Getting In (Amanda's Trilogy) (6 page)

“Hi,” I respond as evenly as I can. It’s my turn to order, so I turn back to the cashier, relieved that I have a minute to figure out how I’m going to handle a chance meeting with Lisette. Should I go get my black coffee at the end of the counter, wave bye to her, and be on my way? Or wait for her until she’s got her order? Usually I know the right thing to do in social situations without thinking too hard about it. But how do you handle bumping into a girl who, a few nights ago, you watched get whipped and paddled by a psycho, then almost fucked to death by the Black Stallion? Even if she is an actress?

My brain for the last few days has been a mess. The session? Appointment? Whatever you call it, it ended abruptly after I stood up and informed Jennifer in no uncertain terms that I’d had enough, I wasn’t about to watch even a fake virgin get her cherry popped like
this
for my kicks. I figured Jennifer would try to string me up on her sadistic jungle gym for punishment. Instead she told Tyrell and Lisette to stop, and she ushered me out of the room and instructed Naoko to arrange for my ride home. If she was angry with me, she was good at hiding it. My outburst had even surprised myself, and during my ride home that night in the back of the Town Car, it dawned on me that I’m not as cold as I think I am. There must be a little empathy in this dark heart of mine if can feel bad for someone.

Which makes me decide to wait at the end of the counter. It’s not the ideal place to tell Lisette I’m sorry for what happened to her the other night, but it may be my only chance. Last night I decided: screw it. If this is what I have to do to get into Lexington, count me out. I’ll suffer my parents’ wrath. I may even tell them about the card and Valerie Gowan and the whole sordid story about
Getting In
, as humiliating as it may be. Not the sex part of it, but that I was gullible enough to allow myself to be recruited into a BDSM club run by freaks who’ve claimed they can keep me out of a college my parents practically own. If my sister Anne finds out, I’ll never live it down.

Lisette pulls herself out of line and walks over to me. It’s strange seeing her in this normal setting, with the coffee machine hissing in the background, and harried office workers jostling us as they pick up their orders. Her thick brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail, her face is scrubbed free of any makeup, and she’s dressed like a preppy college kid: tan jeans, a black cashmere v-neck sweater peeking through her Barbour jacket and the requisite Hunter rubber boots. She’s got a shopping bag clutched in her hands.

“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, blowing on my coffee so I can take a sip of it. She smiles, a broad happy smile that lights up her face. She’s even prettier than I remember. Her eyes, a clear green, are friendly, innocent, trusting.

“It’s strange,” she says. “I’m always in here and I’ve never seen you before.”

“I don’t get over here much. I needed to pick something up at the Time-Warner Center.”

“Can we talk?” she asks. “Maybe over in the park?”

Relief floods through my body, but I play it cool. “Sure. I’ve got a few minutes.”

We leave the coffee shop and make our way through the crowds in Columbus Circle, out in full force on a bright, chilly April afternoon. Then we cross the intersection and enter the southwest corner of the park, making our way through the pigeons, food carts, and tourists, and find an empty park bench where we can sit.

“I was going to get a Frappuccino,” Lisette said, “but I saw you.”

No more sweets
. Jennifer’s harsh bark echos in my head.

“Smart move.”

We’re both quiet for a minute.

“Listen …”

“I …”

We look at each other, and laugh. Our conversational tangling of the tongues breaks the ice. Lisette urges me to go first.

“I just want to say I’m sorry for the other night. I felt terrible … I
feel
terrible.”

“Why?”

I stop mid-blow on my coffee and stare at Lisette. “Why? Because what happened there wasn’t cool.”

Lisette holds my gaze without breaking it. “How do you mean?”

“How do I mean?” Is this girl mentally challenged? “Everything!” I look around to make sure no one’s listening and I lower my voice. “You tied up like that, Jennifer insulting you, picking on you, asking me to critique you? And then you nearly get raped—with an audience, if you didn’t notice—by a black dude with a dick so big it needs its own sex offender registry? That whole night was a Mardi Gras parade of fucked-up shit. And I feel gross that I was there, that I participated. That I didn’t stop it sooner.”

“But I liked it,” she says softly. “I liked almost all of it.”

“You’re not an actress?”

Lisette frowns. “No, I’m not.”

