for me and then tugs it shut behind him. It locks automatically.
It’s still light outside. Still summer. “Do you want to walk?” he asks me.
“Okay,” I say.
He holds out his elbow. I loop my arm through. My arm feels funny in his. Small, maybe. He’s tall, taller than Trevor. Most people are taller than me, but there seems to be something particularly towering about him as we head down Madison.
It suddenly occurs to me that I may be on a date with Astor and I actually don’t know a thing about him.
“Where do you live?” I ask.
“Sixty-eighth and Lex.” He holds up his hand to keep a taxi at bay as we cross the street.
“How come you moved to London?” I try.
“My dad has business,” he says, without missing a beat. “How come you got kicked out of school?”
Astor blows some air out of his lips. “They were teaching crap there, so I took matters into my own hands.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“It’s not,” he says, looking at me. “It wasn’t my first high school, anyway.”
“No?”
“Look,” he says, “what’s important is that I’m here now.
No London, no getting kicked out, no meeting you.”
I feel myself blush, but I still say: “Isn’t that what you do on a date? Get to know someone?” I bite my tongue as soon as the words are out. Is this a date? Did I just seriously say that out loud? He looks amused, though. “I don’t really like talking about myself. I’d rather hear about you.”
“I pretty much feel the same way, actually.”
“Yeah? But you’re so interesting.” He hangs on the last word and unhooks his arm through mine. He rests his hand on the small of my back. I let him.
“I’m not,” I say. “Trust me.”
“I guess we’ll agree to disagree.” He puts up his hand to hail a passing cab, and the next thing I know, his fingers are at my waist and he’s tucking me inside.
“Hudson and Perry,” he tells the driver.
Astor positions himself close to me, and as we head downtown, he doesn’t slide over. His breath seems even, calm, but mine comes short and shallow. I’m sure he can feel my heartbeat—quick and erratic. He moves his leg away from mine, takes his lighter out of his pocket.
“What’s with that?” I ask.
“What?”
I motion with my head to the lighter in his hands. “You don’t even smoke.”
“So what?” he says.
“So why do you always have it?”
The flame ignites and he holds it out to me. Like he’s offering it. “Don’t you ever like to play with fire?” It makes my pulse race again. The combination of his arrogance and—what? Charm?—is strangely alluring. He doesn’t know enough about me for me to have to lie. Or be honest. And lately, anyway, they’ve seemed like the same thing.
We eat at a bistro where Astor knows everyone. I’m used to this; it happens every time Claire and I go out. Bottles of champagne get sent to our table, free chocolate soufflés show up with raspberry syrup wound into words around the sides of the plates. Sometimes numbers. Phone numbers. Claire always rolls her eyes like it’s an inconvenience, but secretly I know she loves it. I feel another pang of guilt about not seeing her tonight, but I brush it to the side. Not now.
The food here is delicious. Pasta with shrimp and pesto. Big plates of handmade mozzarella and fresh tomatoes.
“What really happened?” I ask, twirling some spaghetti around a fork. “With school, I mean. How come you got kicked out? At Kensington you have to basically commit murder for them to even consider making someone leave. It taints their perfect record.”
He folds his napkin onto the table and leans back in his chair. “I guess London rolls different. It wasn’t anything glamorous; I just didn’t show up.” He holds up his hands. “Okay, also, I may have called a teacher something I shouldn’t have.”
I imagine Astor having it out with Principal Calleher. It makes me snort with laugher.
“Oh, good,” he says. “You think it’s funny. Most people just think I’m a delinquent.”
“You’re not a delinquent,” I say automatically.
He raises his eyebrows. The flame from a candle on the table dances across his face. “I just mean,” I continue, “I’m not one to judge.” He runs his eyes over my face, like he’s trying to read something there. Then he drops his gaze to his water glass. “Anyway, as long as I don’t miss seven classes or get below here, I’ll graduate.”
“Seems easy enough.”
“Especially if you’re there.” He takes my hand. He just reaches across the table and loops his fingers through mine.
I’ve never been out with anyone but Trevor. Well, there was Harrington freshman year, but that hardly counts because we saw a movie with seven other people and he didn’t kiss me. He did hold my hand, though. I remember his palms were sweaty and clammy, and when he finally released my hand, I had to focus so hard on not wi
ping it on my jeans I missed the end of the movie. Then there was Trevor. Trevor’s hands were always warm. Even in the dead of winter, when it was too cold to snow, his palms would be toasty. “It’s just a biological necessity,” he’d say. “To ensure you always need me to keep you warm.”
Some instinct takes over and I pull away.
“What’s wrong?” Astor asks.
“Nothing,” I say, picking up my water glass. I take a small sip, keeping my eyes on the table.
“Caggie?” He sets his elbows on the table and leans forward.
“I don’t know you,” I say. I’m talking to my plate.
“But you could.” I look up and he’s staring at me again. I see something in his eyes I haven’t seen in a long time. Something that reminds me of things I’ve been trying to forget. But what’s strange is that it doesn’t make me cower, like I expect it to. It makes me lean a little bit closer.
“Why me?” I ask.
He shakes his head slowly. He picks up his knife and threads it between two fingers. “I think we’re alike. I told you that before.” He sets the knife down, glances up at me.
The night Trevor broke up with me, we were in my room. We were trying to decide whether to watch a movie, order in, or go out to eat. Well, he was, anyway. I wasn’t really paying attention. I was focused on what I was always focused on—this lump in my stomach, a stone sinking through water. I kept waiting for it to hit the bottom, but it never did. He must have asked me what I wanted to do at least five times, but I don’t remember. Finally he stood up. I could see he was annoyed, which was unusual for Trevor. Trevor could spend the entire day filing paperwork or doing the same math problem and not get bored. It’s just his nature. But that night was different.
“This isn’t working,” he said.
“What?” I remember looking, stupidly, for some kind of appliance. I remember thinking maybe he was talking about the television or his cell phone.
“Us.” He looked at me when he said it, and I could see how much the one word hurt him. More, maybe, than it even hurt me.
I stayed on the floor and pulled my legs up to my chest. “It’s fine,” I said. “I get it.”
The Edge of Falling Page 8