City Secrets Page 3

  “Mrs. Fox,” said the woman. “Would you like to begin with soup and salad?”

  Mrs. Fox looked up at the woman and shook her head. “Are you not able to follow simple instructions, Helen?”

  Helen seemed to shrink a little and she bowed her head.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fox. I didn’t want your dinner to be late and—”

  Mrs. Fox waved her hand, the massive diamond ring on her finger sparkling in the light. “I don’t want to hear excuses, nor do I have time for them. I specifically told you to begin serving when my husband arrives.”

  Whhhoooa.

  Mrs. Fox wasn’t even talking to me and I was scared! I almost couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. I felt a rush of sympathy for Helen. I couldn’t imagine speaking like that to anyone—ever!

  Helen, red-faced, disappeared into the kitchen.

  I shot a look at Heather and she stared at her empty soup bowl, her face pink. If that’s how her mother acted when there was a guest in the house, I didn’t even want to imagine how she treated the staff when no one was around.

  “I hope it’s now clear to everyone,” Mrs. Fox said, “that we’ll be waiting for Mr. Fox. He’s likely caught in traffic, but should be arriving soon.”

  Heather and I didn’t say anything. We kept our eyes down.

  I shifted in my seat, knowing the sophisticated thing to do would be to engage Mrs. Fox in conversation about something like . . . art? Or opera? But I didn’t know much (read: anything) about those. Or, at least, not much beyond van Gogh and The Phantom of the Opera—the movie version.

  “Whatever scent’s coming from the kitchen smells amazing,” I said. “What are we having?”

  Mrs. Fox turned her gaze to me. She had the same blue eyes as Heather, but unlike her daughter’s, the iciness never melted.

  “I think we can wait to discuss dinner until Mr. Fox arrives,” Mrs. Fox said. I blushed and sank into my chair. She looked away from me and stared at the giant wall clock. It was almost seven. Mrs. Fox turned back to me and I wondered why I’d ever opened my mouth. I placed my elbow on the table, then whipped it off, hoping Mrs. Fox hadn’t seen me.

  “Do you plan on taking advantage of Canterwood’s etiquette classes?” Mrs. Fox asked me. “When I attended the institution, I led etiquette courses by the time I was a sophomore.”

  “Um.”

  Argh! I wanted to smack myself in the face for saying “um.” That was such a don’t.

  “I haven’t taken any and I really haven’t thought about it,” I said. “My schedule’s full right now with riding and my other classes.”

  Mrs. Fox raised both waxed eyebrows. “One shows quite a high level of confidence to think he or she is above etiquette courses.”

  “Oh, no,” I said quickly. “I’m sure I do—I just haven’t—”

  “Mom,” Heather interrupted. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

  The chill I felt from Mrs. Fox’s gaze shifted to Heather.

  “Fine, Heather,” Mrs. Fox said. “We haven’t discussed Homecoming. I knew my daughter would win, but that boy who won—Jackson something—was he a worthy Prince?”

  “It’s Jacob, actually,” Heather said.

  His name was enough to make me blink. Jacob, who wanted me back. Jacob, who had left me at the Sweetheart Soirée, dated my other best friend, Callie, broke up with her, and then asked me to try again with him. My mind couldn’t stay focused on Heather’s convo with her mom. I saw Jacob’s green eyes, his light brown hair that sometimes flopped into his eyes, and the way he smiled at me.

  I’d been beyond devastated when Jacob had broken up with me at the Sweetheart Soirée last February, even though we hadn’t technically been BF/GF. Then Eric—sweet, horse-crazy Eric—had come into my life and made me the happiest I’d ever been. But like my relationship with Jacob, it had been destroyed. There was no going back, even if I’d wanted to be Eric’s girlfriend again.

  “Heather!” Mrs. Fox’s sharp tone yanked me out of my thoughts.

  “You must realize that being Homecoming Princess comes with a long list of responsibilities,” Mrs. Fox continued. “You now represent your eighth-grade class. When you go back to school, everyone will look to you for how to dress, act, and behave.”

