Authors: Tom Dolby
L
auren was encouraged that her friends had immediately decided to back down upon hearing that her sister had received the creepy text message. They didn’t have any proof that the Society was responsible, but the mere possibility that there could be more violence in the future was enough to keep them all in line.
Of course, this was exactly what the Society wanted them to think. But maybe it wasn’t a bad idea to work more covertly. Lauren trusted that Nick and the others would come up with some kind of plan. The best she could do was to play along once she found out what it was.
The next Society meeting was held on Friday night at a special location: the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The twenty-nine Conscripts—the older class of fourteen and the younger class of fifteen—were asked to meet in the lobby of the museum at seven
P.M.
Claire Chilton’s mother, Letty, appeared when the group had assembled and motioned for everyone to follow her into the Egyptian wing. Security guards stood by the cases of artifacts, just as they would during museum hours. When the group entered the main area, the Temple of Dendur was lit up beautifully in a wash of red and lavender, as if for a special event. Four rows of chairs sat facing the temple, and everyone took their seats.
Letty Chilton stood in front of the group and began speaking.
“You’re probably all wondering why you’re here,” Mrs. Chilton said. “We wanted to bring you here tonight so that you could all see the beauty of the temple up close. I know many of you have grown up with Dendur practically in your backyard, but you may not have had the chance really to look at it. We’ll have the opportunity to do that later. For now, we’re going to discuss a very important event that is coming up.”
Nick yawned, and Claire glared at him as her mother continued speaking.
“I have some exciting news that I think will send you all over the moon! On February 13, Valentine’s Day eve, the museum is throwing a benefit party, a revival of the Dendur Ball, an event that last occurred in the early 1990s. The Met will be celebrating the renovations on the new Egyptian wing—work that, as you know, was funded by the Bradford Trust Association. Anonymously, of course. The museum has asked us to take a leadership role in the planning of this event. And I know it will be a lot of fun!” Letty Chilton punched the air with her wrinkled fist as if at a pep rally, and a few members of the group twittered at the intense awkwardness of the presentation.
Lauren shifted in her seat. How could the Society be so cavalier about hosting another event after so much had gone awry? She focused on Phoebe, Nick, Patch, and Thad, which gave her the courage to stay.
Mrs. Chilton continued. “We’re excited to announce that all of you will be serving on the Junior Committee. My daughter, Claire, will be chairing the committee and handling its meetings. Your job will primarily be to get the younger generation involved in the museum. You can sell tickets to your classmates, to your friends. We have a special price for the under-twenty-ones. Remember, patronage of the arts starts at a young age. This is our cultural heritage, this museum and others in the city. It’s our job to make sure that it is preserved.”
Not another committee. It all seemed like a ruse to steer people’s attention away from the awful things that had happened in November and December. Lauren cast a sideways glance at Phoebe, Nick, Patch, and Thad. They all looked bored.
Later, over refreshments—sugary punch and stale butter cookies—she talked to Phoebe. “What do you think about all this?” she asked.
“I guess going along with this is part of our keeping in line?” Phoebe said.
“Something like that.”
Claire came up to Lauren. “How are you, Lauren? It’s nice to see you here.”
Lauren nodded.
“I was so sorry to hear about the little incident at Giroux this week. It must have been a mistake, right? I mean, when I was talking about it to Sebastian, I told him I know you, and there is no way you would ever steal a pair of earrings!”
She gave Claire a frigid look, but it didn’t stop Lauren from reddening. “Sure, whatever, Claire. Thanks for having my back.”
Phoebe pulled Lauren away, rescuing her. “Let’s go talk to Nick.”
Lauren gritted her teeth. “Claire just makes me so angry, sometimes I feel like I could kill her.”
“I know, we all do,” Phoebe said. “She’s a loser; you can’t let it get to you.”
They walked up to Nick, who was drinking a glass of punch.
“You really sure you want to be drinking that?” Phoebe said.
“If I die of cyanide poisoning, I guess we’ll know what happened,” Nick said.
Lauren and Phoebe gave him blank looks.
“Sorry, bad joke,” he said.
At that moment, Patch joined the group. “Nick, there’s something I need to show you.”
“Now?” Nick put down his glass on a side table.
Patch nodded. “Right now.”
