Getting In (Amanda's Trilogy) (4 page)

“For your ride home, miss,” she says with a slight bow. Then the buzzer rings, and I hear Naoko greet the driver as I pull the eye mask over my head.

“Ready?” the slightly familiar male voice asks me.

“Ready,” I respond, and I’m surprised when tears squeeze out of the corners of my eyes as he leads me up the stairs, my arm in his, to the waiting Town Car. I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy and relieved to hear someone’s voice in my life.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Mom, do you know a Jennifer Angstrom?” I ask as I walk into the kitchen the morning after my previous night’s I-show-you-mine-now-you-show-me-yours. “She may have been at Lexington when you were there.”

My mother is fussing over the eggs she’s trying to make for my father, since our housekeeper is off for the day visiting a new grandson. On her good days, my mother is a helpless cook. On her bad ones, it’s all firemen and insurance claims.

I notice my mother’s eyes widen a bit as she attempts to crack an egg against the edge of the gray granite countertop. “Jennifer Angstrom? The name isn’t familiar. Why? Does she say she knows me?” The egg cracks and the insides slide down the front of the cupboard below. “Oh, fudge!” she exclaims, looking around for something to wipe the mess up. “How come there are no towels around here?”

“Because you told Clara not to leave them out because they ruin your aesthetic,” my sixteen-year-old sister Anne intones from the breakfast nook. Anne’s got what looks like a mountain of homework piled up on the table. The kid is always chasing a goal: straight As at Nightingale-Bamford, competing in the ITF junior circuit, a career as a neuroscientist as soon as she gets her Ph.D. She’s my father’s pride and joy. If she weren’t my little sister, I’d hate her on principle. Her saving grace is a mile-wide sarcastic streak.

I open a cabinet under the sink and pull out a roll of paper towels. I may not have Anne’s brainpower, but I’m not an unobservant member of the household. My mom gives me an embarrassed smile as I hand them to her.

“I just wondered if you might know her since she could be about your age. She’s married to a Stefan Angstrom.”

I had spent a few minutes before coming into the kitchen, poking around the Web. There really wasn’t much about Jennifer; I only figured out she was married to this Stefan because there was a picture posted of them at a Nobel Awards ceremony a few years ago. Stefan Angstrom is reportedly a billionaire, the CEO of a family-owned company headquartered in Stockholm. He was dark-haired, like Jennifer. Tall and thin with wire-framed glasses. Unsmiling. Severe. The quintessential cold Scandinavian. Jennifer, in the picture, was smiling broadly, her arm wrapped possessively around his waist.

My mother shrugs. “Honey, half the girls in my class were named Jennifer. It was Generation Jennifer when I was growing up, you know.”

As my mom’s about to wipe up the egg, my father strolls into the kitchen. When he sees my mother’s ass wiggling in the air, I can see his eyes widen. He drops the newspaper in his hand onto the counter, grabs her around the hips, and pulls her torso up and toward him, twisting her around for a kiss that’s not appropriate for kids to see. For any human being, really.

“Aw, geez,” I groan, mock covering my eyes as they go at each other like a couple of monkeys. “Gross.”

“Go back to your bedroom!” Anne barks. “That kind of behavior isn’t sanitary in a kitchen.”

My mom pulls away from my father’s passionate kiss, looking even more flustered than when she dropped the egg.

“What are you making me, love?” He peers at the mess on the counter.

“Well … I was trying to make you egg white omelet.” She runs her hand over the slight paunch over his belt. “I’ve got to keep you slim and trim for the next fifty years.”

He braces himself against the counter and runs his own hand over his abs, or what’s left of them.

“I know how you can keep me slim and trim, but it’ll take you a hundred years …”

My mother giggles. I roll my eyes and grab the towels from my mom, who’s all googly-eyed over the impromptu make-out session. “Christ, you guys, really. Have you no decency?” I begin wiping up the mess my mother’s made with the egg. Inside, I think it’s kind of cool my parents are still crazy about each other after twenty-something years. Most of my friends have parents who hate each other, and if they don’t hate, they ignore.

“Mark, do you know someone named Jennifer Angstrom? Or a Stefan Angstrom?”

He’s pouring himself a coffee. “Don’t know them, but I’ve heard the guy’s name before. Natural resources in Sweden. I wouldn’t have any contact with that sort of business, though.” He takes a sip from his mug, looks at my mother, then at me. “Why? Am I supposed to?”

“Amanda here …”

“A name that came up during my admissions interview,” I interrupt. “I was simply curious.”

