The Lovely Reckless(85)
Cruz sees the country club gate and sits straighter.
Lex stops at the guard station. “Hi. Lex Rivera, Francesca Devereux, and guest.”
The guard checks our names off a list and waves us through. White lights hang in the oaks that line the road to the main clubhouse. Cruz leans forward and pokes her head between the front seats, transfixed by a scene Lex and I have seen dozens of times.
“Look at that shit,” Cruz says quietly.
Lex glances out the window. “They really are pretty.”
Cruz snorts and falls back against her seat, hugging her waist with her free arm. “It’s a waste of electricity. I would probably pay six months’ worth of electric bills for what it costs to keep those stupid things on tonight.”
Everything in the Heights must look that way to her—wasteful, excessive, proof of how much we take for granted. I’m not that kind of person anymore, but I’m still ashamed. When Lex doesn’t make a sarcastic comment, I wonder if she’s feeling the same way.
She pulls up to the valet, and a guy a little older than us rushes to open Lex’s door. Her floor-length black gown fits her perfectly, and her choppy blond bob looks more elegant than usual with the sides slicked neatly behind her ears.
The valet notices Cruz’s sling and tries to help her out of the car, but she gives him a death glare and he backs off. “I can’t believe I’m wearing this,” she mutters, pulling at the bottom of the silver strapless dress she borrowed from Lex. “I look like a Disney princess.”
“You look amazing. Don’t be a brat.” I shake out the back of the skirt as she follows Lex up the sidewalk. “And stop bunching up the bottom.”
Cruz tugs on the front of the strapless dress. “The girls are gonna fall out.”
Lex rolls her eyes. “Stop messing with your boobs. We’re going in.”
Cruz looks up at the main clubhouse and stops. “Wow.”
“Wow, like they’re wasting electricity?” Lex fidgets with one of her diamond studs.
“No. Just the regular kind.”
I never thought of this place as wow. It always reminded me of a smaller version of the White House. But witnessing Cruz’s reaction makes it feel like more.
The ballroom is already crowded. Enormous crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, scattering rainbows of light across the ivory tablecloths. The circular tables border the dance floor, and men in black tuxes and women wearing floor-length ball gowns weave between them.
Cruz takes a deep breath, her expression guarded. “I don’t know why rich kids hang out in the Downs getting high and partying when they have lives like this.”
“There are lots of nice things in this room,” Lex says. “But there aren’t many nice people here.”
“If you want to leave, I’ll understand,” I say.
I would if I had a choice.
Cruz eyes a waitress in a white tuxedo, offering guests sushi from a silver tray. As the waitress passes, Cruz nabs a California roll and pops it into her mouth. “I’m good. It’s like being at the zoo, and there’s free food.”
“Speaking of people who aren’t very nice,” Lex says to Cruz, “you’re about to meet one of them.”
Lex’s mom walks toward us.
“Hello, darling. You look gorgeous.” She air-kisses Lex’s cheek. “And, Frankie, it’s wonderful to see you here again. Everyone has missed you.”
Yeah. I’m sure. “Thanks, Mrs. Rivera.”
Mrs. Rivera eyes Cruz. “I haven’t met your friend, Lex. Isn’t that your dress?”
Lex nudges Cruz’s back and pushes her forward an inch. “This is Cruz. She’s a friend from school.”
Her mom flashes Cruz a fake campaign smile. “I see. It’s nice to meet you, Cruz.”
“Nice to meet you, too.” Cruz chokes out the words. But her expression says Screw you—something I’ve wanted to say to Lex’s mom, and mine, a hundred times.
“There are several important donors I want you to meet.” Mrs. Rivera loops her arm through Lex’s and leads her away.
Cruz exhales. “What a bitch.”
“Wait until you meet my mother and King Richard.”
She drags her attention away from an ice sculpture of a ballerina in mid-twirl. “If your mom is married to a king, I’m out of here.”
“He just thinks he’s a king.”
“So what kind of charity gets the money from this snob fest?” she asks.
“It’s for scholarships—”
“To college? That’s cool.” A waitress walks by with a tray of crostini, and Cruz takes one.
“Not exactly.” I don’t want to tell her the truth, but she’ll figure it out if she stays at the gala long enough. “The scholarships are for kids to attend the spring and summer programs at the National School of Ballet.”
Cruz drops her crostini on the table next to her. “You’re shitting me. They’re raising money for kids to go to ballet class? Why don’t they give out real scholarships?”
“I don’t know.”
A chorus of giggles erupts near the bar. A group of girls from Woodley loiter at one end, flirting with the bartender and downing champagne whenever they think no one is watching. Katherine Calder—shit poet, student body president, and reigning gossip queen—notices us, and the whispering starts.