B
efore grabbing Nick, Patch had been roaming around the portion of the Egyptian wing that had been kept open while the last part of the renovations were being completed. In the main room, there were large placards along the wall that explained the history of the temple and how it came into existence. The story centered on the area of northern Nubia, along the Nile, where the Temple of Dendur was built. The temple, removed from its original site in Egypt in 1963 and opened at the Met in 1978, was considered a smaller temple, though it was still thought to be one of the prime examples of Egyptian architecture in the world. The temple had been erected in the year 15
B.C.E
. to honor Isis, Osiris, and two brothers, Pedesi and Pihor, who had drowned in the Nile during Roman times.
But this wasn’t what Patch wanted to show Nick.
“You’ve got to see this,” Patch muttered to his friend. “Just don’t be too obvious about it.”
Nick followed as Patch led him to a skirted table that was displayed with a scrapbook, invitations, photographs, and clippings from Dendur Balls in years past, specifically the last one, which took place in 1992. Claire’s mother had said the display was there to provide some background and get everyone excited about the party.
“It’s just a bunch of New York socialite stuff,” Nick said.
“Right, well, look at this,” Patch said, pointing to a picture of a woman.
There was a spread from the
New York Times
’s social pages, a grouping of pictures by Bill Cunningham, the well-known photographer. At the center was a picture of a woman, identified as Esmé Madison Evans. She was wearing a simple column dress and was staring straight at the camera, her eyes wide, a strange combination of an otherworldly spirit and a deer caught in the headlights. Her photo was next to those of prominent socialites of the time, names Patch recognized as important social leaders, the types of women who chaired committees and would find their names, along with those of their husbands, carved above the doorways of the Met’s galleries.
“It’s my mom,” Patch said. “From before I was born.”
“Wow,” Nick said. “She looks beautiful. I mean, I always knew your mom was beautiful, but I—well, to be honest, I don’t remember that much of her, since she, you know—”
“I know,” Patch said. “Neither do I.” What he did recall was mostly from after her breakdown: when they had to shave her head to keep her from pulling her hair out, and the baggy hospital-issue clothing that she was forced to wear. His mother had probably spent the last ten years wearing nothing more glamorous than a stained nightgown.
“Look,” Nick said, pointing to another spread from a magazine. “Here’s a picture of my parents.”
It was a picture of Georgiana and Parker Bell. Patch marveled at how young and innocent Nick’s parents appeared in the photograph.
As he looked at the picture, Patch felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to find Mrs. Chilton standing behind him.
“Patchfield,” she said warmly, as he nodded. “I’m wondering if you can help us out with something. I’ve heard that you’re quite wonderful on the—I don’t know what the kids are calling it these days. Disc jockey? On playing music?”
“Sure, I can spin,” Patch said.
“Would you be willing to provide the music for the Dendur Ball? It is so important that every dollar we make goes to the museum, and you wouldn’t believe what some of these so-called professionals charge! It would be such a treat if you would donate your services. You just tell our deputy chair exactly what you need in terms of equipment, and we’ll provide it for you.”
Patch nodded. “Um, sure, that would be great. I can do that.”
“And we need a name for the invitation. I mean, we can’t just write ‘DJ Patchfield Evans,’ can we? What would your parents think?”
“My parents are, um, they’re not around.”
Mrs. Chilton ignored this. “What would your name be? Something fun, right?”
Patch thought about it for a second. His vlog was called PatchWork, and though he hadn’t been posting to it regularly since the television option, people knew the name—he did, after all, have tens of thousands of followers on his MySpace and Facebook pages. “How about ‘DJ PatchWork’?” he asked. “Is that ridiculous?”
Claire had come by to stand next to her mother.
“I think it’s adorable,” Mrs. Chilton said.
“So cute!” Claire agreed.
“Yeah,” Nick ribbed him. “
Totally
cute.”
“I guess so,” Patch said. Strangely, the only thing on his mind was, what would Lia think about this?
He wasn’t really sure.
Still, it was a good gig, and if it got his name out there, it might lead to other jobs that actually paid. He could be on his way to making the five thousand dollars he would need to buy back the rights to
Chadwick Prep
.
Mrs. Chilton turned to Nick. “And dear, I hope you’ll be able to promote this evening to all your nightclub contacts—we really want to attract a young crowd. Claire’s told me all about the parties you’ve been having.”
