Jet Set (4 page)

“U
m, this seat is saved,” said Antigone, putting her hand out so that Sofia and I couldn't sit down at their table.

“Saved? All five seats are saved?” demanded Sofia.

“Yes, for
friends
,” said Antigone, who then turned back to Iman and Victoria and laughed. It was so childish, it was insane.

“Fine,” said Sofia, whisking up her tray and walking over to another table. I followed.

“I would never have even
tried
to sit there, Sofia,” I said, embarrassed.

“Why not? They don't own the lunchroom,” she said, slamming down her tray.

“But it's clear they are not interested in being friends with us,” I said.

“My relatives are just as royal as theirs,” she huffed. “I couldn't give a rat's arse about them, anyway.”

I watched Sofia as she took a sip of her steaming skim latte, perfectly frothed by the professional baristas who worked in the school cafeteria (“Cocoa or cinnamon on that?”). Clearly she had a thorn in her side about the Diamonds. I mean, I wasn't into them either, but she seemed more undone by their bitchiness.

It was my fifth day at school, and I felt like I was getting into some semblance of a groove. I finally knew where my classes were, I knew when to get to practice (I hadn't been wrong; Oliver told me that despite the schedule saying practice is at ten, we're supposed to get there at
nine
.) I knew the social ladder, and I clearly wasn't at the top. The Diamonds seemed to be the clique that everyone wanted to get into. They were the most confident, the most decked out, and in a way the prettiest. Not really individually, but as a collective. However, though they might rule the roost as a group, the person that everyone—including them—wanted to be friends with was definitely Angelina, the Queen Bee. She remained aloof. It was not that she was unfriendly; she just kind of kept her distance. She wouldn't have bothered me at all, except for the fact that it was clear Oliver was into her. He was really the only one she talked to, and I saw them now and then having deep
conversations. Not that I could ever get a guy like him, but it was a bummer to have him taken.

We settled into our table across the room and started to eat our pasta. I had only taken a bite of my macaroni and cheese with shaved white truffles when Sofia got to her favorite topic.

“So what did Angelina wear today?” she asked. She was as obsessed with Angelina as everyone else, and she made me give daily reports on her outfits at tennis.

“I don't know, white!”

“You're pathetic. Was it designer?”

“There was a little interlocking
C
and
D
on her warm-up jacket.”

“Hello? Christian. Dior. Nice. I didn't know they made tennis clothes, though they probably don't. Just for her. What about her jewelry?”

“We're not allowed to wear jewelry.”

“Not even earrings?”

“I don't know,” I admitted.

“You're so cute, Lucy. You'll learn!”

Just then Victoria and Iman walked past our table.

“Nice pants, Evert!” Victoria sneered, looking down at my plain black pants. They giggled conspiratorially and walked off. Pathetic. I wanted to not care, but why did they have to be mean?

“What's that about?” asked Sofia.

I filled her in on Coach Sachs's mockery of my racket, which seemed to have further fueled Victoria's juvenile teasing.

“He should be one to talk, since before he worked at Van Pelt he manned a second-rate gym in East Berlin,” said Sofia, again displaying her knowledge of everyone's backstory. “But those slags should really shut their mugs!” she said icily.

I sighed. “What can I say? I'm no fashion plate.”

“That's true, love,” she said, but then, seeing my look, quickly added, “but I can help you.”

“How? I can't revolutionize my wardrobe with my stipend.”

“Yes you can! I can give you some tips, like a fun makeover,” she said, leaning back and assessing me.

“I don't think so…,” I began, but my voice faltered.

“You're sooo pretty, dahling! Really, your face and bod, you could be a knockout. You just…don't have experience with this, is all. And some makeup could work wonders. And highlights!”

I found myself touching my light brown hair. “I was blond as a baby,” I said, trying to joke.

I had thought of myself as a somewhat together person who was smart enough and athletic enough to get into this school and go off, away from her parents and sister, and try to make life better. And now I felt like the Gap had thrown up on me while everyone else was in Milan's latest.

“Why do you think they hate me?”

“They don't hate you,” said Sofia. “Victoria's just threatened because she was always number one on the tennis team and word is that you might replace her.”

Really? She was? Still, that was no way to behave. “But why do
they all have to be nasty?”

“They stick together like glue. They know they have more power as a pack. Listen, they're going to make your life hell if they think you have something they want, which you do: your tennis skills. These girls are used to getting whatever they want. They're all like Veruca Salt from
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
. I just want you to be prepared.”

“Great, I feel so much better,” I said, a bite of macaroni stuck mid-esophagus.

