I really do have a paranoid brain, don’t I? Maybe this is why I’ve only ever had one boyfriend and I never have more than a few girlfriends at once. Maybe I just assume the worst of people and I’ve never noticed it before.
Eeeeegggghhhhh, I internally moan. Definitely time for me to go home. If I’m going to start down a winding trail of drunk self-analysis, I would rather do it in the shower. Besides, it’s very possible that last drink actually was one too many and there is vomit in my near future.
“Bathroom,” I announce. Leanne scoots out of the booth to set me free.
I stumble to the women’s restroom, land on the only empty toilet, and pull my phone out. For a second I can’t remember if I’m going to call Azzi, Uber, or look Julian up in the student directory. Luckily, I’ve never looked anyone up in the student directory before so I quickly forsake that option. Somehow I combine the other two thoughts and end up calling Azzi and asking her to call Uber. After giving me a hard time for forgetting to invite her, she offers to just come and pick us up instead. This is probably for the best. It will be much harder for me to go knock on Tristan’s door if we’re hanging out in Pierson with Azzi until we sober up.
I flounce, wind, and twirl my way around people, somehow arriving back at Leanne, Theo, and Chase. They’re all standing, so obviously the check has been paid and they were just waiting for me. I lace my arm through Leanne’s and rest my chin on her shoulder.
“Azzi is going to pick us up,” I say. I’m not sure if I’m whispering or shouting, but I know she hears me.
“Campus isn’t that far,” she laughs in response. “Let’s just walk!” Her eyes flick to the boys as she says it. I know she just wants to walk with them, but I really, really don’t want to walk with them. Considering I didn’t even want to come tonight, I think having my way on this is not that much to ask for.
“I don’t think I can,” I say, stretching the truth just a tad. I know Leanne would rather us not walk home with them than me puke halfway through us walking home with them. Again, I mentally thank the waitress—and Theo, I suppose, since he paid for it—for the constant stream of cocktails. For once, alcohol is getting me out of a situation I don’t want to be in rather than getting me into one.
“Okay fine. Do you guys want a ride too?” Leanne immediately offers. Eck. Maybe she’s too drunk to realize that I can puke in a car too.
“Thanks for the offer, but I think I could use the walk,” Theo replies.
Yay, Theo!
After a few generic parting statements—“Thanks for the drinks, next time it’s on me!” and “Great conversation, loved your point about Primordial Unity!” and “See you in Higgens—hope he’ll finally stop talking about Spinoza!”—the boys make their way down the street, while Leanne and I wait for Azzi.
When she arrives in her sleek red Audi, I take the backseat so Leanne will take the front. As soon as the doors are closed Leanne says, “So, party on Friday?”
“Who and where?” Azzi asks, somehow navigating the busy narrow streets of New Haven while texting with one hand and looking more often at Leanne than the road. Azzi must have a team of guardian angels constantly on call; I don’t know how else to explain the dozens of car accidents that she isn’t even aware almost happen.
“Roger Davenport’s. He graduated last year. Theo invited us,” Leanne says, sounding far too casual. But Azzi doesn’t notice and soon they are talking who is wearing what shoes, which I know from experience can go on for hours.
Grateful that I don’t have to take part in this conversation, as my feet are two sizes bigger than theirs, I stretch out as much as possible in the backseat. My mind plays back images of Tristan’s hand on my notebook and Julian’s gaze holding mine just a second too long in lecture. Part of me wishes I could tell Azzi and Leanne…part of me is really glad I have Tristan’s stupid blackmail as reason not to.
I guess I’ve accepted that it’s happened and it might happen again but I’m definitely not ready to think about it beyond that. Telling Azzi and Leanne would force me to. They’d ask questions and then I’d have to give answers, which means I’d have to think about answers.
I’m not ready for questions and answers. I’m not ready for anything. I don’t know why I’ve gone along with this not once but twice, or why I wrote I’ll think about it to Tristan. I don’t know anything except that I really want to be in a shower with endless hot water. And, maybe, to puke.
