The Saints of the Cross (10 page)

A shiny, black BMW convertible is parked in our driveway when we return. Leaning against the trunk is a tall, dark, pretty girl wearing a khaki skirt, a white button-down, and a navy blazer. She’s texting away on her cell phone. As we pull up next to her, she looks up and waves excitedly, flashing a bright smile.

“Oh look, Evie. She must be your new classmate.” Dad sounds little too eager. I hope he realizes it’s going to take more than just his contrived enthusiasm to cheer me up. We all pile out of Matilda’s minivan. Why on earth she owns one is beyond me. It’s not like she has any kids to tow around in this gas-guzzling beast.

“You must be Evie Sweeney. I’m Camilla San Sebastian. I live across the street and go to Holy Cross. Your uncle said you’d be starting on Monday.” With a dazzling-white smile, she extends her hand to me.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, awkwardly shaking her hand. I’m not used to teenagers being so formal in their introductions. I begin to introduce her to my family. I motion to each person as I introduce them. “This is my dad, Nash; my grandma, Winnie; and my brother and sister, Ethan and Emma. And you know Calvin and Matilda.”

“Yes, of course. Nice to meet all of you.” She acknowledges each person with a nod of her head, then reaches down into the backseat of her car and retrieves a covered pie plate. “Mrs. Sweeney, my mother asked that I deliver this pie to you as a welcome gift.”

“Thank you, Camilla. Please give your mother my warmest regards, dear.” Grandma Winnie looks quite pleased with Camilla’s polished manners. Grandma raises an eyebrow at me with a look:
See? This is how a young lady should comport herself.

“You are most welcome, Mrs. Sweeney.” Camilla smiles sincerely and hands the plate over to Grandma. Camilla again turns her attention to me. “Evie, your uncle tells me you are in need of a DC refresher tour. I’d be happy to take you around this afternoon, if you’d like.”

“Umm, well . . .” I’d really rather spend the afternoon talking with Javier on the phone, but I look to my dad, who’s excitedly nodding. He’s so pathetically enthusiastic, that I can’t bear to shoot him down. “Okay, sure. Why not?”

“Oh, you know what else?” Camilla furrows her brow and moves her hand to her chin, looking overly pensive. “There’s a little get-together at a friend’s house this evening. It would be wonderful for you to come with me and meet some of our classmates before Monday. That way you’ll already know some people in your classes.”

“Oh, I think that’s a marvelous idea—don’t you, Nash?” Matilda nearly squeals with excitement. I’m sure she views my hob-knobbing with the Holy Cross kids as her ticket in with the DC power elite.

“Absolutely,” my dad agrees.

“Oh, and I’m having a few girls from school over to spend the night afterward. I love having slumber parties on Friday nights. Do you want to stay over, too, Evie?” Camilla asks a little too innocently. My family members are too blinded by her unusual charm to see what is plain as day to me; Camilla’s putting on an Oscar-worthy performance. She definitely has something up her sleeve, and I want to know what.

“Well, okay. Do ya mind if I change real quick and grab a few things?” I can see out of my peripherals that Aunt Matilda’s grimacing at my poor grammar, which makes me smile.

“Sure, I’ll wait here.”

I run into the house and up to my new room at the top of the stairs. I grab my toothbrush, comb, and some PJs and shove them into a small tote bag. I pull on a pair of dark jeans, black ballet flats, a gray fitted t-shirt with John Lennon’s face stamped on the front, and a black cardigan. I guess the look is more hipster casual than DC chic. But oh well. I don’t fit in here, and I’m not about to start trying.

I meet my family at the bottom of the stairs just as they walk through the door.

“Evie, don’t you have something nicer to wear?” Grandma Winnie complains as I maneuver around her to the door.

“Nope,” I reply as sweetly as I can.
Kill ’em with kindness,
my mother used to say. “See you all tomorrow!”

