“Only if you don’t mind me pretending he’s mine and only mine for the hour that you’re gone.”
“Knock yourself out,” I say, slipping into some flip-flops and heading out the door.
––––––
While walking to La Administración, I pass several groups of girls, who all give me the robotic-eye-scan from head to toe. No smiles, no hellos, only judgment. A small group of boys passes by without even the slightest glance. I seem to be visible only to girls, served up for their disapproval.
I sense the danger in all of this. I might just be among the enemy here. I’m in the cradle of just what the Fraternitas wants to protect: the Elite. I think about Bolon and his deep belief that I can unify the youth, but reaching these people seems beyond me. We are simply not the same species—it would be like a hamster trying to talk with hummingbirds.
And would they even want to change the world? Would anyone here resonate with what The Council wants me to communicate? They’re fabulous. They’re wealthy. They have everything they want and need. They are heirs to the world the Fraternitas controls.
And I am among them. Would they eat me if they found out?
As I pass one of the dorms, I notice Ramón handing a garment bag to the boy I saw through the window last night. He takes the bag from Ramón, has a quick conversation in Spanish, and then runs down the steps. I quicken my pace while doing trigonometry in my head, hoping the trajectory he’s on will not intersect mine. His grand presence is too much for me and I feel like I need to run off, like an albino from the hot sun.
“Excusez moi,” he says in my direction.
Feeling sure he can’t be talking to me, I don’t reply and keep walking faster.
“Excuse me,” he says again. This time I look over at him, and he says, “Yes, you.”
I stop and turn toward him. “Can I help you?” I reply. What am I, a waitress? Why didn’t I just say, “Oh, hey there,” or “Bonjour”?
“I just wanted to say hello,” he says in perfect British-style English with only a hint of French accent. Could he get any more cosmopolitan?
“Oh. Well … hello.”
“What is your name?” he asks, as he extends his hand to shake mine.
“I’m Caity.”
“Julius D’Aubigne,” he says. “Please, call me Jules.”
Only a very secure teen boy would go by Jules. But then again, what’s not to be secure about? Sophisticated beyond his years—check. Handsome—check. Well dressed—check. Seems to speak every language on the planet—check.
“Pleasure to meet you, Jules.” I shake his hand, concentrating on keeping my hand firm but not manly. “I’m sorry, but I’m late for an appointment,” I say. I’m not trying to play hard to get, I just cannot think of one single interesting thing to say to him, and from the looks of it, this boy eats, drinks, and sleeps interesting things.
“Pardon me,” he replies. “Don’t let me keep you.”
“Thanks. Nice to meet you.”
I walk off, but he does not move. When I’m a few feet away he says, “You are not like the others.”
I resist the temptation to look back, and instead I pretend I didn’t hear him. I don’t need to be the pet interest of some rich French kid, no matter how beautiful he is.
Yet as I walk on, I can’t ignore the fact that I’m shaky from the attention.
––––––
When I walk into the cool air of La Administración, the receptionist greets me by name. I wonder if there are cameras that match face to name to prompt people to know who we are and when we’re coming.
She introduces herself simply as “Vasquez” and I’m not sure if it’s her first name or last. She’s dressed in the same style of blue suit that Monsieur Didier wears so elegantly and Señora Garza wears so frumpily. On her it looks stylish, which is saying something for a generic, dark blue pantsuit.
“Come along,” she says, leading me down a polished-marble hallway lined with heavy dark-wood doors. At the end of the hall is an old-fashioned elevator, the kind with a door like an accordion of metal that you open and close manually. We get in, Vasquez slips a key into a slot next to the letter S, and down we go. We walk out into a hall that looks identical to the one we just left, but the air is a lot cooler.
Vasquez leads me to a non-descript door with a punch-code lock on it. I look away so it doesn’t seem like I want to see the code as she taps out the numbers. The door opens with that pneumatic hiss of a subway door. Inside the temperature is different—warmer, dryer. It smells like expensive leather.