  I glanced at Heather and knew the look on her face. She wanted to argue. Wanted to say she never wanted to be Homecoming anything and wasn’t at all interested in her “responsibilities” as Princess. But instead Heather just nodded.

  “I know, Mom,” Heather said.

  Mrs. Fox glanced at the clock again. Seven fifteen. “I cannot imagine what’s keeping your father,” she said. “Excuse me—I’m going to call the office.”

  As Mrs. Fox left the room, Heather sighed. “This is only the beginning,” she said, looking over at me. “She’s not going to reach my dad and she’ll come back even more upset.”

  “But you said this will probably be the only dinner we have with them,” I said. “At least there’s that.”

  “Yeeeah.”

  I reached for my water glass, then changed my mind. What if I dropped it? I envisioned water spilling over the Martha Stewart–perfect table.

  A door slammed and Heather and I both jumped. Mrs. Fox strode into the dining room and tipped her chin up as she sat down.

  “Your father’s secretary said he had a last-minute conference call and will be at least another hour,” Mrs. Fox said.

  “Mom, can’t we just start?” Heather asked. “Dad won’t care.”

  “Heather, don’t be rude,” Mrs. Fox said. “An hour isn’t that long of a wait.”

  She looked at me and I squeezed my hands together under the table.

  “So, Sasha, you’re a new . . . friend of my daughter’s.”

  She said “friend” as if she were talking about something gross.

  I nodded. “Yes, Heather and I are on the riding team together and we recently—”

  “You’re a transfer student, correct?” Mrs. Fox asked, interrupting me.

  “That’s right,” I said. I tried not to be thrown off by her question. “I started at Canterwood last year.”

  Deciding to be brave, I reached for my water glass and took a long sip, hoping that was the end of the questions.

  Mrs. Fox sat up straighter and tilted her head. “And where did you live prior to transferring to Canterwood?”

  “Union, Connecticut,” I said.

  “So did you travel to attend Dalton? Or Easterly?” Mrs. Fox named two fancy private schools that were at least an hour away from my house.

  “Uh, no,” I said. “I attended public school in Union.”

  Mrs. Fox leaned back slightly, as if it were taking everything she had not to recoil in horror. Maybe she’d learned that in etiquette class.

  Heather had been right—her mom was making me feeling exactly like Heather had during my first day at Canterwood. As if I was a small-town hick who didn’t belong and had no right to be walking on Canterwood’s prestigious campus.

  “Public school,” Mrs. Fox said slowly. “I can only imagine what an experience that must have been for you.”

  I tried not to look as angry as I felt. I was so over people dissing my hometown. Just because it wasn’t Manhattan didn’t make it the go-to topic for mocking.

  “Union Middle School was great,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “I loved all of my teachers and everything I learned there has helped me at Canterwood.”

  Mrs. Fox pursed her lips. “I’m sure no matter how good your school seemed, you must have felt overwhelmed by a new environment. There would be nothing wrong if you were still having trouble adjusting to Canterwood.”

  “Mom,” Heather interrupted. “Can we please eat? You know Dad’s not going to make dinner and I’m starving.”

  Mrs. Fox started to shake her head, then she took a deep breath. “Fine, Heather. There’s no need to act immature over waiting for dinner.”

  Almost as if she’d been waiting on the other side
of the kitchen door, anticipating instructions, Helen appeared and stood by Mrs. Fox.

  “May I bring you anything, Mrs. Fox?” Helen asked.

  “Yes, Helen,” Mrs. Fox said, her voice sharp. “You may have the servers bring the salad and soup.”

  Helen scurried into the kitchen, and servers came into the dining room to collect our plates and bowls. Minutes later a steaming bowl of green soup and a romaine lettuce salad topped with bits of carrots, onions, mushrooms, cucumbers, and a half dozen other ingredients was set in front of me. Tiny glass salad-dressing bottles were lined up on the center of the table, and I tried not to stare at everything laid in front of me.

  I watched Heather reach for the spoon on the far outside of her plate. Mimicking her, I did the same.

  “This soup looks amazing,” I said, smiling at Mrs. Fox.

  “Curried split-pea soup is one of Mr. Fox’s favorites,” Mrs. Fox replied.