“But don't worry about those hos,” Sofia comforted, with a hand on my arm. “One way to do it is to not give them any unnecessary ammunition. So if you ever want to raid my closet, you're more than welcome.” Somehow her English accent relaxed me à la Julie Andrews as Mary Poppins or Maria von Trapp. Thank goodness I had Sofia.

But despite Sofia's soothing words, when I got back to my room I collapsed on my bed and hot tears came rushing out in a bout of homesickness. All I wanted now were my family and to be home in my tiny house on the base. I grabbed the princess phone on the desk and dialed.

“Hello?” It was Amanda, my big sister! Finally someone to show me some love.

“Mandy! I'm so bummed,” I said, my voice choking.

“Hey, what's wrong?” she asked sympathetically.

When I had finally calmed down enough to fill her in on the details—the insensitive comments by Coach and the random
meanness of the Diamonds—there was silence on the other end of the phone.

“Macaroni and cheese with white truffles?” she asked. “Don't truffles cost like five hundred dollars?”

“I guess,” I said, wiping my nose with my shirt. “But that's not the point. I just miss you guys. It's very intense here.”

“Yes it is the point, Lucy. I mean, yeah, it sucks that the girls are bitches, but what did you expect?”

“Well…I…just thought they wouldn't be so harsh,” I sputtered in surprise.

“Well, life is harsh. And I'm sorry that those girls are snotty, but grow up. You've told me about your giant bedroom with the plasma TV and the amazing food and the cool classes you get to take, like International Waters Law and Dissection of Fairy Tales, and you're like, hobnobbing with royalty, and then you cry 'cause one girl tells you that you need to dress better? Give me a break.”

“You don't understand….”

“No I don't. And unfortunately I won't. Because you were the lucky one who got to go there. Me? I had to sign up for ROTC to pay for college, so one day I could be shipped out to God knows where while you'll get a tennis scholarship if you play your cards right. Suck it up, sis,” she said, slamming down the phone.

I sat there in shock, holding the silent phone. I couldn't believe Amanda had hung up on me! I wanted to cry, but I took deep breaths to calm myself down as I thought about what she had said. I
was
lucky. Sure, these girls were nasty and snobby, but
I was here for myself. I just needed to keep my head down, get a great education, go to a stellar college, and make something of myself. Stay the course, as my dad would say.

Taking another deep breath to pull myself together, I stared at myself from every angle of my giant three-way mirror and realized that maybe, just maybe, I
could
use a little touch-up. I could never wear short skirts or big jewelry, but maybe it could be fun to be a tad more girly.

I
walked down the hall toward Sofia's room and was about to knock when I heard something odd.

I couldn't quite believe my unpierced ears. My hand hovered by the gold knocker on Sofia's door as I held my breath. I knew the difference between the sound of a TV and a live speaking voice, and what I distinctly heard was Sofia's voice—the exact tone and cadence—but with an altogether different accent. Gone was the clipped, perfect, lilting chirp of the queen or her great-nephew Prince Oliver. In its place? Two words: Oliver Twist.

My lungs filled instantly with a rush of air at the realization: Sofia had been affecting an accent! She really spoke in thick street-urchin cockney. It couldn't be.

“Awl right, awl right!”
she snapped into the phone. Her words sounded completely different. “Oy am doeen me best!” I heard the phone slam down. I stepped away from the door, letting go of the knocker gently.

I heard Sofia clear her throat. Then, in a magic millisecond, she flicked her aristocratic aura back on and out came her
other
English. “Is someone there?” She said
there
in her singsongy, charming and precise British manner, a far cry from the “Bri-ish” pickpocket-ese I'd heard only a moment before.

I panicked. “Um…Sofia? Hi! I was…just walking by—” Stupid! Ugh. Okay, Lucy, play dumb.

The door whipped open. Sofia stared at me skeptically, eyelids at half-mast. “How long were you out there?” she said, studying me as she awaited my answer.

“No time at all!” I stammered. “Um, just was walking by and I heard the phone hang up. I was hoping you were free to get a snack…I'm starving.”

She leaned on her door frame, her tall, lithe body draped in a fancy lace-trimmed silk robe. She folded her arms and squinted her eyes. My body quietly shook as I felt like a defendant about to hear a jury's verdict.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “I'll come. I'm hungry as well.”
Phew.

We went to Caffè VP, one of the four on-campus restaurants
(with menus in seventeen different languages and currencies), and I practically deserved an Oscar for my performance. It was as if I still thought of her as my posh neighbor slash budding friend who I looked up to to show me the ropes. Only now I knew she was hiding something from me. I listened attentively as she identified the crowd of beautiful people, each bedecked with a different set of logos and bling.