I can see why Justine was so excited; this is totally up her alley. Racks and racks and racks of dresses, and a lit-up bookshelf-thing displaying at least a hundred pairs of shoes and a good selection of evening bags. Then there is a glass case with some amazing jewelry. The whole thing is bizarre. Who would donate jewels to a school? What kind of high school builds an archive of fancy clothes? And what is behind all the other doors with keypad locks?
Vasquez gestures to the racks and says, “Please,” like she’s a hostess who has just laid out a buffet. I kind of wish I had Justine with me so she could help pick out stuff; I’m someone who needs a reference point when shopping. I settle on a Grecian-style dress with lots of draping of fabric on the chest that might add to the illusion that I have more than I do in that department. It’s simple and beautiful and surprisingly comfortable. When I come out of the tiny dressing room to look in the three-way mirror, I am stunned. I guess there’s a reason couture dresses cost so much: they are transformative.
I walk out to where Vasquez is sitting to pick out some shoes and see in her eyes that she is as surprised as I am. She looks up from her texting or whatever she was doing on the phone and says, “Muy bastante,” before looking back down at the phone.
I thank her and float (in that dress, you can’t just walk) over to the shoe-display shelf. Most of the shoes are small, but I manage to find an elegant pair of not-too-high strappy silver sandals that will work perfectly. I decide not to use any of their jewelry or evening bags for fear of looking like too much of a charity case. I think my pearl studs will work fine with the dress and I can always stash my key in the yards of draped fabric that are supposed to be my boobs.
Walking back to the dorm, I actually start to look forward to the Spark Ball. I’m nervous about meeting the Beautiful People but excited to debut my new Greek Goddess look. It will be nice to have one last night of fun and freedom before we’re back on the hunt for Uncle Li and the Fraternitas.
I just wish Alex were here with me. He’s the only one I want to impress and he probably thinks I’m snubbing him. I just wish I could do one last Skype with him to let him know what’s going on, how I’ve been instructed not to contact him.
What time is it in Scotland right now? I wonder. Is he in bed? I try to picture what he’d look like sleeping, his strong face slack and boyish, the tops of his dark lashes resting on his cheek like a curling wave of delicate spider legs. Does he sleep on his back, open to the world, with one arm up, framing his head? On his stomach with his face buried deep in the pillow? Or does he sleep on his side, his body curled up like a cat while his mind escapes to the alternate world of dreams?
I would love to spend one night watching him, tracking his eyes under the thin skin of his eyelids as they move in response to his night wanderings.
Does he dream of me?
I wish I had told him how I felt about him while we were on the Isle of Huracan. Or, to be more honest, I wished he had told me how he felt—that was the only part of the equation where X represented the unknown.
When I get to the room, Justine is on our little balcony with Mr. Papers, who is eating a banana. Papers is so sophisticated that every time I see him with that cliché fruit, I have to laugh.
“I’m not even going to ask about the dress,” Justine says, putting a hand up. “I want your choice de couture to be a surprise.”
“Dress? What dress?” I say. “Oh, you
mean the Grecian number I’ll be wearing tonight?”
“Caity! I wanted to be surprised!” she says, shaking her head. “But I must give you props for picking that draped-goddess dress. Classic.”
“Was every dress you saw burned into your memory?” I ask.
“Can’t help it,” she replies. “I’m like one of those idiot savants who can’t tell time but can play the Hammerklavier Sonata perfectly after hearing it once. Except my gift is my visual memory.”
“Well, tonight should be sensory overload for you then, what with all the dresses and shoes to catalog.”
“I am absolutely up for the challenge,” she says with relish.
I see her laptop on the small patio table. “So what are you doing now?”
“I’m stalking everyone on our class list, which was in our materials. Do you realize how low-class we are?”
“Yes. Yes I do,” I reply as I pick up the class list.
“Seriously, if they’re not from some line of nobility then their parents are captains of industry.” She pauses to look up at me. “How did we even get in?” she asks.
