Blue Bloods

CHAPTER 15

The yearly Duchesne back-to-school dance was called the Fall "Informals," although it was anything but informal. The dance was held at the historical headquarters of the American Society, a grand red brick mansion on Park Avenue and Sixty-eighth Street. The society was an organization dedicated to keeping an archive of early American history, including documents from the first colonies and the Mayflower journey. The second floor housed a wood-paneled library with a barrel-vaulted ceiling as well as several cozy, clubby rooms ideal for dinner and dancing. It was a popular event space, and many brides-to-be shelled out a fortune for the privilege of having their wedding on Park Avenue. But for Duchesne students, it was just the place where they had their school dance.

Earlier that evening, Oliver and Schuyler were hanging out in his room, doing nothing as usual—but when Schuyler casually mentioned she'd heard that Dylan—of all people— was going to the lame dance, Oliver pounced on the idea. "Let's go."

"Us? Why?" Schuyler was horrified.

"C'mon, it'll be funny."

"No it won't." Schuyler argued. "Us go to some snobby dance? Just to see Mimi Force lording it over everyone?"

"I heard they do a pretty good spread," Oliver wheedled.

"I'm not hungry."

"C'mon, what else are we going to do?"

After the excitement of the past weekend, when they'd ventured to The Bank, it did seem a bit dull to just sit on Oliver's bed reading magazines together.

"All right," Schuyler agreed. "But I need to go home and change."

"Of course."

When Oliver picked her up, Schuyler was wearing a cocktail-length fifties-style black lace prom dress, dainty white wrist gloves, fishnet stockings, and round-toe high heels, almost as a joke. She'd found the dress on eBay for thirty dollars. The strapless dress fit perfectly around her tiny waist, and the skirt blossomed out at the hips like a graceful bell held aloft by a layer of tulle petticoats. She'd found her grandmother's pearl necklace, with the black satin ribbon, in the bottom of her music box, and tied it around her neck. Oliver had chosen a deep blue silk smoking jacket over a black shirt and black wool pants. He presented Schuyler with a breathtaking rose corsage.

"Where did you get it?" Schuyler asked as he slipped it around her wrist.

"You can have anything delivered in New York." Oliver grinned. He handed her a boutonniere, and she pinned it on his lapel.

"How do we look?"

"Perfect," he said, offering her his arm.

When they arrived at the American Society mansion, a host of sleek black town cars were dropping off students paired off in dates. The girls were in chic black cocktail dresses and pearls, the guys in blue blazers and wool trousers. No one had corsages. Instead, the girls were carrying long-stemmed calla lilies, which they carelessly tossed aside when they entered the room.

"I guess we didn't get the memo," Schuyler quipped.

They headed upstairs, trying to blend in. Several girls whispered when they saw Schuyler in her dress. "It's got to be from Marc Jacobs," someone whispered. "More like a costume shop," her friend sniffed. Schuyler turned crimson from embarrassment.

They found Dylan on the second landing by the cornucopia display. He was wearing a camel-hair sportscoat over a sharp black dress shirt and well-cut wool trousers. Bliss Llewellyn, the pretty redhead from Texas, was sitting on his lap. She was wearing a slim Costume National black sheath dress, Prada slingbacks, and the ubiquitous string of pearls around her swanlike neck.

"Hey guys," Dylan said, when he saw his friends. He shook hands with Oliver and pecked Schuyler on the cheek. "Y'all know Bliss, right?"

They nodded. Since when did Dylan say "Y'all"? He must really be into this girl.

"You clean up nice," Schuyler teased, brushing a piece of lint off Dylan's jacket.

"Is that Hugo Boss?" Oliver mocked, pretending to inspect the material.

"Yes, and don't get it dirty," Dylan shot back, chagrined but grinning nonetheless.

Bliss smiled happily at them. She winked at Schuyler. "Cool dress," she said, and it sounded like she actually meant it.

"Thanks."

"So—have you checked out the place? Some good eats upstairs," Dylan said.

"No—but we will," Oliver promised. They left the couple and wormed their way through the crowd upstairs to the buffet.

