Blue Bloods bb-1 Page 3

  Photographs of each graduating class lined the hallway to the library. Since The Duchesne School was formerly an all-girls institution, the first class of 1869 showed a group of six dour-faced maidens in white ball gowns, their names gracefully etched in calligraphy. As the years progressed, the daguerreotypes of nineteenth-century debutantes gave way to the black-and-white photographs of bouffant-haired swans of the 1950s, to the cheerful addition of long-haired gentlemen in the mid- 60s, when Duchesne finally went coed, leading to bright color photographs of winsome young women and handsome young men from the current crop.

  Because, really, not much changed. The girls still graduated in white tea dresses from Saks and white gloves from Bergdorf's, and were presented with garlands of twined ivy on their heads as well as the requisite bouquet of red roses along with their diplomas, while the boys wore proper morning suits, complete with pearl-tipped pins on their gray ascots.

  The gray tartan uniforms were long gone, but at Duchesne, bad news still arrived in the form of a canceled first-period class, followed by an announcement made over rustling static on the antiquated sound system: "Emergency chapel meeting. All students asked to report to the chapel at once."

  Schuyler met Oliver in the hallway outside Music Hum. They hadn't seen each other since Friday night. Neither of them had broached the subject of encountering Jack Force outside The Bank, which was highly unusual, since the two of them dissected every social situation they experienced down to the minute detail. There was a studied coolness in Oliver's tone when he saw Schuyler that morning. But Schuyler was oblivious to his aloofness—she ran up to him immediately and linked her arm in his.

  "What's going on?" she asked, tucking her head against his shoulder.

  "Hell if I know." He shrugged.

  "You always know," Schuyler pressed.

  "All right—but don't say anything." Oliver melted, enjoying the feel of her hair against his neck. Schuyler was looking particularly pretty that day. She was wearing her long hair down for once, and she looked like a pixie in her oversized Navy peacoat, faded jeans, and broken-in black cowboy boots. He looked around nervously. "I think it has something to do with the crowd that was at Block 122 this weekend."

  Schuyler raised her eyebrows. "Mimi and her people? Why? Are they getting expelled?"

  "Maybe," Oliver said, savoring the thought.

  Last year almost the entire crew team had been banished for illicit behavior on school grounds. To celebrate a win at the Head of the Charles, they had come back to school that evening and trashed the second-floor classrooms, leaving graffiti'd expletives on the walls and proof of their night— broken beer bottles, piles of cigarette stubs and several cocaine-laced dollar bills—to be found by the janitors the next morning. Parents petitioned the administration to change their decision (some thought expulsion too harsh, while others wanted nothing less than criminal charges filed). That the ringleader, a toothy Harvard-bound senior, was the Headmistress's nephew only added to the fire. (Harvard promptly recalled his admission, and the expelled coxswain was currently yelling himself hoarse at Duke.)

  Somehow Schuyler didn't think that a simple case of bad behavior over the weekend was the reason the entire upper school was being called into the chapel that morning.

  As there were only forty students in each class, the entire student body fit comfortably inside the room, taking their respective seats organized by grade: seniors and freshman in the front section separated by the aisle, juniors and sophomores respectively behind them.

  The Dean of Students stood patiently by the podium in front of the altar. Schuyler and Oliver found Dylan in the back, at their usual perch. He had dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn't slept, and there was an ugly red stain on his button-down shirt and a hole in his black jeans. He was wearing his signature white silk Jimi Hendrix—style scarf around his neck. The other kids in the pew gave him a wide berth. He beckoned Schuyler and Oliver to his side.

  "What's going on?" Schuyler asked, sliding into the pew.

  Dylan shrugged, putting a finger to his lips.

  Dean Cecile Molloy tapped the microphone. While she wasn't a Duchesne alum, like the headmistress, the head librarian, and almost the entire female faculty—and it was rumored that she'd been the recipient of a public school education—she had quickly acquired the velvet headband, knee-length corduroy skirts, and rounded vowels that marked the true Duchesne girl. Dean Molloy was a very adequate facsimile, and hence was very popular with the board of directors.