Nick stood there awkwardly. “I’ve actually sort of gotten out of that. Ever since Jared died. It’s been hard.”
“Well,” Mrs. Chilton said with a plastic smile, “I’m sure you can muster up the energy to do it for charity.”
“Of course,” Nick said, clearly straining to keep his sarcasm in check. “Patch and I will do absolutely
anything
for charity.”
After waving good-bye to Nick and Phoebe on the steps of the Met, Patch walked across the street to his apartment building. Nick and Phoebe had to go to Southampton to execute the first part of Nick’s plan, though Nick had been vague about the details. Patch didn’t mind—he was tired of being the one who was always investigating everything. Besides, he still wanted to sort mentally through everything he had experienced today. For starters, the picture of his mother and her connection with the Dendur Ball. He knew his mom had been social and that his parents had been friends with the Bells, but seeing a picture of her in a newspaper clipping made it concrete. Before this, his primary image of Esmé had been as a crazy person. In the black-and-white newspaper photograph, though, she looked so composed, so beautiful. Like someone he had never known.
Patch was also incredibly frustrated by his chat with Simone and the prospect of buying back the rights to his show. The possibility of DJ gigs in the future might help, but it would take a lot of bookings to make five grand.
While he felt distracted by everything going on, he was also amped up about Lia. After his visit to Simone’s former offices, he had met Lia for a coffee date at the Pink Pony on Ludlow Street. She was the only girl he had ever met who knew more about music than he did. He liked, though, that she didn’t lord it over him the way she could have—for the most part.
As Patch ducked under his building’s awning, he saw Parker Bell get out of a town car that had been idling at the curb. He looked at Patch, as if surprised to see him.
“Patchfield, it’s nice to see you. Are you just back from the meeting?”
Patch was momentarily surprised, as Parker was not usually so nice to him. The last interaction he’d had with him was at the initiation on a remote island in Maine.
Patch nodded as Parker handed his briefcase to the doorman and asked that it be left in his foyer.
“Will you walk with me for a moment?” Parker asked. “I’d like to confer on a few matters with you.”
Patch nodded, figuring that out on Fifth Avenue he wasn’t in any immediate danger. He still didn’t trust Nick’s dad after everything he had been through in December.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I just wanted to see how you were adjusting to Society life. You’ve entered our group in a rather unusual way, and I want to make sure that you feel fully acclimated. Of course, I know you are already friends with some of the members, my son included.”
“I’ve been fine. I know some of the other kids. It all seems pretty straightforward.” Patch knew this was a lie, but he wasn’t sure what else to say. “They told us about the Dendur Ball tonight. Sounds pretty cool.”
“The Dendur Ball.” Parker seemed almost wistful. “It’s amazing that they’re reviving it after all these years. You’ll have fun that night. The event is black-tie. Do you have a dinner jacket?”
“I think I have one that used to belong to my dad,” Patch said, thinking of the threadbare, moth-eaten tuxedo his father had. He would probably need to have it altered, but it still wouldn’t look right.
“I want Nick to take you to our tailor. He will make one for you. There’s nothing to make a young man look more handsome than a bespoke dinner jacket.”
“I don’t think I can afford—”
“You’re to put it on our account. You understand?”
Patch nodded. He wasn’t sure he was comfortable accepting something like this, but it would be nice to look sharp for the ball instead of having to wear hand-me-downs.
“Sir, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
Parker Bell smiled. He was a handsome man, tall and trim, with silvery gray hair. Patch had always seen him as foreboding, but there was something about him tonight that seemed friendly. Patch understood how Nick could have such mixed feelings about his father. The man was like a chameleon.
“Patch, I care deeply about my children. About their future and about their happiness. I care about who they spend their time with. You have always been close to Nick, and I know that he values your friendship. What happened between the two of you last fall was regrettable. We should have realized that you were Society material from the start. I am sorry for that choice, and I hope that we can make amends.”
Patch nodded, and there was a silence between the two. As if by unspoken agreement, the two of them turned around and started walking back toward the apartment building. Patch didn’t know what else to say. As Patch put one foot in front of the other, the thoughts swirled around in his head:
This is a man who is evil. This is a man who killed people. This is a man I cannot trust.