Chapter Thirteen
“Story,” Luca says when he calls the next morning, “you continue to delight and amaze our paparazzi friends. They took some very cute pictures of you waiting patiently outside the restaurant looking like a lost duckling.” The hint of sarcasm in his voice isn’t lost on me.
“I’m sorry. I’m trying to fit in, honestly. I should have come with you.”
Luca laughs. “Why are you such a shy loner?”
“I have certificates of achievement in both from Signora del Giudizio’s School for Misfit Children.”
“Ha! You must have been Madam Judgment’s star pupil, wandering around Rome sightseeing instead of making friends. You can’t hide forever, you know. Life will catch you up. I have to run. I’ll pick you up at six, okay? Traffic to that part of the city will be tight.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“Hilarious, as you say. Ciao.”
“Ciao.”
When Luca hangs up, I think about the tabloids. I really want to pretend they aren’t there, but maybe Luca is right and it’s better to keep your enemies close. Or maybe not. I set my phone down and start doing laundry. I can’t get sucked into his lifestyle, worried about what people are saying about me. All I can do is be me and hope it’s enough. It’s not enough in my world, though, so I don’t know how it could be in Luca’s. At least in my world, I only have to take some jabs at school. My beatdown isn’t a public spectacle. I vacuum and wash some dishes and then I water Bert and the rest of the plants. It’s almost lunchtime, and I haven’t looked at the tabloids.
But then I do. There I am, my whole day spread before my eyes. Pictures of me in front of the restaurant, Luca and I standing on the Pons Fabricus with his arms wrapped around me, the two of us laughing at the Ponte Nomentano and holding hands leaving the Casina delle Civette. It’s almost enough to convince me we’re the real deal. There’s even a picture of us under the tree at the abbey. It might be nice to have these photos, if they weren’t stalked and shared with the world without our permission, but they are, and that ruins even sightseeing with a friend.
There is also a lovely article quoting my “best friend,” Guin Behringer, full of facts about my life, such as how we love to shop together on the “Via dei Condotti,” and how she and I met Luca at an embassy party, and she had to tell him that I had a huge crush on him to get him to ask me out, and how I used to “have a thing” for our classmate, Patrick Rooney, son of the US ambassador. I almost throw my phone through the balcony door.
A few minutes later, Luca texts me.
So hey, Jasmine said she’s sending you something for tonight, from her stylist.
You mean a dress? I already have one.
Idk. She just said she’d hook you up. Maybe jewelry. Let me know if you want some diamonds.
Hilarious.
I’m serious.
You are not normal.
Lol, I can rent you some, or at least Hodges can. Or hairstylist, makeup person, whatever.
I’m good, thanks. Like every ordinary teen girl, I learned my makeup tips from gay guys on YouTube.
Pro level. Okay then, see you at six.
After lunch, I walk up to the Keats-Shelley House and visit Anna Maria. She doesn’t follow celebrity news, and it’s really nice to forget the craziness for a while. She asks me about Luca, though.
“I guess I’ve seen him a lot.”
“How much is a lot? Every day?” She keeps her dark-roast eyes fixed on me.
“Yes. I mean, he has a very busy social life, and he likes having a plus-one. That’s all it is for him.”
I help her set out some new notebooks with “Bright Star” in gold lettering on the blue cover.
“And what is it for you?”
I can’t look at her. “It’s something to do. He’s funny and nice, but we come from very different worlds.”
“How do you mean?”
Her gaze is like being hooked up to a polygraph test, but I’m not exactly sure what I mean. This whole thing with Jeremy doesn’t feel right, but aren’t I as guilty as Luca and Jasmine? Is it really even wrong? What right does the public have to know about Jasmine’s dating life? But keeping the secret will make her money. I would never have started all this in motion, but I’m going along with it. I’m even getting paid for it, sort of.
“Rich people see everything as sitting there just for them, whether it’s valet parking or tickets to some sold-out event. Maybe I’ve seen too much of it, being the daughter of someone who works at an embassy, but everyone accommodates them.”
Anna Maria nods slowly. “?‘I quattrini mandan l’acqua all’insù.’?”
She’s been teaching me idioms. “I don’t know that one.”
“Money sends water upwards. It means it can do the impossible.”
“Most things, anyway. ‘L’ultimo vestito ce lo fanno senza tasche.’?” She laughs because that means the last suit is made without pockets, or as we’d say, you can’t take it with you when you die. “I’d better go.”
I walk home through a soft rain. Jack texts me, and raindrops splatter my screen in little iridescent pinpricks.
I didn’t know you had a thing for Patrick.
Hilarious.
Does Kelsey know you’re Guin’s BFF now?
I will happily relinquish the title.
No wonder you’ve never liked our group.
I laugh. At least he can see them for what they are. It’ll all be forgotten soon. New town, new people to avoid.