The rooms had been decorated with white Christmas lights, and in the back, there was an elegant display of hot and cold roast meats, silver plates laden with exquisite hors d'oeuvres and French pastries. In the middle room, a sweaty mix of patrician girls and rich boys were gyrating to the beat of a hard rap song. The lights were off, and Schuyler could only make out the shadows of their faces. She could see that all the boys from Duchesne were carrying little silver Tiffany hip flasks that stuck out of their side pants pockets. Occasionally, they would surreptitiously take a swig or pour a bit of alcohol in their date's cups. Even Oliver had brought his monogrammed one. There were several teachers milling about, but no one seemed to notice, or care about the covert tippling.

"Want a sip?"

"Sure," Schuyler said, taking the flask from his hand. The liquor was warm and hit the back of her throat. Her head buzzed for a minute, and she took a couple more gulps.

"Easy there! That's 181 proof," Oliver warned. "You're going to get wasted," he said gleefully.

But Schuyler felt just as sober as before, although she smiled and pretended to feel its effects.

They stood tentatively at the edge of the party, nursing their silver cups of organic fruit punch, trying to pretend that it didn't bother either of them that no one had called them over or waved hello or made any indication at all that they were welcome at the event. Schuyler looked around at the cozy groups forming around cocktail tables, smoking on the balcony, or posing for pictures in front of the piano, and realized that, even though she'd known most of these people for almost all of her life, she didn't belong anywhere. It was amazing how even Dylan had managed to find a place for himself, with a popular girlfriend no less, while she and Oliver were just left with each other once again.

"Wanna dance?" Oliver asked, cocking a thumb to the dark room.

She shook her head. "Nah."

"Wanna go instead?" Oliver asked, having come to the same conclusion. "We could go back to The Bank—I bet they're playing better music."

Schuyler was torn. On the one hand, she and Oliver had every right to be there—they were Duchesne students, too— but on the other hand, maybe it was best if they just crept away silently; and maybe with luck no one would even notice they had been there at all.

Oliver's mouth twisted in a strained smile. "This is my fault."

"No—not at all. I wanted to be here," Schuyler protested. "But you're right, we should probably go."

They walked down the grand red-carpeted staircase, where Jack Force was standing on the last step, talking to Kitty Muffins. Schuyler held her breath and walked toward the front door without looking at him. She clutched Oliver's arm tightly.

"Leaving so soon?" Jack called.

She turned around. Kitty Mullins was gone, and Jack was leaning against the banister all by himself. He was wearing a custom French cuffed white shirt, with the front tucked in but the shirttails characteristically hanging out, with crisp khaki pants and a carelessly unbuttoned navy blazer. His tie was askew and he looked nothing less than drop-dead gorgeous. He fiddled with the cuff link on his right wrist.

"We were just about to." She shrugged, smiling in spite of herself.

"Why don't you stay?" Jack asked, smiling back and looking straight into her eyes. "You might have fun."

For a moment, Schuyler forgot Oliver was standing next to her, so when he spoke, she was startled. Oliver looked down at her, his face deliberately blank. "I think I'm going to get another drink. Want to join me?"

Schuyler didn't answer, and for an interminable moment, the three of them stood in an awkward triangle. "I, ah, I'm not thirsty, so I'll catch you later, Ollie. All right?" she pleaded.

Oliver frowned, but he didn't protest, and walked quickly back up the stairs.

Schuyler crossed her arms. What was it about Jack Force? All week after they'd spoken at the funeral, he'd hardly said a word to her, but now he was seeking her out again? Why did she even bother giving him the time of day?

Jack walked up and put an arm around her. "C'mon, let's dance. I think I hear my song."

She allowed herself to be led up the stairs, and this time, heads turned when the crowd spotted the two of them enter the room. Schuyler noted the jealous admiration from the girls, and several guys gave her a respectful glance. She had been invisible just a minute ago, but being in Jack's presence changed all that. He drew her closer, and she swayed to the music. The room was thrumming to the sexy, hypnotic beat of Muse's "Time Is Running Out." I think I'm drowning, asphyxiated… She slithered her body next to his, feeling beads of sweat and perspiration on his shirt that the heat between the two of them was generating.