“Cash money,” I reply. “Remember? It makes the world go ’round.” I find Jules on the class list and point to his name. “I ran into this guy on my way to the dress fitting. Have you stalked him yet?”
“Absolutely. He is Julius D’Aubigne the Fourth. From Paris, of course. His family has been in the banking business since before the American Revolution. They’ve donated a ton of money to this school.”
“Well done, McStalker!”
Justine humbly bows. “My goal is to research every student in our class as well as some upperclassmen before the Spark Ball tonight.”
“Rock on,” I tell her. “Information is king.”
“Actually, according to Wikipedia, our classmate Jordy bin Abdullah’s dad is king … ”
TWELVE
Vasquez, who is waiting for us at La Administración, takes us back down to the couture archives where we put on our dresses and prepare to go. Justine’s hair is left down with soft, beautiful curls. She helps me put mine into a loose updo, which ends up looking totally effortless even though it takes forty-five minutes and five thousand bobby pins to create.
We look like quite a pair.
I’m glad we planned on getting there an hour late—this seems to be about when people are arriving, mostly as couples. These kids (and I use that term loosely, as no one here looks under twenty-one) are so comfortable in their worldly elegance that any one of them could be walking the red carpet at Cannes or cruising around a casino in Monte Carlo without getting a second look.
Justine and I hoped to get into the ballroom without drawing too much attention, but when we walk in, almost everyone turns and stares. I can feel my face turning bright red. From the corner of her mouth Justine says, “Awk-ward … ”
Boys actually smile and nod but girls look critically at us, turning to one another to make comments. Have these people been together at fancy private schools for so long that they’ve forgotten what regular teenagers look like?
I follow Justine’s lead and walk to the bar, where they are serving sodas and blended drinks, not champagne like they had at the Senior Mixer last night. Unable to trust myself with a white dress and colored liquid, I order sparkling water and lime.
We keep to ourselves, sitting at a small table admiring dresses and boys. No one seems particularly interested in meeting us, which after the last two days of being ignored is no surprise. After an hour or so, kids started dancing to the band, which is playing really good Latin music. During one of the band breaks, when the dance floor clears, we watch a gang of beautiful boys burst through the doors to the ballroom. They roam in a V-formation, like a flock of birds or a school of fish, and the leader, the point man, is Jules.
They weave their way through the small groups that are scattered throughout the room, Jules slapping backs and kissing cheeks as if he were the groom at a wedding. It’s kind of irritating to see how people melt when he comes by, and how the school of fish trail behind him.
I look over at him without turning my head so it’s not so conspicuous. He’s leaning in and talking to Monsieur Didier, as if he’s sharing a secret.
“He certainly thinks he’s all that, doesn’t he?” I say.
“That would be because he is,” Justine replies. “All that and a bag of Skittles.”
I turn my back, not wanting to pay any attention to Jules and his feeder fish.
“He’s got to be a total jackass,” I say, biting into one of the many hors d’oeuvres I’ve collected on my small plate. I struggle to swallow when I watch Justine’s eyes look above my head, as if someone is by me.
Turning around, I see Jules standing right there.
“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” he says with a wicked smile.
“Excuse me?” I say, reaching for my drink to wash down the weird canapé I’ve just chowed down on.
“Please meet Justine Devereux,” I say, gesturing to my beautiful friend in an attempt to take the focus off of me. “Justine, this is Jules D’Aubigne.”
“Enchanté,” he says, kissing the back of her hand. “American, I presume?”
“Canadian,” Justine and I say in unison. We’ve worked hard on our back story and are anxious to use it.
“Oh, how charming,” he says. Just then a couple of anorexic girls with jewel-encrusted bangles come up on either side of Jules and slip their arms through his, clearly staking claim.
“Well, it was mon plaisir,” he says to both of us. Then he turns to me and says, “That dress is ravishing.”