  I dipped in my spoon, determined not to slurp when I brought it to my mouth.

  I’d never had split-pea soup, let alone curried split-pea soup. It was hot, but not too spicy. I took another taste and liked it more with each swallow. We ate our soup in silence, then moved on to the salad.

  I poured ranch dressing on mine. Heather reached for the same and pulled back her hand when Mrs. Fox frowned at her. Instead, Heather took the Italian dressing and put a couple of drops on her salad. I almost choked on my bite of lettuce, feeling a rush of sympathy for Heather.

  I couldn’t wait for dinner to be over.

  We ate our salads, and the instant we’d all finished, our plates were cleared and the servers started bringing the next course. The smell of chicken wafted through the air and I sniffed appreciatively.

  Mrs. Fox didn’t pick up her fork and knife until she, Heather, and I were the only ones in the room.

  “What is this, Mom?” Heather asked. “It looks new.”

  Mrs. Fox nodded. “It is. I got the recipe from Anne—you remember her from the country club—and gave it to our cook. It’s hazelnut-encrusted chicken with raspberry sauce.”

  “Mmm,” I said. “That sounds great.”

  Mrs. Fox ignored me and took a dainty bite of chicken. No one spoke throughout the main course. I made sure I took tiny bites and kept my mouth closed while I chewed. I was reaching for my water glass when Mr. Fox strode into the living room. He was dressed exactly like the men I’d seen on TV who worked high-powered jobs in NYC. His tie was stark white against his black shirt and black suit jacket. His dark hair was cropped short.

  He handed his leather briefcase with shiny gold locks to Kay and she left the room. Mr. Fox kissed his wife on the cheek and sat at the head of the table.

  “How was your conference call?” Mrs. Fox asked.

  Something in her tone made me think she wasn’t so much asking about the call, but rather, why he’d missed dinner.

  “Productive,” Mr. Fox said. He gave Heather a half smile, and then seemed to notice me for the first time. “Sasha, correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Thank you for letting me stay during break. My parents and I really appreciate it.”

  Mr. Fox nodded. “We’re happy to welcome you into our home, but this is not a break.”

  I didn’t know what else to do but stare at him. What did he think this was?

  “This is a break from classes,” Mr. Fox continued. “But Heather will not stop practicing her riding.” He turned to look at his daughter. “With a week off school, I expect you to be in the arena more. I’ve already arranged for horses to be available so you’ll be able to practice.”

  “I know, Dad,” Heather said. “I promised I was going to ride more. I will. And Sasha’s riding too. We’re both working toward the upcoming schooling show.”

  “I don’t want you distracted, Heather,” Mr. Fox said.

  Heather let out a barely audible sigh. “Dad, Sasha and I are both on the Youth Equestrian National Team. No one else at my old stable is at that level. I need someone to practice with.”

  Mr. Fox looked at her for a long second before finally nodding.

  “All right. But I want full reports on what you’re doing, and if we need to phone Mr. Conner over break to make sure you’re doing enough, we will.”

  Heather didn’t say anything—she just sat there. I squirmed in my seat, wanting to do something to get the attention off her. I knew the last thing she wanted was for her dad to call Mr. Conner, our riding instructor at Canterwood.

  “I thought you were going to be on time for dinner,” Mrs. Fox said, turning to her husband.

  Okay, so I don’t have to do a thing. Mrs. Fox is already taking care of the distraction.

  “You know I can’t leave work when York phones from London,” Mr. Fox said. “It was an important call that I couldn’t miss.”

  Mrs. Fox’s eyes turned a shade colder. I hadn’t thought that was possible.

  “You went ahead and ate anyway, so it’s not as though I delayed your meal,” Mr. Fox said. “Besides, I ate a late lunch at the office and I’m more in the mood for coffee and dessert.”

  “Helen!” Mrs. Fox’s yell made Heather and me jump.

  The double doors to the kitchen swung open and Helen hurried through them.

  “We’re ready for dessert and coffee,” Mrs. Fox instructed.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Helen said, tipping her head.