Part Three
— Mia —
There’s no way for me to not go to Roger’s party. It’s all Leanne has talked about for the last forty-eight hours.
She’s spent all year acting like she’s too busy to care about being tapped, but now that Theo Redwood has invited us to this party, I can hear her thinking about it. Because Roger graduated last year, it’s public knowledge that he was a member of Skeleton Key, so naturally, being invited to a party at his apartment by Theo, who is a rumored member, is a pretty clear sign that she is a prospective.
I do not expect to be tapped—nor do I care. From what I hear, I don’t really fit what Yale’s senior societies are looking for. I’m pretty smart and I want to do well in life, but I’m no record-breaking genius, and I’m at Yale thanks to financial aid and a scholarship—I don’t have a bunch of family connections or wealth. Plus I seem to give off the scent of “Not a Joiner” with the pungency of a frightened skunk. Leanne has wanted to be invited since freshman year—being invited means you’re seen as a winner, showing you want to be invited means you’re afraid you aren’t.
I suppose, now that I’m thinking about it, it really is pretty ridiculous that I assumed Theo’s invitation to the Box was because of me, Tristan, and Julian. It is perfectly possible that Leanne really is on their Tap List. Why shouldn’t she be? She’s smart and capable, bound for law school, interested in pursuing a career in politics, willing to be a team player, all qualities that seem to fall in line with what most of the societies want. I’m such a shitty friend for assuming the reason Theo and Chase were showing interest was because of my accidental clandestine sex life, rather than her merit.
Even though the requirements that come with society membership—meeting two evenings a week, among whatever other odd rules they may have—have always seemed like a time and energy drain I wouldn’t want, I can see why Leanne would. The kind of connections that come with belonging to a society are useful. Plus, I hear they put on some really good dinners.
Still while Leanne is getting ready for the party and thinking about future career benefits, I am considering faking the stomach flu because Tristan and Julian might be there, and I don’t know what will happen if they are.
Despite my best attempts to not think about them, the second my conscious mind loses grip of its train of thought, I derail into an odd assortment of memory and fantasy, all centered around them. The other day, I petted a stray cat that hangs out near Sterling Library and the moment my fingers touched his fur, I could feel the imprint of Julian’s curls. In lecture yesterday, Tristan walked by me without saying anything—so of course I didn’t either—but his shoulder ever so slightly brushed mine and I nearly leaned in, as if he’d instinctually know to catch me and—and what? We’d all three boink like bunnies while Dr. Bogner continued his diatribe on Friedrich von Schiller and the alienation of modern man?
I really haven’t forgotten that Tristan is despicable or that Julian is my TA, who I know practically nothing about outside of academia, except that he has lower-back dimples…But over the last few days, those details have somehow become less important and now I’m standing in my closet, thinking about whether or not I own any article of clothing that could be considered attractive. After fifteen minutes of careful study, I think I can safely conclude that I do not.
Azzi would let me borrow just about anything I want out of her extensive clothing collection, but she’s half a foot shorter than me and doesn’t own a single dress that doesn’t feature either sequins or rhinestones as the main attraction.
Yale parties tend to be on the stuffier side, and I lack Azzi’s magical mojo that allows her to get away with going completely left-field of social convention. So I leave my closet and decide I’ll let Leanne dress me when she gets out of the shower. In the meantime, I’ll do something sensible, like pretend to read a book.
—
After three shots of vodka each, Azzi, Leanne, and I get into an Uber and are dropped off in front of a perfectly nice apartment building. Its architecture is gothic like most buildings in New Haven; it has an elevator that runs like it hasn’t been updated in a century and is oddly quiet for a Saturday night. When we arrive in front of door 322, the only music that can be heard coming from inside is slow jazz.
Leanne knocks on the door and smooths her classy black dress down as she grins anxiously. Azzi’s eyes catch mine, and I know that she’s already decided this isn’t her kind of party. I silently plead back that she not abandon me too quickly. The vodka took the edge off my nerves but I’m still feeling unsettled about this little shindig. I don’t know what would be worse—if Tristan and Julian are there, or if they aren’t. I do know that, regardless, Leanne is going to get swept up and want to stay for a long time.