Jack marks my text with a like. I promise to be a better friend at Princeton than I was here.
I don’t know how to respond. I settle on one word. Same.
As I open the door to my building, I knock over a huge box with my name across the top. It must be from Jasmine, and, from the size of the box, it’s definitely a dress. It’s probably gorgeous, but there’s no way for me to explain it to my mom. I might be holding a five-thousand-dollar gown in my hands, and all I can wish is that she’d never sent it. My trickle-down dress was only $189 euros, but I love it.
I take the box up to my room and open it. There’s a note from Jasmine on top of perfectly laid out tissue paper, sealed with a gold sticker. “All eyes will be on you, and I know you want to fit in for Luca’s sake. My stylist picked this especially for you. It’ll be perfect. Love, J.”
“No pressure,” I say out loud. I feel like a traitor to my Christian Dior for even looking at it. I can’t imagine what this dress that costs thousands of dollars, picked by a professional stylist, is going to look like. I guess that’s a good thing because when I pull the tissue paper away, I can hardly believe my eyes.
There’s a famous designer’s name on the label, but even Kelsey and Guin couldn’t have picked anything this hideous for me. This cannot be a mistake.
The gown is a sickly color of chartreuse with layer after layer of accordion ruffles, and they all seem to stick out at different angles. The neckline comes up to the throat and then does this weird Peter Pan collar thing, except it’s cream-colored and huge like something a Puritan preacher would have worn. The sleeves pouf out, and the dress hangs slack. A minute ago, I was worried about my mom seeing me with a superexpensive designer dress. Now I’m worried that my fake boyfriend’s secret girlfriend is a sociopath who wants to kill me on the altar of celebrity magazines. Maybe I deserve this for getting myself into this mess.
I try on the olive abomination just in case I’m missing something major about couture. Does it somehow become beautiful when you slip it on as if Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother has transformed it? But no, an actual giant pumpkin would look better on me, plus it’s way too long. I pack it up and shove it under my bed so my mom doesn’t see it. I’ll give it to Luca to return to his thoughtful diva.
I take a shower and try to wash away the memory of how I looked in that Puritan palooza, wondering why anyone would send someone a dress that ugly. Then I wonder how anyone could make a dress that ugly. Then I wonder how anyone who made a dress that ugly could still be a famous designer. Rich people make no sense to me.
When I’m all dressed, I check myself in the mirror. The Dior gown is beautiful. The way my mom and I tacked it up at intervals makes the crinoline show, and it really does look like something a fairy-tale princess might have worn. I’m wearing a rose gold necklace that picks up the copper coloring of the embroidery and a pair of satin black heels borrowed from my mom. I spritz some perfume on my wrists, and my mom slips a sparkling hairpin into my French twist.
Luca comes a few minutes early because my mom wants to take pictures of us as if we’re going to prom, something I wouldn’t have gone to even if my school had had one.
“Jings, Story, you look completely bonnie.”
“Thank you, you look nice, too. My mom fixed my hair.” I say all of it awkwardly because I’m not really experienced with handing out compliments or taking them, either. He has on a tux, and it doesn’t look like a rental.
Luca has brought my mom flowers and me chocolates. She’s so happy that I worry she’s getting attached to this idea of Luca and me. I need to tell Luca to turn down the charm a notch. They have a mini gabfest while we take the pictures, and it’s kind of fun to be in this beautiful designer gown and going to some fancy ball with a friend. Or almost friend. Or at least, someone whose company I don’t find nearly as grating as I had expected.
“Luca, why don’t you come for dinner on Sunday?” my mom asks. My eyes pop open, and I shake my head at him behind her back.
“I think he’s busy, Mom.”
“No, I’m not busy,” he says. “I’d love to have dinner with you and Story.”
This just keeps getting more complicated. “We’d better go,” I say, and Luca gestures for me to lead the way.
When we’re safely in the bubble of the Portofino, I stare at him. “Why would you tell my mom yes?”
Luca’s face contracts. “About dinner? Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because I’m not actually your girlfriend?”
“But your mom thinks you are. And she asked very politely.”
“Luca, involving our families was not part of the plan.”
“You can meet my mom if you like.”
“Luca, this isn’t funny!”
Luca laughs. “You are way too uptight, you know that? I like your mom. And you and I are friends, remember? It’ll befine.”
I let out a deep breath. It’s too late now anyway. Luca breezes us through Rome, and I try to let go of the prickly feeling around my heart.
I’ve never been to a gala of any kind, but I’ve learned enough about Luca’s life to expect a red carpet. Luca knows where to stop to let the photographers take their shots. They yell questions about our relationship. He just smiles and nods before moving me along. When we get inside, he takes my hand. “Come on. I want you to meet someone.”
We thread our way through the attendees. There are enough celebrities that you’d think we were at the Oscars. Luca introduces me to the endless number of people he knows and manages the small talk. Then he extracts us with the dexterity of a skilled surgeon.
