Diana Peterfreund - Under the Rose

Lydia and I were right in position to catch her.

“Excuse me, I’m so sorry,” the woman said quickly, straightening her body, her skirt, and her hair. I glanced at George, who was wearing an expression I’d never seen before. His jaw was all tight. It did wonderful things for his cheekbones, which already deserved kudos.

“Mom, these are some of my Prescott College friends. This is Lydia Travinecek and Amy Haskel. Ladies, this is my mother, Kate Anderson Prescott.”

The woman eyed us. “George Harrison doesn’t have girl friends,” she said coolly. “Like father, like son.” Then she turned and marched toward the drama couple—who had moved on to a discussion about whether or not Shakespeare was too obvious—to bum a cigarette.

I swallowed and looked at George, whose permasmile was back in place. “Long story,” he said with a shrug.

The door opened again, and out came a very distinguished-looking man in his mid-forties. He glanced quickly around the corridor before his gaze landed on our little group. When his eyes met mine, his eyebrows raised, and I got a good look at the copper-colored eyes George had inherited. “You!” the man said.

“You’re looking young, Mr. Prescott,” I replied. The last time I’d seen this man, he’d been wearing Academy Award—quality aging makeup, a gray wig, and a mask made of roses.

His eyes flashed toward Lydia, and a scowl turned down the corners of his mouth. Oops, right, Barbarian-in-Vicinity. Alert, alert.

“Where did she go?” Mr. Prescott asked George, who cocked his thumb at the stone nooks, then stuck his hands in his pockets as Mr. Prescott took off after his ex-wife, sometime lover, and decades-long sparring partner.

“It’s dead in there,” George said to us. “Now at least. Amy, are you going to Clarissa’s thing?”

“Um…” I hadn’t quite been able to explain to Lydia why my sworn enemy was now sending me party invites and showing up in our suite for impromptu chats. She probably suspected I’d gone shallow in my old age. Or maybe she figured it was one more Digger-inspired change that had come over me since being tapped. She’d adjusted splendidly to the sudden location switch of my summer internship from Manhattan to D.C. (mostly because it meant we could stay together over the summer). However, we’d enjoyed a strict moratorium on all secret society—related conversations since May, and activities skirting that topic—such as a party with a Digger friend—might be dangerous. Whenever I brought up anything that could be construed as heading in the direction of society talk, she clammed up faster than a biochem major after mid-terms. And I thought Rose & Grave valued secrecy! Evidently, we had nothing on Lydia’s brothers.

My roommate, however, was even now on her way into the Master’s house.

“They’re out of the cookies,” George warned, and Lydia slumped.

So, it was off to Clarissa’s shindig. Clarissa Cuthbert lives in a very swank penthouse on the top floor of one of the classier apartment buildings in town. Her dad is some sort of Wall Street bigwig who thinks nothing of throwing money at a problem. The Cuthberts had even donated a very valuable Monet to Eli upon their daughter’s admission to the university, though the ongoing campus debate about which came first, the admission or the donation, was not one I participated in anymore, for two reasons:

1) Clarissa is a fellow knight, and also a friend.

2) She told me the truth last year. (The donation, and it doesn’t bother her, either.)

Clarissa is also rather notorious for her champagne-tasting parties, to which I’d never before rated an invitation. Apparently, all it took to pass the bar around here was an initiation to an elite society, and of course, the subsequent bonding over a vast misogynistic conspiracy that almost ruined us both. Clarissa and I were pretty tight these days.

But try explaining that to your barbarian best friend.

“I don’t get it; why is it we like this bitch now?” Lydia asked, as we were ushered into an apartment scented with calla lilies and lit by hundreds of floating tea lights. A man in white tails offered us slender glasses of rosé champagne from a silver tray.

“What’s not to like?” George said, taking his. “Thank you, my good man.”

Clarissa Cuthbert, a vision in white silk and salon-sprayed tan, met us a moment later. “Darling!” she cried, air-kissing me on both cheeks as if we hadn’t spent the afternoon together in a darkened tomb. “George, sweetheart!” Same for him. She turned to my roommate. “Lydia, right? We met last spring.”

“Hi,” Lydia said. “Nice digs.”

“Thank you! Canapés are on the back sideboard.” She turned to point and her long, perfectly highlighted blond hair swung over her shoulder, revealing for a moment the edge of the Rose & Grave tattoo on her shoulder blade. George looked at me and raised his eyebrow. Lydia clamped down on my arm. Crap.

POSSIBLE RESPONSES

1)“What tattoo? I think there was something in her hair.”

2)“Roses. How cliché.”

3) Deny, deny, deny.

But, as it turns out, Lydia’s grip had not been inspired by the tat. “Oh, my God, Amy. Don’t. Look.”

Of course, I looked. Across the room, picking through a tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries, stood Brandon Weare. His hair was even longer this year, and streaked with golden highlights. His tan had deepened over the summer, like always. Brandon. From what I heard at the Lit Mag, he’d just gotten back to campus. He hadn’t been at school in time to help me on the frosh issue. Luckily, I’d had Arielle for backup. It was little more than a clips issue, so no biggie, but—

Lydia’s grip on my arm grew tighter. His plate loaded with fruit, Brandon crossed the room and joined a group of attendees. One turned and smiled at him. She had straight black hair. She had wide-set black eyes. She had an eensy waist. And as I watched, she snagged a strawberry and brought it to his lips.

I threw back the champagne.

“Maybe she’s helping him because his hands are full,” Lydia suggested.

The girl kissed a trace of chocolate from the corner of his mouth.

“Or not.”

The two of us shuffled behind a shoji screen. “Okay, game plan,” I said, steeling myself. “I’ve seen him, so the initial shock has passed.”

“Right. Step one achieved without public humiliation.”

“So the next question is: Approach him or wait for him to approach me?”

“Tough call. Approaching him puts the power in his hands,” Lydia said, “but in this crowd, he might not see you at all, and the resulting ego blow would be—”

“Crippling.” I nodded. “It’s a dilemma.”

The screen shook slightly. “Knock, knock,” George said. “Is this some kind of private summit usually reserved for group trips to the ladies’ room?”

“Ah, a wingman!” Lydia exclaimed.

“Negatory.” If I was going to appear on anyone’s arm, it wouldn’t be George Harrison Prescott’s. Brandon had broken up with me after discovering I’d hooked up with George mere minutes before I’d agreed to make our friends-with-benefits relationship official. I doubt such a display now would improve my rating on the slut-o-meter.

“What are you two plotting?”

“George,” I said, “be a darling and get us more champagne.”

As soon as he was gone, I slipped out from behind the screen and sashayed across the room, head held high. With my snazzy red highlights, I was hardly about to blend into Clarissa’s “Martha Stewart is my godmother” white décor. He’d see me, and he’d stop me to say hi.