“There goes Leigh Ofer. She is one of the coolest girls in school. Her boyfriend graduated last year, and he's one of the top polo players in Argentina. That's Fifi von Fabercastel from Germany—her uncle makes every eyeliner in the world. Oh, and there's Shyla LeCreuze. She's from Belgium, and her dad invented chocolate.”

“Um…I think the ancient Mayans invented chocolate as we know it—,” I carefully corrected.

“Whatever. He's major in the chocolate world. When you say ‘Belgian chocolates' you're talking about them.” As she studied everyone around us, I simply studied her. The way she said “Whatever” was more like “Wha-eva,” with tiny peeks of the Dickensian cockney shining through.
What was her deal?
Why the smoke and mirrors reflecting a moneyed and socially connected life when she was talking to someone as decidedly unglam as me? I was curious. I didn't quite know what to think let alone say, so I remained quasi-mute for the rest of lunch. I had to play it very safe here—she was my only friend so far, and I couldn't let on that I knew. I needed a sure-footed
strategy. She was the quick jackrabbit type who ran up to the net to swat volleys dramatically, and I would be the one slowly swinging at the baseline, soberly returning shot after shot after shot.

T
he next day, after lobbing steady shots at Sofia in the social game of tennis, I hit the actual courts for practice. Though I knew I was kicking arse in my game (Coach Sachs even thawed for a moment and yelled “Yessss!” after one of my aces, pumping his arm dorkily), I was weirdly self-conscious when Oliver was assigned to the court next to mine. Obviously all girls swooned in his royal presence, but what disarmed me so much was his casual smile and relaxed, athletic demeanor—especially compared to his pal Maxwell's cocky swagger.

“Hey, Venus!” Maxwell teased as I headed to the Evian cooler.

“Oh, hi,” I said, brushing my hair out of my face.

Oliver had already grabbed two Evians. Maxwell reached out his sweaty arm toward the H
₂
O, but Oliver dodged him as a huge grin flashed across his face. “Ladies first.”

To my shock, he handed me the bottle, customized with the VP crest. “Thanks,” I said, my blush mercifully disguised by my pink sweaty cheeks.

“See, we Euros know how to treat a lady,” Maxwell said at the same time he checked out my legs.

“Most of us,” Oliver corrected, giving me a look as if to say he got the fact that his friend was a semi–a-hole.

“Well I guess that's why they call it the Old World,” I said, feeling awkward. “But the charm is not lost on me. Thanks again.”

Then I saw Angelina watching from two courts down. Uh-oh. Sorry to crash the royal parade.

“Hi, boys,” Victoria chirped, strutting over to grab her water sans acknowledgment of my existence.

“Tor,” said Maxwell, looking her over. “How are we doing today?”

“Oh, you know, lovely. Tiggy and Iman and I are going to meet up later, you guys should come—”

Angelina approached the group as I zipped up my bag and gathered my stuff.

“Oh, Angelina, you must join us!” added Victoria.

My cheeks flushed as I was so clearly being excluded.

“Oh, perhaps I will, thanks,” said Angelina noncommittally. She was being her incredibly polished, polite self, but still reserved and aloof, making me think she wasn't planning on becoming the fourth Diamond.

 

Back in the dorm I was eager to tell Sofia of my interaction, because she was still my only (kind of) friend, even though I knew she was hiding who she was from me for whatever reason. Maybe because this school was such a pressure cooker of social hierarchies, she felt compelled to mask her “common” background. Luckily—hand to God—I didn't really give a damn enough to let it truly get to me, beyond the occasional sting. My tennis would keep me centered on my goal. And while a fun crush on Oliver put a spark in my step, it definitely didn't blur my focus. No matter who he was.

Sofia was nowhere to be found so I ordered room service and got in bed with my history of the Olympics textbook. While Van Pelt was purported to be the top academy in Europe, I must say, my workload was hardly the stress crunch I had experienced in Germany. Some of the classes were actually
easy.
I had assumed that the academics were rigorous, but when I mentioned this to Sofia she said that they had to have tons of “gut classes”—aka easy classes—so that all the royals could ace them and the parents would keep giving lots of dough to the school. Supposedly the parents only cared about excellence on the sports teams or about
marital matches—academics came in second. Sofia described it more as “a finishing school where none of the students finished anything.” However, in order to keep up their reputation, they recruited several students like me every year to balance out the GPAs and the college acceptances. Hey, if I could be pinned as a token brainiac, all the better. I was there to secure my future, and unlike my classmates, I had no connections to get me into a top college.

As I closed my book and started to close my eyes, I heard a knock on my door. It was Sofia.

“Hi, come in!” I said, genuinely happy to see her. “I was looking for you. Where have you been?”

“I have to talk to you,” she said, her normally smiley face dead serious. “Lucy, I have a weird feeling that you know my secret. I have to explain.”