  "Attention, please. Settle down, boys and girls. I have something very sad to share with you this morning." The dean inhaled sharply. "I am very sorry to inform you that one of our students, Aggie Carondolet, passed away this weekend."

  There was a shocked silence, followed by a confused buzzing.

  The dean cleared her throat. "Aggie had been a student at Duchesne since pre-kindergarten. There will be no classes tomorrow. Instead, there will be a funeral service in the chapel tomorrow morning. Everyone is invited to attend. Afterward, there will be a burial at Forest Hills in Queens, and a shuttle bus will be provided to take students who would like to attend, to the cemetery. We ask that you think of her family at this difficult time."

  Another throat clearing.

  "We have grief counselors on hand to assist those who need it. School will conclude at noon, your parents have already been informed of the early dismissal. After this meeting, please return to your second-period classes."

  After a short invocation (Duchesne was nondenominational), and a devotion from the Book of Common Prayer, as well as a verse from the Koran and a passage from Khalil Gibran were read by the Head Boy and Head Girl, students streamed out with quiet trepidation, a low feeling of excitement mixed with nausea and real sympathy for the Carondolets. Nothing like this had ever happened at Duchesne before. Sure, they'd heard of other schools' problems—drunk driving accidents, child-molesting soccer coaches, senior boys date-raping freshmen girls, trenchcoat—wearing freaks wielding machine guns and gunning down half the student body, but those happened at other schools—on television, in the suburbs, or in public schools, with their metal detectors and clear vinyl backpacks. Nothing terrible was ever allowed to happen at Duchesne. It was practically a rule.

  The worst thing that could ever happen to a student at Duchesne would be a broken leg skiing in Aspen or a painful sunburn from St. Barth's over spring break. So the fact that Aggie Carondolet had died—in the city no less just shy of her sixteenth birthday, was almost unfathomable.

  Aggie Carondolet? Schuyler felt a twinge of sadness, but she didn't know Aggie, who had been one of the tall, pinched-looking blond girls who surrounded Mimi Force, like courtiers around their queen.

  "You okay?" Oliver asked, squeezing Schuyler's shoulder. Schuyler nodded.

  "Wow, that's heavy, man. I just saw her Friday night," Dylan said, shaking his head.

  "You saw Aggie?" Schuyler asked. "Where?"

  "Friday. At The Bank."

  "Aggie Carondolet was at The Bank?" Schuyler asked skeptically. That made as much sense as Mimi Force being spotted shopping at J.C. Penney. "Are you sure?"

  "Well, I mean, she wasn't technically at The Bank, but outside, you know, where everyone smokes downstairs, in the alley next to Block 122," Dylan explained.

  "What happened to you?" Schuyler said. "We never saw you again after midnight."

  "I, uh, met somebody," Dylan admitted, with a sheepish grin. "It's no big deal."

  Schuyler nodded and didn't pry.

  They walked out of the chapel, past Mimi Force, who was standing in the middle of a sympathetic circle of friends. "She'd just gone out for a smoke …" they overheard Mimi say, dabbing at her eyes. "Then she disappeared… We still don't know how it happened."

  "What are you looking at?" Mimi spat, noticing Schuyler staring at her.

  "Nothing—I…"

  Mimi flicked her hair over her shoulder and snorted in annoyance. Then she deliberately turned her back o
n the three of them and went back to reliving Friday night.

  "Hey," Dylan said, passing the tall Texan girl in their class, who was part of the huddle. "Sorry about your friend." He put a light hand on her arm.

  But Bliss didn't even acknowledge that she'd heard him. Schuyler thought that was odd. How did Dylan know Bliss Llewellyn? The Texan girl was practically Mimi's best friend. And Mimi despised Dylan Ward. Schuyler had heard her calling him a «vagrant» and a «wastoid» to his face when he refused to give up his seat in the cafeteria. She and Oliver had warned him when he'd sat down, but he wouldn't listen. "But this is our table," Mimi had hissed, holding a tray that contained a paper plate of dry lettuce leaves surrounding an undercooked hamburger. Schuyler and Oliver had immediately grabbed their trays, but Dylan had refused to budge, which had instantly endeared him to them.