“Andrew!” Luca exclaims as a guy our age comes striding over. He’s got strawberry blond hair and a really nice smile.
“Luca’s told me so much about you,” Andrew says with a Scottish accent. “But you’re even prettier than your photos.”
“Thank you. You can’t trust him, though.”
“Well, that’s something I already knew,” he says. “We grew up together.”
“Ah, so if anyone knows the real Luca Kinnaird, it’s you.”
“What exactly does that mean?” Luca asks, tilting his head.
“It means you have the real Luca, and then the Luca persona you deploy on the world. I’m never really sure which one I’m talking to, like an excellent spy.”
“That is precisely him,” Andrew says, laughing.
I raise my eyebrows at Luca in victory, but he just gives me a shrewd look.
“Are you sitting with us?” he asks Andrew.
“Aye, I seem to have finally infiltrated the cool kids’ table.”
“Good, I want you and Story to get to know each other.”
Luca’s attention is caught, and I follow his gaze across the crowded ballroom to his beloved. She looks like you would expect her to look, wearing a dress that Satan would blush at and wearing it exceptionally well. Her dark, dyed hair is in its signature look, tight to the face and pulled back high. Her makeup is like a mask, but perfectly set. She must have spent hours getting ready. I feel sorry for her because I can’t imagine anything more boring. But it’s easy to see why she’s every guy’s dream.
I hadn’t expected her to be here, with her European tour starting tomorrow. There are enough people that it doesn’t seem likely I’ll have to meet her, until she slowly serpentines her way over to us, bodyguards trailing her like bridesmaids, and I catch myself picking at my nail beds. There’s no way she thought the dress she sent was nice. Or that she won’t say something about me not wearing it.
“Andrew, Luca,” she says as she kisses each of them, “how great to see you both.”
They exchange their pleasantries, and Luca introduces me. Andrew offers to get us all drinks. I have no idea if he knows what’s really going on, but I wish I could go with him.
I don’t want her to think I’m interested in her territory, though, so I’m extra polite. “Your voice is amazing,” I say, which is true even if her music relies on swearing and sex to make it bankable.
“Thanks.” She lets her gaze take in my dress. She looks around as if to see if anyone is near us and then back at me expectantly. When I don’t say anything, she says, “Why aren’t you wearing the dress I sent?”
“That’s not the dress Jasmine gave you?” Luca asks.
“Of course not,” she says with a snort.
“That was really kind of you, but it didn’t fit.”
“My stylist gauged your measurements from the tab photos, it must have fit. Whatever it is that you’re wearing is from at least three seasons ago. You’re going to be a laughingstock.” She’s smiling for anyone watching as if she’s just made nice small talk with me.
I pull my lips in. The tabloids probably will come after me for wearing a trickle-down dress. Although how anyone cares enough to be bothered to know is beyond me. Still, what she’s really upset about is that I’m the one nominally here with Luca even though she’s the one Luca’s protecting. Luca could have run into me in every gelateria in Rome, and he wouldn’t have asked me out. The one thing Patrick has ever been right about.
“Jaz, it’s just a dress, and she looks lovely,” Luca says quietly.
“Well, when the tabloids are making fun of her, you’ll both be wishing she’d worn what I sent. She’s never going to pull this off if she can’t at least try to fit in.” She laughs as if we are having a completely different conversation, for anyone watching her.
“It’ll be fine,” Luca says. “The tabs know she doesn’t come from money.”
“But you come from money, Luca. They’ll expect you to make sure that she looks…” She pauses, apparently because even she can’t come up with a suitably obnoxious word. “Like she belongs with us.”
I turn my head. Andrew is at the bar, being handed the drinks. The only people here like me are the servers and bartenders.
“She fits in just fine.” Luca slips his hand around my back. “The tabs are getting a big kick out of me dating a…”
The pause hits me like a slap. I turn back. The blue of his eyes is dark, like a creek that’s overrun its banks. “You can say it, I won’t break. Ordinary girl.”
“We’ll see,” Jasmine says. She smiles as if she’s glad I know my place, and tells Luca, “I’ll see you back at the hotel, babe.” Then she floats off, her icy heart not weighing her down in the least.
Luca pulls away a little, and we stand there. “I really don’t know anything about fashion,” he says after a few moments.
“I guess that makes two of us.”
“And I didn’t mean anything by that crack about you being different from us.”
I can’t look at him, but I square my shoulders. “You were right, though. I’m nothing like you.” I turn and go in search of Andrew.
“Story, wait,” Luca says, but I keep walking. A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have thought much about people making fun of me for wearing a recycled dress or being just ordinary Astoria Herriot. But right now, my eyes sting, and I don’t even know why I care what Luca Kinnaird and his diva girlfriend think.