My father puts his mug down and crosses his arms across his chest. “So you’re still on for Lexington,” he says in a mock-menacing tone. “Your mother and I are not going to be disappointed, are we?”

My mother slaps his arm playfully. “Oh, Mark, of course she’s still ‘on’ for Lexington. The interview went swimmingly. She loves the place. They can’t wait to have her. Right, honey?”

They both look at me with such hopeful, expectant looks, I muster up a big smile and say, “I’m counting the days.”

CHAPTER SIX

After thinking about it, I’m a little freaked out by what happened in Jennifer Angstrom’s French whorehouse drawing room and kicking myself for agreeing to do things like trust and obey, two concepts that are totally alien to me. On the other hand, there’s something so freaky and weird about this
Getting In
place that I want to know more. So for the first time in my life, I do as I’m told and keep my mouth shut. Hey, Jennifer even said it was good to go against your true nature to develop soul. This may be a soul-building experience for me. Then later I can tell all my friends about it.

The instructions for my second visit with Jennifer Angstrom arrive the following Tuesday afternoon, delivered by hand on the same ecru stationery as her business card. George the doorman hands me the small envelope with his usual joviality, and I eagerly tear it open once I’m on the street. The note is concise: the car will pick me up at seven-thirty p.m. this Friday. Please give twenty-four hours notice if the appointment is inconvenient.

My friends are peeved when I bag out of our Friday clubbing plans. One of them has even flown in from Palm Springs for some NYC-style R&R. I blame the schedule change on my parents (“They’re riding me about this college shit like you wouldn’t believe!”), for which I receive sincere sympathy and promises to neck vodka together another night.
 

On Friday night, it’s the same routine with the car and driver and the silly mask I have to wear in the backseat. Only this time, the experience is completely different once the driver passes me off to Naoko.

The blindfolded girl in the white satin robe trembles before me. Standing in the harsh light of the Spartan room, her every shiver, every twitch is revealed without mercy. She is so close, and while I can’t quite reach her from where I’m sitting, I can almost smell her apprehension.

Jennifer Angstrom stands behind the trembling girl, her expression serious, much like the one I’d seen on her face when we last parted. Gone is the schoolmarm skirt, the slinky blouse, the Grandpa sweater of last weekend. While she wears a blouse, another silky one, I can discern a flesh-toned demi-cup bra holding her tits in place. And her skirt this week is a huge improvement: black gabardine that ends above her knees, proving that Jennifer Angstrom has one sweet set of pins. The expensive-looking leather stilettos accentuate them nicely. Thumbs up.

This room is on the right side of the entryway, through another camouflaged door directly across from the room I’ve begun thinking of as “The Liberace Salon.” The voluptuous excess of the Liberace Salon contrasts sharply with the Zen simplicity of the room we’re in now, with its white walls, recessed lighting, and minimal decor. The only furnishings are two red lacquered chairs, one of which I’m sitting in, some lacquered cabinets of indeterminate Asian influence, and an industrial-looking contraption of bars, ropes, pulleys, and handcuffs anchored into the ceiling and positioned over a sheepskin rug. Definitely
not
Outward Bound.

I’m not stupid. I’ve been around enough crazy shit to know what’s about to go down. I hate to say it, but I’m kind of wondering if this scared-looking girl has any idea of what’s going to happen to her. Somehow I don’t think she has a clue. I’m also wondering if this is a test for me. I remember reading about this experiment where researchers made subjects give electric shocks to people who were really actors, but the subjects didn’t know it. The experiment proved that even normal people can be turned into sadists. This girl has probably been hired to freak me out. I’ve got to hand it to
Getting In
: this is certainly a creative way to get through to slackers like myself.

“Lisette, do you know what’s expected of you tonight?” Jennifer asks.

The girl, Lisette, trembles afresh. “I’m not sure, ma’am. I think so.” Damn, I think. Her confusion is a bit of a turn-on, even if she’s faking it.

“It’s a yes or no question.” Jennifer’s voice is sharp. Annoyed.

“Yes.” Another shake.

“Are you prepared for this?”

Pause. “Yes.”

“Do you want to do this?”

“Yes.” It comes out as a whisper.

“Louder, Lisette. Do you want to
do
this?”

“Yes!”

Jennifer is quiet for a minute, and she walks back and forth behind the girl, studying her thoughtfully. Then she glances over at me in the chair.

“Lisette, we have a new student with us tonight. She’s sitting in front of you. Her name is Amanda. Say hello.”

