In the Club
Authors: Antonio Pagliarulo
Contents
1 Where Madison and Lexington Meet
6 Where Smart Girls Keep Their Secrets
For my aunt, Antoinette,
with love and thanks
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:
TO: The Editors,
Socialite
magazine
FROM: Madison Hamilton (and on behalf of my sisters, Park and Lexington)
RE: A few nasty lies
The recent flurry of publicity that has descended on me and my sisters has been anything but acceptable. We didn’t enjoy being targets of a killer, nor did we find the sight of two dead bodies particularly appealing. Have you ever tried to outrun a gun-toting madman while wearing heels? It isn’t generally our style to pay attention to nasty lies, but this time, the media’s attempts to tarnish our reputations were cruel, unusual, and incredibly tasteless. And if there’s
one
thing we won’t tolerate, it’s people who have no taste.
EXAMPLE NUMBER ONE comes from the pages of
The New York Daily
: “Apparently it’s not enough that celebutantes Madison, Park, and Lexington Hamilton appear daily in gossip columns all over the world. They’ve just launched the Triple Threat clothing line, hogging even more press in their customarily shameless way. The lesson: when bloody scandal erupts, spin it into a lucrative business.”
Let’s get something straight: my sisters and I launched the Triple Threat clothing line because it happens to be an extraordinary fashion product. In just over one month’s time, Lexington’s styles have become a global brand. And we don’t “hog” attention shamelessly—we manage it gracefully because the press can’t get enough of us. The
real
lesson: when sisters stick together, the world becomes their playground.
EXAMPLE NUMBER TWO is from
Hollywood Spotlight,
the unintelligible nightly newsmagazine that hires failed B-movie stars and musicians as reporters: “The recent crimes attached to the Hamilton triplets inevitably raise questions about their credibility. Will the public ever be able to trust Manhattan’s adored golden girls again?”
What a vulgar way of trying to get ratings up. Before attempting to insult our credibility, take a nice long look at your journalistic stupidity. If you’re going to insult us, please do it with a smidgen of intelligence. As for the public…well, we
adore
our public. Not only are my sisters and I credible—we’re
incredible
when it comes to loving our many fans.
EXAMPLE NUMBER THREE, from the pages of
Celebrity
magazine: “It seems the ever-amusing Hamilton triplets can add another job to their fancy resumes; having solved a gory double homicide, they are now the most fashionable crime-fighters on the planet. But have they traded in their Fendis for forensic microscopes?”
Ever-amusing? Try ever-enchanting. Or maybe ever-enlightening. We don’t set out to amuse—we just hate to lose. Solving a double homicide is all in a day’s work. When we realized the police couldn’t handle the job, we decided to take the case. We were only looking out for our fellow New Yorkers. And, for the record, we think fashion and forensics go hand in hand, because we’re always dressed to kill.
See you…
In the Club
1
Where Madison and Lexington Meet
S
he reached for her sunglasses.
Madison Hamilton dug into her tan Triple Threat hobo bag and felt instantly relieved as she touched the smooth silk lining. After a harried morning that included a press conference and two final exams, she needed a little fabric pick-me-up. She also needed to hide the worry glowing in her eyes. The last thing she wanted was someone asking her why she looked so downright frightened.
She let her fingers skim through the bag for a few moments, the silk a cool kiss against her hot skin. It was like a shot of champagne straight to the veins. A feeling of serenity washed over her, but it was quickly eclipsed by the small note sitting on the table in front of her. She stared down at the perfect script and swallowed hard.
Please report to the principal’s office at once.
Sighing, Madison snatched her sunglasses from the bag and slipped them on. Oliver Peoples couldn’t be beat when it came to covering up. She lifted her face and glanced around the ornately furnished room. The student lounge at St. Cecilia’s Prep was decorated lavishly in dark wood and Oriental rugs, in shiny plasma screens and marble countertops. Its four windows overlooked the medieval courtyard, but a thick trail of ivy wound over the glass panes, blocking out the bright June sun. The long shadows that fell across the floor didn’t matter: sunglasses were a priority when it came time to make the walk down the fifth-floor corridor that led to the principal’s office.