  "It was a drug overdose," Dylan whispered, walking between Schuyler and Oliver.

  "How do you know?" Oliver asked.

  "It's the only thing that makes sense. She passed out at Block 122. What else could it be?"

  Schuyler thought: aneurysm, heart attack, diabetic seizure. There were so many things that could cause a person's untimely demise. She'd read about them. She knew. She'd lost her father in her infancy, and her mother was stuck in a coma. Life was more fragile than anyone ever realized.

  One minute, you could be getting a smoke in the alley on the Lower East Side with your friends, having drinks and dancing on tables in a popular night club. And the next minute, you could be dead.

  CHAPTER 5

  One of the best things about being Mimi Force was that nobody took you for granted. After the news of Aggie's death made the rounds, Mimi's popularity swelled to epic proportions because now she wasn't just beautiful, she was vulnerable as well—she was human. It was like when Tom Cruise left Nicole Kidman, and suddenly Nicole Kidman stopped seeming like this icy, ruthless, career-minded Amazon and became just another dumped divorcée whom everyone could relate to. She'd even cried on Oprah. Aggie had been Mimi's best friend. Well, no, not exactly. Mimi had many best friends. It was the backbone of her popularity. Many people felt close to her, even though Mimi felt close to no one. But still, Aggie had been special to her. She'd grown up with her. Ice-skating at Wollman Rink, etiquette lessons at the Plaza, summers in Southampton. The Carondolets were an old New York family; her parents were friends with Mimi's parents. Their moms went to the same hairdresser at Henri Bendel. She was a true blue blood, like herself.

  Mimi loved the attention, loved the fawning. She said all the right things, voicing her shock and grief with a halting voice. She dabbed her eyes without smudging her eyeliner. She recalled fondly how Aggie had lent her her favorite Rock and Republic jeans once. And never even asked for them back! Now that was a true friend.

  After Chapel, Mimi and Jack were pulled aside by one of the runners, a scholarship kid who served as an errand boy for the Headmistress's office. "The Head wants to see you guys," they were told.

  Inside the plush-carpeted office, the Head of Schools told them they could take the whole day off—no need to wait till noon. The Committee understood how close they were to Augusta. Mimi was elated. Even more special treatment! But Jack shook his head and explained that if it was all right with everyone, he was going to attend his second-period class.

  Outside the administration corridor, the vast carpeted hallways were empty. Everyone else was in class. They were practically alone. Mimi reached out and smoothed her brother's collar, tracing her fingers on his sunburned neck. He flinched at her touch.

  "What's gotten into you lately?" she asked impatiently.

  "Don't, okay? Not here."

  She didn't understand why he was so skittish. At some point, things would change. She would change. He knew that, but it was as if he couldn't accept it, or he wouldn't let himself accept it. Maybe it was all part of the process. Her father had made the history of the family very clear to them, and their part in it was set in stone. Jack didn't have a choice, whether he wanted it or not, and Mimi felt somewhat insulted at the way he was acting.

  She looked at her brother—her twin, her other half. He was part of her soul. When they were little, it was like they were the same person. When she stubbed a toe, he cried. When he fell off the horse in Connecticut, her back ached in New York. She always knew what he was thinking, what he was feeling, and she loved him in a way that scared her. It consumed every inch of her being. But he'd been pulling away from her lately. He was distracted, distant. His mind was closed to hers. When she reached out to feel his presence, there was nothing. A blank slate. No, more like a muffling. A blanket over a stereo. He was tuning her out. Masking his thoughts. Asserting his independence from her. It was troubling, to say the least.

  "It's like you don't even like me anymore," she pouted, lifting up her thick blond hair and letting it fall on her shoulders. She was wearing a black cotton sweater, rendered see-through underneath the fluorescent light of the hallway. She knew he could see the ivory lace of her Le Mystère bra through the thin weave.

  Jack smiled a wry smile. "That's not possible. That would be like hating myself. And I'm not a masochist."

  She shrugged her shoulders in slow motion, turning away and biting her lip.

