Page 138 of All These Beautiful Strangers

I bit my lip. I knew that he was right. Being in the A’s meant a lifetime of exclusivity. It meant power. It was a rare, special kind of bond. There was a reason why I had wanted so badly to be a part of it.

But another part of me knew that the things Yael and Stevie had said about the A’s were also true. The A’s were self-entitled rich kids playing god. They took their pleasures at the expense of others with little compassion, empathy, or shame. At their best, the A’s were brazen and self-empowered and “carpe diem”; they saw what they wanted, and they took it without apology. At their worst, they were selfish and conceited and cruel.

I knew I had to choose: in or out. I couldn’t have it both ways. But at the moment, I felt too inwardly divided to choose.

So, I didn’t say anything. I just gave Dalton’s hand a little squeeze back and prayed he couldn’t feel my indecision in the gesture.

Thirty-Nine

Charlie Calloway

2017

I’d become one of those people I used to make snarky comments about straight to their faces—the people who show up hours before an event is supposed to start and help hang streamers from the ceiling. It was all Leo’s fault. He’d harassed me and Dalton into helping set up the silent auction for the Trustee Benefit Gala in the banquet hall on Saturday morning.

“Thanks for coming,” Leo said, handing Dalton and me a clipboard that contained all the bidding forms for the silent auction.

“I hate you,” I said.

“It’s not that early,” Leo said.

“Anything before noon on Saturday is early,” I said.

Leo handed me his latte. “Here, for sustenance,” he said.

I took a sip, but I was still feeling surly, and I doubted the caffeine would help. It wasn’t really the getting-up-early thing that had me in a bad mood. It was that the last edition of the Knollwood Chronicle went to the printers tonight, and either I had to get the pictures of me and Mr. Andrews in there, or I had to prepare myself for the fallout of failing my last ticket. Not only would I not be an A, but Leo and I would have to brace ourselves for our public humiliation if the A’s released our pictures in retribution. Which, let’s be honest, they most likely would.

It wasn’t even the execution of getting the pictures in the paper that bothered me. I had already figured that part out. Part of Finn’s grunt work as a freshman was that he had to deliver the flash drive with the final version of the Knollwood Chronicle from the newsroom to the printer by midnight the night it was due. Which meant that all I had to do was intercept Finn tonight between the newsroom and the printer, and switch out the real flash drive with an identical flash drive preloaded with my own story and scandalous photographs. My story would not only be front-page news, it would be the only news in the Knollwood Chronicle this week. That was, if I decided I wanted to go through with it.

“Now, these are the bidding forms. The printouts with the descriptions and pictures of the auction items are on the tables over there,” Leo said, pointing. “You guys will just need to lay everything out. There’s also some decorations, tablecloths, et cetera, over there by Stevie, so feel free to grab some. Make everything look presentable.”

“Got it,” Dalton said, way too cheerfully, beside me.

“Thanks again,” Leo said before darting off to greet another set of volunteers.

“So, uh, is your dad coming tonight?” Dalton asked as we set the auction forms down on the table and started to sort through things.

“Yeah, he comes every year,” I said. “Why?”

“Is he, uh, over what happened?” Dalton asked, looking uncomfortable and scratching the back of his neck.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You know, when he wanted to punch my face in at Thanksgiving because of the whole Board of Conquests thing?”

“Oh,” I said. That hadn’t really crossed my mind lately with everything else that was going on. “We never really talked about it.”

“You never talked about it?”

“Talking isn’t really our thing,” I said. “I mean, I’m sure you’re still not his favorite person, but he’s not going to, like, assault you tonight or anything if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I guess that’s something,” Dalton said. “But I’d really like for your dad not to hate me. Usually I do a lot better with parents.”

I was about to make some retort that maybe next time he might want to abstain from playing a piggish game of sex bingo with his friends, but when I looked up from the table, I saw Margot standing behind him. She was impeccably dressed in a Canada Goose parka and winter boots.

“Charlie,” she said in greeting, rather icily.

Well, she was obviously still upset over the whole Thanksgiving fiasco. I gave her a little nod of acknowledgment in response.