Thankfully, the student lounge was fairly empty so late in the afternoon. Madison shot a glance at Jessica Paderman, who was sitting at one of the mahogany desks beside the bookcase. Short, scrawny, and blessed with a mane of thick red hair, Jessica was the heiress to a huge pharmaceutical empire; she was a quiet, studious, timid girl who never got into any kind of trouble. Madison had spoken to her only a handful of times. There was no reason to suspect that Jessica knew about the note from the principal’s office, so she let her gaze drift to the left side of the room, where Aaron Linney was snoozing fitfully on one of the plush love seats. The light snoring sound wafting through the air was typically Aaron. Also the heir to a sizeable fortune, Aaron had a habit of smoking too much weed and drooling onto his wrinkled white uniform shirts. Madison doubted he’d heard anything about the note either, or much else, for that matter.
Getting summoned to the principal’s office wasn’t really a big deal at St. Cecilia’s Prep. The school had the wealthiest student body in the world, which left little room for disciplinary action or useless things like detention or suspension. Punishments were handed down, but they were rarely ever meted out. A single phone call from a disturbed parent usually swept a problem under the rug. And because a large chunk of the students were celebutantes with very public social lives, the nuns who staffed the school couldn’t really argue their holy points. Incidentally, these were the same nuns who received generous donations and academic endowments from parents eager to buy a little silence.
But Madison was still totally wrecked by the note. She had no idea why she was being called to the office of Reverend Mother Margaret John—the stern, disapproving principal. Madison was a stellar student. She was even an obedient student, smiling and nodding and dipping into a quick curtsy when the older teachers walked by her in the halls. More than once, she had volunteered her free time in the school’s development office, giving her expert advice on fund-raising and special-event planning. Her black-and-red-checkered uniform was perfect: crisp shirt, navy blazer buttoned just above the waist, tie knotted firmly at the neck, skirt flowing past the knees. Like everyone else, Madison hated the uniform, but she never followed the examples of her female classmates, who had their skirts professionally altered nearly up to their butts. Thighs must be seen to properly show off a tan.
So why the note?
I can’t be in trouble,
she thought.
I haven’t done anything wrong.
She had been sitting in the student lounge for fifteen minutes, trying to delay the inevitable. Now it was time to get up and face whatever awaited her on the fifth floor. She pushed the sunglasses further up on the bridge of her nose and reached for her bag. But before she could rise out of the chair, she saw a tall, gangly male figure jump through the doorway like a giant grasshopper, stomping his feet and breaking into a funny dance. His practical joke shattered the silence in the room.
Jessica Paderman nearly shot out of her chair.
Aaron Linney opened one eye, recognized the culprit, and resumed his snooze.
It was Madison who laughed. “Damien Kittle,” she said with a shake of her head. “When will you
ever
grow up?”
Instead of answering, Damien Kittle launched into a new dance, spinning around, kicking up his knees, banging his head as if he were at a heavy metal concert. He held his arms up and out and twitched his fingers, playing an imaginary guitar. “You won’t be finding me actin’ like an adult anytime soon, Miss Hamilton,” he said.
Madison couldn’t help but smile. Watching Damien Kittle in action was an event that rivaled front-row seats at a Cirque du Soleil performance. As she stared at him, taking in his wild antics, she felt some of her anxiety melt away.
Damien was a senior at St. Cecilia’s Prep—and probably the only true blue blood. He had English royalty in his veins. His official title was Duke of Asherton, but he hated admitting it to people. In fact, he liked to project an image that was entirely at odds with the prim and proper role of the British throne. Perfect posture? A staid demeanor? Tea in the afternoon? Hell, no. Damien was a self-avowed adrenaline junkie, a class clown who enjoyed harassing teachers and scaring the quiet kids. He was also a world-class charmer.