  He pulled her in for a hug, pressing his body against hers. They were the same height—their eyes at the same level. It was like looking into a mirror. “Be good," he said.

  "Who are you and what have you done with my brother?" she cracked. But it was nice to be hugged, and she squeezed him back tightly. Now, that was more like it.

  "I'm scared, Jack," she whispered. They'd been there, that night, with Aggie. Aggie shouldn't be dead. Aggie couldn't be dead. It just couldn't be true. It was impossible. In every sense of the word. But they'd seen Aggie's body at the morgue, that cold gray morning. She and Jack had been the ones to identify the body. Mimi's cell number was the first entry in Aggie's phone. They'd held her lifeless hands. They'd seen her face, the frozen scream. Much worse, they'd seen the marks on her neck. Unthinkable! Ridiculous, even. It simply didn't add up. It was as if the world had been turned upside down. It was against everything they'd been told. She couldn't even begin to make it comprehensible.

  "It's a joke, right?"

  "No joke." Jack shook his head.

  "She's not just cycling early?" Mimi asked, hoping against hope that they'd found some reasonable explanation for all this. There had to be one. Things like this simply didn't happen. Not to them.

  "No. They've done the tests. Worse. The blood—it's gone."

  Mimi felt a chill up her spine. It was as if something had skittered across her grave. "What do you mean it's gone?" she gasped.

  "She was drained."

  "You mean …"

  "Full consumption." Jack nodded.

  Mimi recoiled from his embrace. "You're joking. You have to be. It's just not possible." That word again. That word that popped up all weekend, Saturday morning, when the call came: repeated by their parents, the Elders, the Wardens, everybody. What happened to Aggie just wasn't possible. That much they all agreed on. Mimi walked toward an open window, stepped into the sunlight, and gloried in the way it tickled her skin. Nothing could hurt them.

  "They've called a conclave. The letters went out today."

  “Already? But they haven't even begun to change yet," Mimi protested. "Isn't that against the rules?"

  "Emergency situation. Everyone has to be warned. Even the premature."

  Mimi sighed. "I suppose." She'd rather liked being one of the youngest. She didn't like knowing her novel status would soon be supplanted by a new batch.

  "I'm going to class. Where are you going?" he asked, tucking his shirt into his pants, a futile move since when he reached for his leather satchel, the motion pulled his shirttails out again.

  "To Barneys," she replied, putting on her sunglasses. "I have nothing to wear to the funeral."

  CHAPTER 6

  Schuyler's second-period class was
ethics, a multi-year class open to sophomores and juniors completing their diversity studies requirements. Their teacher, Mr. Orion, a curly-haired Brown graduate with a droopy mustache, small, wire-rimmed glasses, a long Cyrano nose, and a penchant for wearing oversized baggy sweaters that hung off his scarecrow-like frame, sat in the middle of the room, leading the discussion.

  She found a seat near the window, pulling up her chair to the circle around Mr. Orion. There were only ten people, the standard class size. Schuyler couldn't help but notice that Jack Force wasn't in his usual seat. She'd never said a word to him all semester, and she wondered if he would even remember saying hello to her on Friday night.

  "Did anyone here know Aggie well?" Mr. Orion asked, even though it was an irrelevant question. Duchesne was the kind of place that, years after graduation, if you bumped into an alum at an airport, or walking around Centre Pompidou, or downtown at Max Fish, you would immediately buy them a drink and ask about their family, because even if you had never exchanged a word while at the school, you knew almost everything about them, down to the intimate details.

  “Anyone?" Mr. Orion asked again.

  Bliss Llewellyn cautiously raised her hand. "I did," she said timidly.

  "Do you want to share some memories of her?"

  Bliss put her hand down, her face red. Memories of Aggie? What did she really know about her? She knew that she liked clothes, and shopping, and her tiny little lapdog, Snow White. It was a Chihuahua, like Bliss's, and Aggie had liked to dress her up in silly little outfits. The dog even had a mink sweater that matched Aggie's. That was as much as Bliss could recall. Who ever really knows anybody? And anyway, Aggie was really Mimi's friend.