  Dessert—crème brûlée and cappuccino—was served, and I was sure Heather and I had the same unspoken goal: to finish as fast as possible so we could get out of there! We gobbled our desserts, and I drank my cappuccino so fast that it burned my tongue.

  Heather’s parents didn’t even look at each other as they finished their desserts.

  “May we be excused?” Heather asked. “I want to study one of my DVDs from the last show.”

  Mr. Fox nodded. “You’re excused.”

  “Thank you for the wonderful meal,” I said, giving Mr. and Mrs. Fox a shaky smile. I hurried after Heather before Mrs. Fox could insult me again or Mr. Fox started grilling me about my own riding.

  As soon we were out of the dining room, Heather slowed and turned to me.

  “You know we’re not spending valuable break time watching a dumb show DVD, right?”

  “Figured.”

  “Go put on pj’s and meet me in the TV room—it’s past the living room. We can watch a movie.”

  “Sounds fun,” I said.

  “Anything sounds fun compared to that dinner,” Heather said, faking a giant smile as she walked away to her room.

  5

  YOU’D THINK YOU’D HAVE LEARNED

  BACK IN “MY” ROOM, I PULLED ON A PAIR of cozy pink pants and a white T-shirt with a tiny pocket. I put Heather’s dress on a hanger and glanced around the room, making sure everything was neat in case Mrs. Fox had one of the maids inspect it or something.

  I opened the door and listened, but didn’t hear anyone. It felt as if I had to sneak around everywhere here! Crossing my fingers that her parents weren’t anywhere near the TV room, I hurried down the hall and walked along the back of the living room to double doors that had to be for the TV room.

  I put a hand on the doorknob, pausing and hoping I’d heard Heather’s directions—

  “Omigod,” someone hissed in my ear. “Just stand there forever.”

  I jumped and my heart pounded as Heather pushed past me and opened the door.

  I followed her inside and almost did one of those clichéd and embarrassing double takes when I looked around. Was everything in this apartment insanely cool?

  A giant black couch with tables on either side was set up in front of a huge plasma TV mounted to the wall. There was a surround sound system that I knew was going to be amazing, and glass cabinets filled with DVDs lined a wall of the giant room. On the far side of the couch were a couple recliners with cup holders and outlets for headphones.

  “This is awesome,” I said. “It’s better than any of Canterwood’s media rooms.”

&n
bsp; Heather smiled. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. I used to spend a lot of time in here when I lived at home. My parents hardly ever use this room anymore, except when they’re trying to impress their friends or something.”

  She motioned to the back of the room and I noticed a stainless steel fridge and a counter, microwave, and giant black cabinet.

  “There’s soda, popcorn, candy—tons of snacks back there. Get whatever and I’ll pick out a flick.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said.

  I knew Heather liked Diet Dr Pepper, so I grabbed two cans from the fridge and put them on a tray. Baskets filled with minipacks of chips, pretzels, Cheetos, and other movie food lined the counter. I filled the tray with a bunch of options and set it on the table in front of the couch. While I settled into the left side of the sofa, Heather stood in front of me and held up three DVDs.

  “Got a vote?” she asked. “Even though I probably won’t listen to you, anyway.”

  I pointed to a comedy on the far left. “I haven’t seen that one.”

  Heather walked over to the DVD player. “Huh. Me either.” She popped it in and flicked on the massive TV. The previews started and I opened a bag of chips.

  “We better relax while we can,” I said. “It sounds like we might be riding more this week than we do at school.”

  Heather snorted. “Please. It’s called ‘break’ for a reason. I just told my dad that so he’d chill.”

  “So we’re not riding?”

  “I didn’t say that. We—well, definitely you—need to practice and we’re going to be riding. But not every second. There’s too much to do this week.”

  I looked away from the TV to stare at her. “Like . . . what?”

  “Silver, do you not know how to be quiet when a movie’s on?”

  I stared at her for another second before picking up a chip and focusing on the previews. Heather had something planned for this week. And knowing her, it was going to be good.

  An hour and a half later the credits rolled, and Heather turned off the TV. We’d laughed through most of the movie and had eaten our way through the entire tray of food. My eyes had started to close during the final few minutes of the movie and I was surprised how tired I was this early—it was just after ten.