Madison simply adored his bravado. She would never forget the time he had stripped down to his boxer shorts—or, as Damien called them, knickers—and gone prancing through the science lab as old Sister Martina tried to keep herself from fainting. Or last year’s class trip to Spain, where he dressed up as a bull and, right there in the lobby of the hotel in Pamplona, rammed into as many guests as possible. Most recently, about two weeks ago, Damien walked out of the music hall wearing a red lace bra over his navy uniform blazer. His parents, Sir David Kittle and Lady Jane Kingsley-Kittle, had received countless phone calls from Reverend Mother Margaret, but if they ever punished him for his antics, it certainly didn’t show. He seemed to be getting crazier each day.
And, of course, there was the added benefit of his looks. He didn’t have classically gorgeous features, but his face was interesting in a mischievous sort of way. His eyes possessed a sharp gleam. His lips had a tendency to pucker when he was deep in thought. He had a mop of wavy black hair and a lean, strong swimmer’s body that looked equally nice in jeans or a Dior suit. Damien liked to play the part of the average, ordinary guy, but there was no mistaking his aristocracy.
“Well, you won’t get away with acting like a kid your whole life,” Madison quipped. “But right now it’s okay, because I totally love watching you dance.”
Damien took the compliment for all it was worth. He shimmied closer to her, turned sideways, and jutted his butt into the air. “Go on, love,” he sighed deeply. “Smack it. I know you want to. I know you fancy my bum.”
With a grunt, Jessica Paderman slammed shut the book she’d been reading and stormed out of the lounge.
The laugh that shot from Madison’s lips echoed way out in the hall.
“I
knew
it!” Damien shouted. “The American avenue girl likes her blokes wild and free!”
Madison suddenly felt her cheeks flush. There was nothing sexier than that thick British accent: it was sophisticated and steamy and ripe with royalty. She could sit and listen to him talk all day long. “Oh, stop it,” she said with a quick wave of her hand. “You’re going to get me into
trouble
one of these days.”
Damien’s face instantly took on a different expression, one that was exaggeratedly serious. He leaned in close to her and said, “Oh, darling, I heard you’re already in lots of trouble. I heard you’ve got yourself a lovely little note from Mother Margaret.”
Madison scowled. Great—the word was already out. It hadn’t taken more than a few minutes for half the school to know she was on some sort of shit list. She poked him in the shoulder. “Where did you hear that?” she demanded playfully. “Is that what everyone’s saying?”
“Not everyone. Just me.” Damien smiled. “I heard that bloody Mother Margaret tell her horrible secretary that you and Lex were expected in her office.”
“Lex got a note too?” Madison bit down on her lip. A small piece of the puzzle had just been revealed: anything having to do with her sister Lexington usually spelled trouble. She shot out of the chair, grabbed her bag, and pushed past Damien. “Sorry to cut this short, but I’ve gotta run.”
Damien frowned. The clownish look on his face softened to a genuine smile. He stepped toward her, took her hand, and kissed it gently. Then he stared up at her and said, “I wouldn’t worry too much, Madison. A girl as lovely as you can’t be in that much trouble.”
Madison felt the heat flare in her cheeks again. This was the other side of Damien Kittle she loved—the warmhearted guy who always uttered the sweetest words. She knew he had sensed her fear, and she was suddenly very grateful for his presence. “Thanks,” she replied. “I’m glad
someone
around here notices my good side.”
Damien kept her hand in his and gestured at the staircase. “I always do,” he said with a wink. “May I walk you upstairs?”
Madison hesitated. She really didn’t need an escort, but staring down into those ferocious eyes and hearing that sexy accent was enough to make her knees weak. “Okay,” she finally said, “but
don’t
get me into any trouble.”
