Patch called Simone on her cell. Perhaps they had recently moved, and she had been preoccupied.
He felt the lightbulb on one of the office lamps. Confirming his suspicions, it was still warm.
Simone picked up after a few rings. “Patch,” she said. “You’re probably wondering what’s going on.”
“Um, yeah, that would be one of my questions.”
She sighed. “I had to move my editing suite uptown. I was given an opportunity-it was something I couldn’t turn down.”
“What kind of opportunity?”
“I’m not really supposed to talk about it. I guess it’s okay to mention it to you. I got a grant from this group that gives out awards to filmmakers, sort of like the Guggenheim or the MacArthur grants. The Bradford Trust Association?”
Patch groaned. Even though the Bradford Trust Association was the parent corporation for the Society, everyone thought it was a philanthropic group that was improving the world by writing checks.
“Anyway, they gave me a hundred thousand dollars to work on my documentary, a pet project I’ve been doing.”
“What are their terms?”
“I had to sign a confidentiality agreement about where I was getting the money. And, well…”
“And what?”
“I had to commit to working in film for the next two years. It’s really exciting-they think this new project of mine could make it to Sundance next year. They don’t want me distracted by my television projects.”
“Where does that leave us with Chadwick Prep?”
“I’m sorry, Patch. We’re going to have to drop the project. Our option runs out on it in June. After that, you’ll be free to pursue other venues. But to be honest, I just don’t know if I see it going anywhere. I mean, until you get some more footage of that secret group-”
“Simone! Don’t you see? That secret group is the Bradford Trust Association! They shut down the project by giving you that money.”
She laughed. “Um, right, Patch. And let me guess: they killed the Kennedys, too?”
“Simone, you’ve got to believe me. You really don’t want to get involved with these people. Is there any way you can get out of it?”
“The papers are already signed. I thought you would be happy for me. I’m sorry about your show, Patch. I really am. But it just wasn’t the right time for me. These things happen. It took me years before I got my first TV project on the air.”
“Simone, I have a limited amount of time in which I can do this! I’m graduating from high school next year. It’s not like I’m going to be able to go back to Chadwick and film stuff after I’m gone. If the option expires in six months, then I’ll have wasted my whole junior year.”
“I know, I’m sorry. Maybe we can work something out, let you out of your contract early. You might have to give back some of the option money.”
“How much of it?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to talk to my agents about it. Maybe half?”
Five thousand dollars. He had already spent most of the money on equipment and personal expenses. He had put twenty-five hundred into a CD at the bank, at Genie’s insistence, and he had about a thousand dollars left. The rest he had invested in a new AVID machine at home and a new computer monitor. And some new shoes and his new DJ equipment. Now he realized that it had been stupid of him to spend so freely. But he had thought Chadwick Prep was a done deal. He definitely didn’t have five grand to buy back the rights early. And he wasn’t about to ask Nick for the money. He was too proud for that.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, bluffing.
“So tell me one thing,” she said. “Whatever happened on that island? I’m dying to know.”
Patch paused. Should he tell her? What good would it do? She couldn’t produce his TV show. And he certainly didn’t want her knowing that now he was a member of the Society himself.
“Nothing,” he said. “The ferry schedule was off, and I never even made it.”
Chapter Nineteen
Lauren was encouraged that her friends had immediately decided to back down upon hearing that her sister had received the creepy text message. They didn’t have any proof that the Society was responsible, but the mere possibility that there could be more violence in the future was enough to keep them all in line.
Of course, this was exactly what the Society wanted them to think. But maybe it wasn’t a bad idea to work more covertly. Lauren trusted that Nick and the others would come up with some kind of plan. The best she could do was to play along once she found out what it was.
The next Society meeting was held on Friday night at a special location: the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The twenty-nine Conscripts-the older class of fourteen and the younger class of fifteen-were asked to meet in the lobby of the museum at seven P.M. Claire Chilton’s mother, Letty, appeared when the group had assembled and motioned for everyone to follow her into the Egyptian wing. Security guards stood by the cases of artifacts, just as they would during museum hours. When the group entered the main area, the Temple of Dendur was lit up beautifully in a wash of red and lavender, as if for a special event. Four rows of chairs sat facing the temple, and everyone took their seats.
Letty Chilton stood in front of the group and began speaking.
“You’re probably all wondering why you’re here,” Mrs. Chilton said. “We wanted to bring you here tonight so that you could all see the beauty of the temple up close. I know many of you have grown up with Dendur practically in your backyard, but you may not have had the chance really to look at it. We’ll have the opportunity to do that later. For now, we’re going to discuss a very important event that is coming up.”
Nick yawned, and Claire glared at him as her mother continued speaking.
“I have some exciting news that I think will send you all over the moon! On February 13, Valentine’s Day eve, the museum is throwing a benefit party, a revival of the Dendur Ball, an event that last occurred in the early 1990s. The Met will be celebrating the renovations on the new Egyptian wing-work that, as you know, was funded by the Bradford Trust Association. Anonymously, of course. The museum has asked us to take a leadership role in the planning of this event. And I know it will be a lot of fun!” Letty Chilton punched the air with her wrinkled fist as if at a pep rally, and a few members of the group twittered at the intense awkwardness of the presentation.
Lauren shifted in her seat. How could the Society be so cavalier about hosting another event after so much had gone awry? She focused on Phoebe, Nick, Patch, and Thad, which gave her the courage to stay.
Mrs. Chilton continued. “We’re excited to announce that all of you will be serving on the Junior Committee. My daughter, Claire, will be chairing the committee and handling its meetings. Your job will primarily be to get the younger generation involved in the museum. You can sell tickets to your classmates, to your friends. We have a special price for the under-twenty-ones. Remember, patronage of the arts starts at a young age. This is our cultural heritage, this museum and others in the city. It’s our job to make sure that it is preserved.”
Not another committee. It all seemed like a ruse to steer people’s attention away from the awful things that had happened in November and December. Lauren cast a sideways glance at Phoebe, Nick, Patch, and Thad. They all looked bored.
Later, over refreshments-sugary punch and stale butter cookies-she talked to Phoebe. “What do you think about all this?” she asked.
“I guess going along with this is part of our keeping in line?” Phoebe said.
“Something like that.”
Claire came up to Lauren. “How are you, Lauren? It’s nice to see you here.”