CHAPTER 7

“Oh, my God!” Camilla says as she backs out of the driveway. “I thought we’d never get out of there. They were asking me all kinds of questions about my family, my classes, what I like to do in my free time. Jesus, you’d think they were interviewing me to be your girlfriend.” She wrinkles up her face in disgust.

“No, Matilda was just trying to climb the social ladder. She was probably hoping you’d invite us all over for dinner or something.”

“Oh really?” Camilla laughs. “She does have that air of douche-baggery about her.” We enjoy a good laugh at Matilda’s expense.

“Where are we headed?” I ask, as Camilla turns to the on-ramp of the freeway.

“To the mall. We have to get new outfits for the party tonight.”

“Oh, I didn’t bring enough money,” I say.

“No worries, I’ve got it covered. We have to look awesome for this party. It’s
the
big event of the fall.”

“Great. Wish I’d had a heads up. I would’ve tried to fix this rat’s nest on top of my head.”

“Honey, that’s what salons are for, and you’re going with me to my appointment. We’ll just have your hair done, too. Oh, and your nails,” she says, looking down at my gnarled fingertips. My worst habit is biting my fingernails down to the quick, although popping my knuckles comes in a close second. Knuckle popping drives my Grandma crazy so it’s become somewhat of a sport for me.

“I can’t let you pay for all that, Camilla.”

“I’m not. My daddy is. Don’t worry your pretty little head; he won’t care. He never checks his credit-card statements. Besides, it’s my welcome gift to you.”

“Umm, okay then, if you insist. But you have to let me make it up to you.” I’ve never had a complete stranger buy me clothes before. This could be interesting.

“Sure. Shit! Traffic jam!” She slams on the breaks and slows the BMW down to a crawl as we both crane our necks to see around the line of cars in front of us. “Looks like an accident up ahead at the off-ramp. Oh well, gives us time to talk. Tell me about yourself. You got a boyfriend back in Spain?”

“Yes, I do . . .” I hesitate. Something’s not right. “Oh no! I forgot my cell phone back at my house!”

“We can go back to get it after we’re done,” Camilla says dismissively.

“That would be great, because I need to call him. I promised I’d call him, and I haven’t yet.” Great, now he’s probably worried about me.

“Relax. It’ll be fine. We’ll get ourselves beautified, and then we’ll stop at your house on the way to the party. We’re almost to the mall. We don’t want to turn around now. Okay?”

“Sure, fine. So what’s the deal with this party that we have to look so spectacular?” I ask, changing the subject to help calm myself. I can’t get worked up over forgetting the phone. I’m sure Javi will understand.

“It’s at Jude Redfield’s house, and the Redfield boys have been having this party every year for nearly two decades. It’s practically a Holy Cross tradition,” she says, sounding like a news correspondent reporting on the latest gossip.

“Wow, really? Twenty years should definitely qualify as a tradition.” I’ve never been to a party like this, but I’m not about to tell her so.

“There are five Redfield boys, and they all went to Holy Cross. The oldest one, Jake, is thirty-five; Gabe is thirty; Raphael is twenty-six; and the youngest is Jude. He’s our age. The middle brother is my boyfriend, Christian, and he’s twenty-one. We’ve been dating since I was a freshman and he was a senior.”

“Your parents let you date a twenty-one-year-old?” I am completely confounded by this. I mean, what parent allows their teenage daughter to date a boy who’s old enough to legally buy alcohol?

“Yeah, they freaking love Christian. Hell, they love the entire Redfield family. My parents’ heads are so far up the Redfield’s asses that they should’ve burped them out by now. Seriously, if Christian wasn’t the hottest guy in DC, I wouldn’t even look twice at him, just because he’s a Redfield. They’re freaking jackasses for the most part,” Camilla says, wrinkling her face up in an expression that punctuates her disdain, “except for Christian and Jude. They’re cool.”

“Geez, then why go to the party?” This girl is an enigma. She makes absolutely no sense. If I had so much hatred for a family, I sure wouldn’t go to a party at their house, let alone date one of them.

