"I guess we didn't get the memo," Schuyler quipped.
They headed upstairs, trying to blend in. Several girls whispered when they saw Schuyler in her dress. "It's got to be from Marc Jacobs," someone whispered. "More like a costume shop," her friend sniffed. Schuyler turned crimson from embarrassment.
They found Dylan on the second landing by the cornucopia display. He was wearing a camel-hair sportscoat over a sharp black dress shirt and well-cut wool trousers. Bliss Llewellyn, the pretty redhead from Texas, was sitting on his lap. She was wearing a slim Costume National black sheath dress, Prada slingbacks, and the ubiquitous string of pearls around her swanlike neck.
"Hey guys," Dylan said, when he saw his friends. He shook hands with Oliver and pecked Schuyler on the cheek. "Y'all know Bliss, right?"
They nodded. Since when did Dylan say "Y'all"? He must really be into this girl.
"You clean up nice," Schuyler teased, brushing a piece of lint off Dylan's jacket.
"Is that Hugo Boss?" Oliver mocked, pretending to inspect the material.
"Yes, and don't get it dirty," Dylan shot back, chagrined but grinning nonetheless.
Bliss smiled happily at them. She winked at Schuyler. "Cool dress," she said, and it sounded like she actually meant it.
"Thanks."
"So—have you checked out the place? Some good eats upstairs," Dylan said.
"No—but we will," Oliver promised. They left the couple and wormed their way through the crowd upstairs to the buffet.
The rooms had been decorated with white Christmas lights, and in the back, there was an elegant display of hot and cold roast meats, silver plates laden with exquisite hors d'oeuvres and French pastries. In the middle room, a sweaty mix of patrician girls and rich boys were gyrating to the beat of a hard rap song. The lights were off, and Schuyler could only make out the shadows of their faces. She could see that all the boys from Duchesne were carrying little silver Tiffany hip flasks that stuck out of their side pants pockets. Occasionally, they would surreptitiously take a swig or pour a bit of alcohol in their date's cups. Even Oliver had brought his monogrammed one. There were several teachers milling about, but no one seemed to notice, or care about the covert tippling.
"Want a sip?"
"Sure," Schuyler said, taking the flask from his hand. The liquor was warm and hit the back of her throat. Her head buzzed for a minute, and she took a couple more gulps.
"Easy there! That's 181 proof," Oliver warned. "You're going to get wasted," he said gleefully.
But Schuyler felt just as sober as before, although she smiled and pretended to feel its effects.
They stood tentatively at the edge of the party, nursing their silver cups of organic fruit punch, trying to pretend that it didn't bother either of them that no one had called them over or waved hello or made any indication at all that they were welcome at the event. Schuyler looked around at the cozy groups forming around cocktail tables, smoking on the balcony, or posing for pictures in front of the piano, and realized that, even though she'd known most of these people for almost all of her life, she didn't belong anywhere. It was amazing how even Dylan had managed to find a place for himself, with a popular girlfriend no less, while she and Oliver were just left with each other once again.
"Wanna dance?" Oliver asked, cocking a thumb to the dark room.
She shook her head. "Nah."
"Wanna go instead?" Oliver asked, having come to the same conclusion. "We could go back to The Bank—I bet they're playing better music."
Schuyler was torn. On the one hand, she and Oliver had every right to be there—they were Duchesne students, too— but on the other hand, maybe it was best if they just crept away silently; and maybe with luck no one would even notice they had been there at all.
Oliver's mouth twisted in a strained smile. "This is my fault."
"No—not at all. I wanted to be here," Schuyler protested. "But you're right, we should probably go."
They walked down the grand red-carpeted staircase, where Jack Force was standing on the last step, talking to Kitty Muffins. Schuyler held her breath and walked toward the front door without looking at him. She clutched Oliver's arm tightly.
"Leaving so soon?" Jack called.
She turned around. Kitty Mullins was gone, and Jack was leaning against the banister all by himself. He was wearing a custom French cuffed white shirt, with the front tucked in but the shirttails characteristically hanging out, with crisp khaki pants and a carelessly unbuttoned navy blazer. His tie was askew and he looked nothing less than drop-dead gorgeous. He fiddled with the cuff link on his right wrist.
"We were just about to." She shrugged, smiling in spite of herself.
"Why don't you stay?" Jack asked, smiling back and looking straight into her eyes. "You might have fun."
For a moment, Schuyler forgot Oliver was standing next to her, so when he spoke, she was startled. Oliver looked down at her, his face deliberately blank. "I think I'm going to get another drink. Want to join me?"
Schuyler didn't answer, and for an interminable moment, the three of them stood in an awkward triangle. "I, ah, I'm not thirsty, so I'll catch you later, Ollie. All right?" she pleaded.
Oliver frowned, but he didn't protest, and walked quickly back up the stairs.
Schuyler crossed her arms. What was it about Jack Force? All week after they'd spoken at the funeral, he'd hardly said a word to her, but now he was seeking her out again? Why did she even bother giving him the time of day?
Jack walked up and put an arm around her. "C'mon, let's dance. I think I hear my song."
She allowed herself to be led up the stairs, and this time, heads turned when the crowd spotted the two of them enter the room. Schuyler noted the jealous admiration from the girls, and several guys gave her a respectful glance. She had been invisible just a minute ago, but being in Jack's presence changed all that. He drew her closer, and she swayed to the music. The room was thrumming to the sexy, hypnotic beat of Muse's "Time Is Running Out." I think I'm drowning, asphyxiated… She slithered her body next to his, feeling beads of sweat and perspiration on his shirt that the heat between the two of them was generating.
CHAPTER 16
Her parents were on their way out. Mimi stood in her bedroom and listened to the sound of her mother's heels on the marble floor, followed by her father's heavier footsteps. "Hi, baby," Trinity called, knocking on her daughter's door. "Daddy and I are leaving."
"Come in," Mimi said. She put her chandelier earrings on and scrutinized her image in the mirror.
Trinity opened the door and stepped inside the room. She was wearing a floor-length gown—Valentino, Mimi thought—and carrying a lush sable wrap around her shoulders. She cut an elegant, glamorous figure, her long blond hair curling around her collarbone. Her mother was often photographed for society columns and fashion magazines.
Her parents were going to some charity ball. They were always out. Mimi couldn't remember the last time either of her parents were home for dinner. Sometimes whole weeks would go by before she would see them. Her mother spent her days in the hair salon, the gym, her therapist's office, or Madison Avenue boutiques; and her father was always at the office, working.
"Don't stay out too late," Trinity admonished, kissing her daughter on the cheek. "You look lovely, by the way. Is that the dress I bought you?"
Mimi nodded.
"A little much with the earrings, though, don't you think?" her mother suggested.
Mimi felt stung. She hated being criticized. "I think they look fine, Mother."
Trinity shrugged.
Mimi noticed her father standing by the doorway, looking impatient. He was talking heatedly on his cell phone. Lately, her father seemed more distracted than usual. Something was bothering him, he was preoccupied and forgetful. The other day she'd arrived home hours after curfew, but her father, who had caught her sneaking in through the kitchen as he was refilling his brandy snifter, didn't say a word.