Roger, who I do remember now that I’m seeing his face, opens the door and graciously invites us in. He is holding a martini glass. We slip out of our coats and leave them on the stair banister with everyone else’s. He immediately directs us to the bar—yes, an actual bar, in his apartment—where there are more types of stemware than I knew existed and a uniformed man wearing a badge that says “Mixologist.” Wow. These guys party real fancy-like, observes my inner hick.
Once there is a glass of red wine in my hands, tequila in Azzi’s, and scotch in Leanne’s, the slow circling of the room starts. There are at least twenty other people already bunched up into small groups. None of them are Tristan or Julian. But there are a few figures out on the balcony whose faces I can’t see, a man and woman.
I suppose that the man could be one of them, but I’m not going to go out there and check. The notion that either of them might be out on that balcony chatting up a woman whose silhouette suggests that she’s tall, slim, and unnecessarily gorgeous makes my stomach feel sour. Consciously realizing this makes everything else in me feel sour.
I follow Azzi. It doesn’t take her long to pick out the person most likely to have a joint. He’s a freckle-faced, red-headed boy with a five o’clock shadow and eyes that are just a touch glazed over.
“Hi,” Azzi says, shamelessly cutting into the conversation he was having with a guy I don’t recognize and a girl I do—a senior English major, I think. “I didn’t know you guys were going to be here,” she says to the English major, who looks confused by her interruption. “So…” She turns to the red-haired boy. “Anyone had a reason to check out the balcony yet? Bet the stars are amazing.”
The boy’s eyes land on Azzi’s abundant cleavage and remain there long enough to let me know that her stoner radar is, as always, accurate. “Yeah, I have,” he answers in a dopy, friendly sort of way. “I’ll do some star blazing with you.”
The English major and the other unknown guy exchange a glance, and I accidentally catch the back end of it. I wait for any sign that the redhead realizes he’s said “blazing” instead of “gazing.” None comes, at least not before Azzi’s got her arm through his and is flirtatiously dragging him to the glass doors.
Although I have no interest in smoking anything—tried it once, it hurt like hell and my lungs were in pain for hours—I also have no interest in trying to make awkward conversation with two people I don’t know. So, I flash them a smile that I hope says Sorry my friend stole your friend! and quickly follow after Azzi.
I push past the curtains on the balcony and step out. Now that the man is fully in my view, I can see that it is indeed Tristan talking to the woman. His platinum hair is draped over her shoulder, obscuring both of their faces as he whispers in her ear, but I know that it’s him. No one else on the entire campus, probably the entire world, has that hair.
I turn my back to them and pretend to be engaged in whatever conversation Azzi and the guy are having. It doesn’t take the redhead long to pull out a joint and light it, nor does it take her long to take it from him. I hear the girl Tristan is with laugh coquettishly.
He’s not that charming, I think with unreasonable disgust.
This continues for several minutes—bouts of giggles following whispers that are just quiet enough I can’t make them out. During this time, I drink my entire glass of wine, Azzi’s eyes grow bloodshot, I find out the guy she is talking to is named Doug, and their conversation about modern ethics quickly turns to how the Philosophy Department should teach classes utilizing South Park episodes.
Azzi sucks the joint out and then shivers. She grabs both my and Doug’s hands and says, “Let’s go back inside,” at the exact same moment that Tristan and his conversation partner decide to do the same thing.
My eyes meet Tristan’s as we all collide in front of the door. While I’m pretty sure my face is revealing a million things I didn’t even know it had to reveal, his remains utterly calm.
“Oh hey, Tristan,” Azzi says, but doesn’t cease pulling us back inside. Azzi and Tristan have known each other since childhood because their families move in the same rarified East Coast circles. They aren’t exactly friends, but they don’t have a problem with each other either.
“Lady Azar,” he replies with a little smirk, his eyes still on mine. Once we’re on the other side of the sliding glass door, Tristan’s girl tries to step away, pulling him with her, but he holds back, and we all fall into a conversation circle. My insides are having mixed reactions to this development.