“Oh, my dear Evie, you have much to learn about DC social life. Everyone who’s anyone will be there. The people I love and the people I love to hate,” she says, and then pauses long enough to check her makeup in the rearview, rubbing red lip gloss off her pearly-white teeth with her index finger. “The party is always written up in the society-gossip section of the paper. Something scandalous always happens—that’s pretty much guaranteed. Either someone will wreck their father’s Lambo, or someone will end up in jail on a possession charge. Of course almost everyone is underage, so their names don’t appear in the article; but the writers always give enough clues that you can guess without much effort.”

“Wow, sounds crazy.” What would happen if I were to get busted at the first party I go to in DC? At the least, my dad would never let me go out again. Worst case scenario would be that I’d be shipped off to a convent—or as my dad calls them, a nunnery. “I don’t know about this. If I get into any trouble on my first night out in DC, not only will I be grounded for eternity, but my dad will absolutely kill me.”

I’m more than a little nervous about the whole thing. Seems like too raucous an affair in which to make my DC social debut. I don’t want to risk having my privileges to see Javier taken away.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got our designated driver covered. My best friend, Xander, doesn’t drink or do drugs. So he’ll drive us home afterward. He’s a goody-two-shoes, granola-type. You know, always worried about being healthy and what not. He’s buff, plays sports, and works out. It’s really annoying at times, because he doesn’t know how to let loose and have fun; but then again, I always have a guaranteed DD.”

“Sounds like my kind of guy,” I shrug.

“Oh no, Evie. Don’t tell me you’re one of those granolas, because you sure don’t look like one!” she exclaims, giving me a once-over. I frown at her because I have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. “You know, all butch, smelly, and vegetarian—Yuck! No, you can’t be. You’re actually a hot chick.”

“Thanks, I think. What I mean is that I don’t drink and I don’t do drugs. I just don’t see the point of poisoning yourself with that stuff. A glass of wine once in a while is one thing, but drinking just to get sloppy drunk? No thanks, doesn’t appeal to me at all.”

“A glass of wine? What are you, a fifty-year-old hag stuck in the hot, red-headed body of a seventeen-year-old?” She’s looking at me now like she’s expecting my head to explode or something.

“I’m serious, Camilla. Count me out of the drinking. I’ll go to meet everyone, but I don’t plan on partying like that, okay?”

“Whoa, chica. Fine. Whatever you say. Look, we’re moving again,” she says, motioning to the traffic ahead of us. “Thank God. I’ve got to pee!”

After a couple more intersections, we turn on International Drive and arrive at the Tyson Galleria. Because of our time constraints, we practically leave a tornado’s path of destruction through Saks, Neiman Marcus, and Versace, hunting for the perfect dresses. We settle on finds from our final destination, Gucci. I decide on a short, black, sleeveless number. Camilla buys a sky-blue and turquoise striped, one-shoulder, body-conscious dress that highlights her tanned skin perfectly. She looks like the latest “it” supermodel. We head over to Pelo Bonito, where we get French mani-pedis. Camilla’s stylist coifs our hair, turning my frizzed-out nightmare into smooth ringlets and Camilla’s waist-length tendrils into a silky, black waterfall.

“Oh shit,” Camilla says as she checks the clock on her iPhone. “We don’t have time to drive back home to change before the party. Do you mind if we change here, Lucinda?” she asks her stylist.

“Not at all, love.” Lucinda shows us to a massage room in the back of the salon. “You can get ready here.”

“Thanks,” Camilla and I say in unison. We jump into our dresses and slip on our new coordinating stilettos. I immediately kick the shoes off and tell Camilla I’ll put them on when we get to the party. I don’t want to try to walk through the mall wearing those beasts. I may be feeling down about everything right now, but I’m not suicidal, for Christ’s sake.

“Wait. My phone,” I say and sigh. “We need to go back to my house, remember?”

