Wealth, status, and beauty define the elite of Kensington Prep. Every one of them possesses the ability to get away with anything and everything they want, unscathed and remain as privileged and superior as ever.
But Amory Scout decides that tim...
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After Orson's grandmother, Delia Calloway, a woman of impeccable breeding and finishing school manners, blurted out "Holy shit," the whole room promptly turned to gawk at me.
Uncomfortable with all the attention and confused with why Orson's grandmother has reacted to me in such a manner, I blink and awkwardly start to say, "Um, are you okay?"
Delia seems to refocus back when she hears me speak; my crass American accent bringing her back to her body and she readjusts the tiny bifocals upon her nose before a small but cold smile settles on her thin lips. Chanel No.5 wafts from her as she puts an arm across her chest, "My apologies dear, I have no idea what came over me. Old age," she blames with a little laugh, "You just bear a shockingly close resemblance to someone I used to know. But Orson, please introduce me."
"Grandma, this is Amory Scout. My girlfriend."
"Nice to meet you," I say courteously, lowering my head in respect. For some reason, I have this inclination like I'm speaking to the Queen or something. From the way Delia holds herself to the behemoth Maltese cross made out of old cabochon emeralds sitting on her neck, she exudes a quiet regality about her that's so different from the American girls in Kensington frothing over a plastic hierarchy.
She's not like Carmen, who watches for a toe out of line, rations her food like pieces of glass from a mirror and calculates every potential threat. She's not like Parker, who lives for emblems, medals and tiaras, like points for validation. They both are Queens who are constantly feeling like they have to keep proving it to others that they are queen.
With Delia Calloway, I don't get that. In a way, funnily enough, she reminds me of Georgina. They both have that quiet, natural elegance about them that you can't learn or pick up. It's something you're born with.
Facing me is a vibrant pink-and-yellow triptych of Andy Warhol paintings depicting Delia Calloway in her younger days. Just looking at the painting hovering above a much older version of the real thing gives me a sense of trepidation.
An unfathomable expression crosses over Delia Calloway as she reads my features, taking in the perfect ski-slope and plump lips my surgeon has perfected, my naturally almond green eyes, before tilting her head to the left slightly, and one of her lady maids immediately rush to her side, leaning over in one graceful motion so that her ear is at level with Mrs Calloway's mouth.
"Veuillez demander à l'une des femmes de chambre d'ajuster le chauffage jusqu'à cinq degrés supplémentaires; c'est trop froid," she says in French and Kensington's 6th grade lessons kick in, allowing me to roughly understand that Mrs.Calloway has just asked the heater to be turned up. She turns her attention back to me, "Amory, is it? Well, I hope you enjoy your stay here at Calloway Manor."
Then in a flurry of Chanel No. 5, La Mer face cream and black ruffles, Delia Calloway moves away from me and begins chatting with the other guests. I turn back to my food and start to feel the eyes of the other guests on my back, painting me like a target.