He gave her a devilish grin. “I’ll do my best to make you proud.”
They hurried out of the student lounge and into the hall.
And ran smack into trouble.
Well, maybe not
trouble.
But certainly a little bit of unwanted irritation.
Sister Brittany Ignatius was the newest member of the St. Cecilia’s Prep faculty. She was young and pretty and definitely unlike all the other nuns who staffed the school. Tall and thin, she had a graceful walk and a nauseatingly cheerful disposition. She was known for asking tons of questions. She had also managed to invade a number of the otherwise impenetrable student cliques, offering girls her sometimes unholy advice on makeup and fashion. Sister Brittany had appeared suddenly at St. Cecilia’s one day back in March, and with any luck, she’d disappear just as quickly.
Madison wasn’t her biggest fan. She liked that Sister Brittany wore black Roger Vivier pumps and accented her delicate cheekbones with blush, but all in all, the curious nun had a tendency to be downright annoying.
“Oh, Madison!
Hi!
” Sister Brittany said in her usual jovial tone. “How’s your day going? And Damien—what’s new with you?”
Inwardly, Madison sighed. She said politely, “Everything’s fine, Sister. Thank you for asking.”
Damien, of course, couldn’t let the moment pass without some sort of crazy behavior. He winked, then stuck his thumbs up and out. “I’m happy as a tray of tea and cake, Sister B.”
“Splendid.” Sister Brittany smiled. “Oh, Damien, I was wondering if you could stay after school for about an hour today. I’ll need some help moving costumes into the theater.”
“Sorry, Sis,” Damien said, feigning regret. “But I have some important plans this afternoon.”
Sister Brittany looked disappointed, then quickly hid her upset. “Okay!” she answered brightly. She turned and stared at Madison. “I just
love
that new shade of lipstick you’re wearing, honey. It’s so…
saucy.
”
Madison nodded. Who used a word like
saucy
outside of a kitchen? “And your blush, as usual, looks wonderful, Sister,” she said. “I’d kill for your cheekbones. But if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for an appointment.”
Sister Brittany beamed at her. “See you later, sweethearts!” she said loudly, turning around and strutting away like a runway model, her black habit swishing around her legs.
Madison continued down the hall, again letting Damien clasp her hand in his.
Once upon a time, St. Cecilia’s Prep had been a row of attached town houses on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, and while the walls separating them had long ago vanished, many of the original architectural details remained. The crown moldings were on every ceiling. The curving staircases were carpeted. Ornate chandeliers brightened several classrooms and offices. Anyone entering the school for the first time would easily think the building was a hotel or museum. Walking from one floor to another was an exercise in luxury, and the most opulent furnishings could be found on the uppermost level, where the principal’s office occupied a large corner.
When Madison reached the fifth–floor staircase landing and hung a sharp right turn, she stopped dead in her tracks. At the end of the hall stood her best friend, Coco McKaid, and her sister Lexington.
“Ahhh,” Damien whispered. “The beautiful ladies are already in wait.”
Madison took quiet steps toward them, clutching her bag tightly. She wasn’t pleased with Lex’s appearance—her skirt was too short, and she had completely redesigned her own version of the school uniform; the customarily plain navy blazer now sparkled with dozens of tiny diamond chips. Her blond hair fell to the middle of her back in wavy tendrils, but the preferred hairdo at St. Cecilia’s Prep was far more conservative. Like the French braid that held back Madison’s dark locks.
“Hey there!” Lex said, smiling at her sister but offering an even bigger smile to Damien.
Madison shot Lex a disapproving look over the rim of her sunglasses. “Do you have any idea what this is about? I’ve never been called to the principal’s office.”
“It’s probably nothing,” Coco said, looking like her good old messy and tired self. She wore her hair in a cute pixie cut, but several strands were sticking up at the back of her head. “I mean, that’s just what I’m assuming. I wasn’t called here. I just came along for the walk.”