The dark-haired girl on his left laughs and says in a snooty British accent, “It should be! It cost my mother a bloody fortune. She wore it to a soirée aboard the yacht of Princess Marie-Chantal of Greece.”
I turn so red it feels like my skin might burst open like a tomato in the hot sun.
“You know, before she donated it to the school archives,” the girl adds, just in case no one within fifty miles understood the point she was making.
Jules smiles and shrugs in that What can you do? Girls will be girls way.
Then the blonde girl scrunches up her nose at us and says, “Follow the spark, y’all!” in a pagenty southern drawl.
They steer Jules away, and his feeder fish follow.
I want to cry. If I weren’t so mad, I might. I had been prepared for danger, but not for humiliation.
Justine reaches over the table and puts her hand on mine. “Forget it. You know you look beautiful.”
“Who are these people?” I ask in a quivering voice. “Are they for real?”
“Sadly, they are. Miss Uncongeniality is Arabella Bascom. From Texas. Her dad is the largest military firearms supplier in the U.S.”
“Big surprise.”
“And Bitchy McBritish Accent is Victoria Ambrose. Her parents own the largest seed company in Europe.”
“Shocker,” I reply. “Excellent research, by the way. Does everyone’s bio come with the words, ‘World’s Largest’ somewhere in it?”
“Pretty much,” Justine says.
We try to stay so it doesn’t look like the mean girls are running us off, but I can only make it about ten minutes.
When it seems as if Jules and his arm candy are nowhere to be seen, we get up and pretend to be heading for the powder room. We figure there might be a way out down that way and sure enough, at the end of the hallway is a door. We quietly open it and are shocked to find Monsieur Didier and Jules D’Aubigne smoking cigars. We simply cannot win tonight.
“Mademoiselles Luxton and Devereux! You’re looking lovely tonight,” Didier says. “Please meet Julius D’Aubigne.”
“We’ve met,” Justine says. I say nothing.
“Ah, bon. You know, there have been D’Aubignes at this school since it began,” Didier says, slapping Jules on the back. “We might even have to rename the school after your father’s last gift,” he adds.
Jules waves of
f the notion.
I’m holding my strappy heels and my feet are getting cold on the stone path. “Well, nice to see you,” I say, turning to go.
“Oh, I’ve spoken to Dr. Clath,” Didier adds. “She’s quite excited about your itinerary. We’ve not studied at the Dunhuang Caves yet; it will be a La Escuela Bohemia first.”
Justine nods and smiles politely. I raise my fist and with mock enthusiasm say, “Follow the spark!”
Jules and Monsieur Didier raise their fists and both say, “Siga la Chispa,” in perfect Spanish.
As we walk away, I hear Jules say, “Vraiment? Les caverns de Dunhuang?”
Monsieur Didier laughs and says, “Oui! C’est très primitive, non?”
“That’s some jackassery of the highest order,” I say.
“Oui,” Justine replies, lifting up her dress so she can walk quickly. “Now let’s go give this stuff back.”
Vasquez is still at the reception desk in La Administración. We walk in and say hello, but then don’t speak at all again until we’re dressed in our own clothes and leaving the building. She is a woman of few words, and at this point so am I.
When we get back to our room, we find Mr. Papers again guarding a note that came under the door.
“Again? They don’t use email around here?”
I open the envelope and Justine reads over my shoulder.
Departing tomorrow morning. Ramón will come to collect you at 9:00 A.M. Pack lightly; this isn’t a fashion show.
Dr. Clath
I feel the skin on my forearms prickle.
It won’t be long until I have to face my longtime friend—now my betrayer—Uncle Li.
THIRTEEN
I just pack my laptop, a couple changes of clothes, and some dried fruit for Mr. Papers. Justine has a much harder time packing light, but since she’s not carrying a monkey in one of her two allowed bags, she has a bit more space.
We head downstairs at 8:55 and the dorm is silent, everyone sleeping in after the Spark Ball. We’re the only ones leaving this early, perhaps the only ones leaving at all today.
The Serpent's Coil Page 6