“Are you joking? You did that on your own? You
like
what happened the other night?”

Lisette sighs and takes the shopping bag she’s placed between us down at her feet so she can sit closer to me. “It’s a long story, but I’ll give you the highlights,” she says.

“Please do. I have a list of questions that’s been keeping me up nights.”

“For most of my life, I’ve had what you would call a ‘weight problem.’” She does the air quotes for emphasis. “My mother tried everything to help me lose weight: private nutritionists, health clubs, trainers who’d come to our apartment, even Jenny Craig. Then a few years ago, in my freshman year at Lexington, she died of cancer and I fell apart. I started eating everything in sight, and I got to be the heaviest I’ve ever been—over 200 pounds.”

“So you go to Lexington?”

“Went there. I graduated last May. You?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I say. “Keep going.”

“Anyway, I started failing tests, staying in my room all day, eating. Everything felt hopeless. I even thought about killing myself. Then one of the girls in my dorm, a senior, gave me a card.”

“The
Getting In
card,” I interrupt.

Lisette looks at me curiously. “No. This card said, ‘
Staying In.
’”

Staying In
.

“This girl, she had never talked to me before. She was tall, gorgeous, stylish, in a different league … you know the type.” Lisette pauses and motions to me. “Like you. Really put together. Someone I thought I could never be. And she told me to call the number because she thought it could help. She said it had helped her. So I called.”

I huff out a little laugh. “This is whacked.”

Lisette shrugs. “Maybe it’s whacked, but it worked. Look at me. For the first time in my life, I’ve got people—hot guys, beautiful girls—checking me out, and it’s not because I belong in a freak show. I can fit into clothes that I didn’t have to buy at a tent shop. And I feel … good.” She giggles and I can see her flush. “I used to feel ashamed about my body, but now … now, I appreciate it. I like the way it looks, and I like the way I feel. I was never sexual before this.”

“You like … you like Jennifer hitting you? And tearing you down?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. I wasn’t crazy about it at first, but then it sort of grew on me. I started to look forward to it. The spanking, the whip, even the mean things she says … it has helped me focus. Be more disciplined out here in the real world.”

“So from Jenny Craig to Jennifer How-Hard-Do-You-Want-Me-To-Beg. Whatever works, I suppose.”

“Hey!” Lisette sounds annoyed. “How would you like it if I dismissed what worked for you? Like, I don’t know … watching people get it on? How good does that make you feel?”

I can feel the blood rush into my face, and Lisette gives me a big old shit-eating grin. “Gotcha there, didn’t I?”

I ignore it, and move on. “I want to know about Jennifer and her connection with Lexington.”

Lisette’s eyes widen. “It’s all kind of mysterious. I’ve been trying to piece it together myself. I know she went to Lexington, but I haven’t figured out when. And she’s got a ton of money.”

“From her husband.”

“Yeah. He’s loaded.” Lisette seems to study a spot in the distance.

“Stefan … is he involved with all this?”

Lisette’s silent for a moment. “I’m not sure how much, but yes, he’s involved. He likes to watch. He just sits there with no expression, never says a word. But there’s something weird about him and Jennifer I haven’t figured out.”

Like sitting there watching bizarre and kinky sex acts and showing no reaction to them isn’t weird enough. I recall the Web image of Jennifer and Stefan together at the Nobel Awards ceremony. She looked thrilled to be there, thrilled to be with
him
. But it was clearly not reciprocal, not based on his body language.

“She’s interesting,” I say, not attempting to hide the sarcasm in my assessment.
 

“She’s not bad,” Lisette says. “She can be nice. Sometimes.”

“Why did you ask for Stefan the other night?”

Lisette focuses back on me. “Have you met him? Have you ever seen him?”

“I’ve seen a picture of him.” I shrug. “He’s okay, but not all that.”

She gives me a knowing look. “When you meet him, you’ll see what I mean. He’s got this magnetic pull about him. But then he’s so remote …” She shrugs. “We all think he’s kind of hot. Sexy even. It’s probably because he’s Swedish.”

“We?”

“The other people who are involved. I can’t really say more than that.” Lisette looks at me apologetically. “In fact, we probably shouldn’t be talking about any of it.”

