Page 4 of Privilege
Rich
Cara’s mouth drops openas we pull in past the wrought iron gates. She subconsciously fidgets with the hem of her shorts as the limo makes its way down the laneway to Blackstone.
I resist the urge to open the door and throw myself out of the car.Run me over, Arnold. Spare me the misery.
Bringing Cara here was a mistake. I should have found a way to stay in California for the summer. Should have found a spine, stood up to my mom and told her I wasn’t coming home. But mother doesn’task, and when she phoned to confirm the date and time for my flight home, I panicked and told her tobook a second ticket. Thought maybe the summer would be more survivable with Cara by my side.
But as Arnold pulls in past the gaudy stone fountain I used to piss in every chance I got, the peaked roofs of Blackstone loom like something out of a gothic horror. It doesn't matter that it's covered in ivy and surrounded by ornamental topiary trees; to me, it may as well be covered in gargoyles.
This was a bad idea.
Arnold opens the door and tips his cap at Cara. She stares up at the grand entrance, clearly in shock, the rummaging sounds of Arnold grabbing our bags from the trunk almost as loud as my blood thundering in my ears.
Her thick blonde hair is in a messy braid, the type girls do that starts on top of your head. It leaves her freckled shoulders exposed and I resist the urge to untangle it, to drape her hair over her face and neck and back and tell her she isn’t allowed to wear shorts, skirts, or dresses for the rest of the summer.
I shove it down, all of the worry and anxiety.He isn’t here.
“This way Miss,” Arnold says. She follows him, her cheap plastic flip flops flapping against the gravel.Her tan legs are distractingly long, those freckled thighs…
This was a very, very bad idea.
Arnold leads us up the dark mahogany staircase to the second floor. I trail behind, wishing I’d thought to buy booze at the duty-free so I could drink in the limo: all Arnold stocked was sparkling water.Probably on instruction from my mother.
Cara gapes up at the ornate ceiling, jaw open, unabashedly in awe. I let out a long breath as we walk past painting after painting—I’m told they’re a big deal but all I can think of is Dane drawing stick figures in the corners, pencilled-in little men jerking off.
Arnold leads us into my old room and unloads our suitcases. Cara’s hand drifts absently over the hand carved wooden four posted bed.
“Mrs. van der Beer has requested that you join her in the garden once you've had an opportunity to, ah,freshen up.”
Freshen upis Mother forsober up.I scowl at him and he gives me The Look. Thedon't make this harder than it has to belook. I sigh and nod, and he backs out into the hall before closing the door with a softclick.
“I am definitely, without a doubt, going to be mistaken for The Help, aren't I?” Cara asks.
I smile wanly, torn between wanting to glue her to my side or pack her right back up and have Arnold take her to the airport without delay. But I’m selfish, and I need her here. This has been the best year of my life, and it’s mostly because of her. Being with Cara melts the ice shards left behind from this place. It’s the longest I’ve ever gone without worrying about Blackstone.
I should say,Go back to SoCal. Go to Alaska.Go anywhere but here.But I keep my mouth shut.
She wanders around my room touching my things, runs her fingertips over the mahogany dresser covered in trophies.
“These are from varsity Lacrosse?” she asks.
I flush a little “Water polo.”
I’m on the SoCal U Lacrosse team, but the truth is I played two varsity sports at Waldron Prep. It was the only way to burn off the energy in me.
“Jesus Christ,” she mumbles. “I should have known, I guess. You did invite me to your damnHampton House.And it has anamefor God's sake. What kind of house has a name?”
“Pretentious ones?”
She falls backwards onto the bed, sinks into the duvet and sighs wistfully. “You have to duck your head in my room at my mom’s,” she says. “The ceiling is sloped. There’s barely enough room for a single bed.” She holds up her arm on an angle mimicking the roof line, her tank top riding up and exposing her belly button. “At my dad’s, I sleep on a pullout couch in the living room.”
I drift towards the bed, gaze glued to the strip of tan stomach. Out of habit, so used to being in her dorm or—more often—at my place, I drop my hands on either side of her hips, lower my mouth to her belly, and softly kiss her abdomen. She raises her head off the bed to watch, big blue eyes round and warm and twinkling with delight like they are every damn time I touch her. I force myself to keep my hands planted on the duvet.Don’t touch her bare legs, don’t slide her shorts down her thighs, don’t—I straighten up, run a frustrated hand through my hair, and reach for her suitcase.
“My mother is waiting. We need to get dressed.”
She frowns and sits up, slides to the edge of the bed. “Dressed?”
“If mother is in the garden, then she’s entertaining.”