“Evie, don’t you think you can wait until tomorrow to call your boyfriend?” Camilla says. By the look on her face, I know she won’t be taking me home to get the phone. I guess if I’m going to survive the year here in DC, I’d better not piss off anyone during my first night out. Javier will just have to understand.

“Fine,” I answer, trying not to let the disappointment show on my face.

Camilla’s smile widens, and her eyes gleam with excitement. “Awesome! Let’s go. We’ve got some major partying to do.”

Great.

On the way to the Redfield’s house, Camilla fills me in on a few bits of must-know social information. She reveals to me that her boyfriend, Christian, is the front man of an indie band that happens to be the biggest thing on the East Coast. The band, Systemic Purgatory, is on the cusp of blowing up because their manager has just gotten one of their songs on some teen-book-turned-movie soundtrack. She rambles on and on about how utterly hot and utterly cool he is. I think I might laugh at one point, because no guy can be as perfect as she describes—except Javier, and there’s only one of him, so . . .

Also, Christian’s brother, Jude, is dating the biggest bitch in DC, Laurel Danton. Laurel is a super-rich snob who just so happens to be Camilla’s arch nemesis since their freshman year. Laurel had spread a stupid rumor that Camilla’s dad was an exiled Colombian drug lord. This girl was definitely going to be at the party tonight, because she’s always hanging around the Redfield place with Jude, making Camilla’s life a living hell. Camilla swears that the only reason Laurel even dates Jude is to get back at her. Laurel wants Camilla’s head on a platter for some imagined injustice perpetrated on her in their freshman year when Camilla attended the spring formal with Laurel’s love interest.

“It’s so juvenile. I mean, he and I were just friends. Not my fault that he couldn’t stand her.” She shrugs, trying to be nonchalant, but her face is pure hostility.

We arrive at our destination, a mid-century-era mansion worthy of
Architectural Digest
. I note this aloud, and Camilla informs me that indeed the house has been featured in the magazine, and that Mrs. Redfield had the article framed and mounted in the foyer, where it’s the first thing visitors see when they walk through the door.
Classy
.

It’s eight o’clock, early by wild-teenage-party standards, but already the winding driveway is lined with cars. Camilla eases around the haphazardly parked Mercedes, BMWs, Land Rovers, and the occasional Lambo, and pulls up to the five-car detached garage on the east side of the house.

“I think my baby will be safe here. No one likes to get blocked in, so they don’t park this close to the house,” she says, and I smile inwardly at our shared motherly love for our cars. Suddenly I’m thinking of my own “baby,” of Spain, and of Javier. A wave of heartache crashes over me so intensely that I have to grip the armrest on the door to steady myself before exiting the car. I take a deep breath and follow Camilla down a stone path illuminated by twinkling string lights, and in through the front door. Sure enough, there’s the ostentatious framed article hanging on the wall. Camilla gives me a look:
Told you so.

We turn left and follow a long, dark hallway that opens up to a den. Bookcases full of leather-bound volumes line the walls. A fireplace across the room crackles and pops as flames leap skyward, dispersing the comforting aroma of burning wood throughout the house. A group of people sit on pillows on the floor, surrounding a coffee table. Others, engaged in hushed conversations, sit facing each other on leather sofas. The Pixies’ “Wave of Mutilation
”
plays on the sound system—a decidedly subdued tune for an allegedly raucous party. I had previously imagined that I would walk into blaring Rage Against the Machine.

“There you are,” a silky-smooth voice purrs from behind us. We do an abrupt about-face, and instantly everything Camilla has told me about her boyfriend is validated. The first thing I see is a mass of sandy-blond curls. Then eyes the color of the Mediterranean on a calm, summer day meet mine. His petal-pink, bow-shaped lips, accentuated with high cheekbones and a cleft chin, flash a sly smile. His face is so beautifully symmetrical, that I wonder if he’s had cosmetic surgery, perhaps on his perfectly proportioned nose or on his creamy, clear skin. Then someone so remarkably similar in appearance walks up, and I know without a doubt that it’s his brother, Jude, and that these two were born with their celestial good looks.