“Hi.” Azzi holds out her hand to the girl on Tristan’s arm. “I’m Azzi, and this is Mia and that’s Doug. So who are you?”
“Roxanne,” the girl replies, tentatively taking Azzi’s hand. Judging by her accent she is Chinese, and Roxanne is not her real name. Around her wrist is a bracelet made out of a lot of diamonds that I’m pretty sure are not fake. Her features are striking; her hair is long, shiny, and thick; her eyes bright and intelligent.
“Roxanne was just telling me about her first year at Harvard Law,” Tristan says. “Roxanne, Azar is a fellow junior. She’s majoring in economics. Her father is Mohammad Ab’shadu Jengali.”
“From Tehran?” Roxanne politely inquires, although I get the feeling she already knows the answer.
“Yeah,” Azzi says, “Tristan and I have been friends since, like, diapers. Mia is a philosophy major like Tristan and Doug…?”
“Graduated. I’m at Morgan Stanley,” Doug replies.
“Are you planning to attend law school as well then?” Roxanne asks me. I can tell she just wants to go back to talking to Tristan alone, but she’s got too many social graces to show it.
I barely stop myself before saying, “No, I’d like to actually make the world a better place.” However, my time at Yale has taught me that any negativity toward lawyering as a profession is strongly frowned upon. Instead I simply say, “Journalism.”
“Oh yes,” Tristan drawls, “Mia won a Pulitzer Prize for an editorial she wrote in high school and she’s been sharing her opinions with us all through the Yale Daily ever since she arrived.”
I’m about to say something very witty back—I swear I am—but in the fraction of a second it takes me to think of that very witty thing, I hear the room go silent. So I give up my witty comeback in favor of discovering what has happened.
Everyone is looking at the doorway, where Theo stands, holding the door ajar. His back is to me, but even from here, his shoulders look tense. In front of him stands Julian with the same easy smile he always has. Azzi instantly lets go of Doug’s arm and breaks the frozen silence.
“Julian!” she shouts enthusiastically, as she weaves through the room. “You made it!” She shimmies right past Theo and wraps her arms around Julian’s neck—a feat which, even with her five-inch stilettos,
she is nearly too short to accomplish. Julian bends down to meet her.
Azzi seems to have released whatever momentarily held the room captivated, and while a few eyes still linger on her, Julian, and Theo, most people go back to their conversations and their drinks and the party continues. I cross the room to join them, having decided that I’d rather find out how Julian and Azzi know each other than spend another fraction of a second with Doug, the stoned guy I don’t know; Tristan, who I mostly wish I didn’t know; and Roxanne, his gorgeous law-student date.
“Seems I’m quite the party crasher.” Julian chuckles lightly. However, there is a glint in his eye directed at Theo that lets me know there is a reason beyond simply being unexpected that his appearance interrupted an entire party.
“Hi,” I say, “umm, that’s funny you guys know each other. I mean, I just, because Azzi isn’t in the department, I just assumed you wouldn’t have met. I—”
“We’re in the same yoga class,” Azzi explains. “I figured, hey, if I’m going to a party with a bunch of philosophy dorks I might as well invite one I know I like.”
“That makes sense,” I think out loud. Azzi, Theo, and Julian all look at me in question, although judging by the little quirk at the edge of Julian’s lips, I’m pretty sure he knows exactly what I was thinking about. My whole face heats up with embarrassment. All right, clearly I’ve had enough to drink.
Luckily, the attention is quickly drawn away from me by Theo, who says, “Yes, it does,” with a smile that would be warm if only his eyes weren’t so icy. “Eastern philosophy is your intended PhD topic, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Julian answers, holding Theo’s gaze.
Leanne comes up, weaves one arm through mine and holds out her empty wineglass with the other. “Hi, Julian,” she gushes. An awkward half-second of silence hangs in the air. It feels like she’s going to say something else, but then she turns to Theo.
“So, Theo,” she says, “now that I’ve finished it, what is this mystery wine you gave me? It’s delightful. I’ve got to get a bottle.”
Blackmail (Skeleton Key Book 1) Page 9