“Whatever. Rules are meant to be broken.” I pause. “I can’t imagine Stefan Angstrom being better than Tyrell even if he is Swedish.”

“Tyrell?” Lisette shrugs. “He’s okay.”

“
Okay
? The guy has the body of a Greek god.”

“If you’re into that.”

“For the first time and all, he’s a lot to handle.”

Lisette gives me a knowing look. “It was my first time with a guy, but believe me, Jennifer had me primed to handle someone like Tyrell.”

I don’t even want to know.

Lisette looks me in the eyes.

“I was hoping I could get Stefan that night, but if I couldn’t have him, I didn’t want any other man. There is something that would have made me happiest of all, though.”

“What’s that?”

“You.” Lisette licks her full bottom lip. “I was hoping Jennifer would let you finish me off.”

CHAPTER TEN

R U free today?

It’s the third time this week my iPhone has vibrated with a text from Lisette. After her confession in the park, I gave her my phone number and told her that maybe we could get together,
maybe
being the operative word.

I ignore the text and stick the phone back in my purse. I’m flipping through dresses at Barneys to kill some time before a hair appointment across Fifth Avenue later on in the afternoon. But frankly, since getting involved with the Jennifer Angstrom freak show, I’ve lost interest in shopping. Lost interest in clubbing. I haven’t even been returning calls from my friends, including a call from one of my closest ones who wants to know if I’m up for a quick trip to Cabo next weekend on her boyfriend’s private jet.

I idly wonder if I’m depressed. Maybe I’ve got PTSD like those poor soldiers coming back from Afghanistan get. It
could
happen. But I’m not enough of a dumb-ass to believe that a traumatic visit to a BDSM chamber in Manhattan is in any way comparable to patrolling around IEDs in the Middle East so I laugh at my ridiculousness.

“Miss, may I help you?” a saleswoman asks.

The iPhone vibrates in my purse.

“Jesus Christ!” I snap. The saleswoman flinches, and I shoot her a quick smile. “Sorry, not you. Someone’s texting me to death.”

She slinks away, and I pull out my phone. Lisette again.

U there?

Maybe I should nip this in the bud and tell her I’m not interested. Another card came this week from
Getting In
, which had surprised me. I figured after I derailed Jennifer’s relaxing evening of sadistic fun, that was it … I was out. In fact, I’d been holding my breath all week for a letter from Lexington College apologetically telling me that due to unforeseen circumstances, they wouldn’t have room in this year’s freshman class for me and good luck with my future plans. But the card from
Getting In
had the same succinct message: car at seven-thirty this Friday, twenty-four-hour cancellation notice, blah-blah-blah. Only this time, in different handwriting, someone had written, “All’s forgiven.”

Whatever. I tossed the card out and made sure that when seven-thirty rolled around on Friday, I strutted out the front door of our apartment building, gave the idling Town Car the bird, and headed off for a walk around the block. I could even hear George laughing at my gesture as I trotted on my merry way with nary a glance over my shoulder.

And when I came back, the car was gone.

I decide to text Lisette back.

Busy. Appts.

A couple seconds later:

Pls come. Now if u can.

Lisette had given me the address to her Upper West Side apartment building when we exchanged phone numbers at the park, along with her last name: McCormack.
 

I type back:

Told u. Busy. Can’t.

Instantaneously:

Pls? I have BIG srprise 4 u. U love!!!! Xoxoxoxo

Shit. I chew my lip for a minute or so. The iPhone vibrates against my palm anxiously, but I don’t read the text. I have a couple hours before my color appointment, and frankly, I
am
kind of bored looking at dresses. I’ve been thinking about Lisette before I fall asleep every night, hearing her moans in my head, picturing her plump, sweet little pussy when she was standing nude before me. It’s kind of bothering me, wondering if I’m turning into a dyke. But I’ve also been thinking of Tyrell, too, the both of them together, and imagining how hard he would have fucked her if I hadn’t stopped the proceedings. It was wrong in real life, but it’s oh-so-right in my fantasies.

I type back:

Ok, but cant stay long.

She replies:

Yay! B quik!

I grab a cab in front of the department store, and luckily the ride up to the pre-war apartment building across from the park is swift. I get out, give the doorman her name, and soon I’m tapping on the mahogany door of 6C.