“Hi, Amanda.” It strikes me as funny to have a blindfolded girl my age standing in front of me, chirping out a greeting like we’ve bumped into each other at H&M.

Jennifer lashes out and slaps Lisette’s bottom through the silky robe. Lisette flinches.

“Hi, Amanda!” Jennifer mimics her high-pitched greeting. “Is that what I asked of you? Can you get anything right? Should we stop right now and call it a night?”

“No, please no,” Lisette says. “Let’s do this. I’m ready. I’ve been thinking about it all week.”

Jennifer laughs. It’s not a nice one. “I don’t really care what you think about all week. All I care about is that you start obeying. And listening. Your listening skills aren’t improving that much.”

Lisette’s shoulders droop. I recognize the reaction as one of defeat, discouragement. This girl is
very
good. Jennifer steps close to Lisette’s side and lifts her chin up with her index finger.

“Amanda’s here tonight to help you, Lisette. You see, Amanda’s very good at critique. She’s honest, she’s direct, she tells it like it is. And she’s got very good taste, the kind you can’t buy. I want you to listen to her, to really hear what she has to say about you. Are you ready for that?”

“I’m ready.”

Jennifer turns to me. “Amanda?”

I lick my lips. My head is spinning. “Totally ready.”

Jennifer’s laugh this time is one of amusement. “Amanda is going to be a wonderful student.” She turns back to the girl. “Take off your robe.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Lisette. “Now? Aren’t we … already? Can I …?”

Jennifer lets out an exasperated sigh and roughly unties the girl’s robe, pushing it open despite Lisette’s fruitless attempts to remain clothed and protected. The robe slips over Lisette’s broad shoulders and down her arms, catching at her elbows, which she pushes tight against her body, leaving her standing before me looking a little ridiculous, half-dressed with house slippers still on her feet.

“Lisette, I’m warning you …” It’s a menacing warning.

Even though the girl is wearing a blindfold, I can see she’s about to cry. Her chin quivers, the skin across her decolletage has flushed, and she seems to be trying to curl into herself. But she lets the robe drop in a helpless puddle around her feet.

“So, Amanda, what do you think of our little Lisette here?” She emphasizes the word ‘little,’ which is kind of mean, given that Lisette, while not fat, isn’t what you’d call little.

I let my gaze travel all over her body, allowing impressions form in my mind before speaking. Lisette is someone my mother would euphemistically describe as “a solid girl.” She’s not short, but neither is she tall, and her limbs are more muscular than fat. Like I said, her shoulders are broad: swimmer’s shoulders. But the focal point—or points—on her figure are her breasts, which preclude any kind of Olympic career unless scientists can engineer a steel cage strong enough to hold them in. They’re the kind of breasts that inspire wet dreams in some guys—the creeps who ogle nursing mothers on park benches around the city—or disgust others who like their women sleek and fit and equate big boobs with “dumpy” and “sloppy.” On the plus side, Lisette’s enormous breasts are firm and high despite their size; her cherry blossom areolas flatter her fair complexion and take up little real estate considering the size of her tits. I get this crazy image of myself kissing them, sucking her little pink buds into my mouth, nipping them with my teeth, and then licking and kissing her soft, round mounds, hearing Lisette moan and cry out in response. I can tell her tits, every inch of them, are super sensitive.
 

“You might consider a breast reduction,” I say carefully, shifting in my seat from the sudden rush of moisture pooling in the crotch of my underwear. “You could wear some really cute fashions, fit into clothes better, with smaller ones.”
 

Jennifer leans forward to study Lisette’s boobs. “They’re unfortunate, yes.”

“But I like my breasts,” Lisette whines.

“We didn’t ask you what you think,” Jennifer says. “Please don’t speak unless instructed to.”

Lisette presses her lips together. Although I can’t see her whole face because of the blindfold, it’s easy enough to tell she’s a pretty girl … you might even say beautiful. Her skin glows, the kind of glow you get from eating well and sleeping eight hours a night. (Party girls have to get their glow from aestheticians.) Her chocolate-colored hair shines, and though it’s pulled up in a loose bun at her nape, I can see it’s long when unchecked, and naturally wavy. I’m close enough to spot a few freckles across her nose and cheeks, which make her look younger than she probably is. I also approve of her exceptional grooming: a discreet landing strip of dark pubic hair. Here, her body’s tendency toward fleshiness works, giving her labia a fullness and ripeness that’s eminently fuckable. If I were really into girls, I’d want to explore it myself.