I walk through the house at the behest of the doorman and follow orchestra music out into the backyard. The mayor’s house isn’t as large as Joe’s, but the yard is at least ten times the size, large enough to accommodate the band and space for a dance floor on the stone patio alone. The decor of the party is a modern fusion of ancient Greek and Japanese influences that would make a designer like Jonathan drool. Glowing, cube-shaped lanterns hang from every tree, and lotus blossoms cupping tea-light candles float on the surface of the pool. Partygoers fill the yard, some dancing, others talking in small groups, their happy chatter mixing with the music from the orchestra.
I look for Tobin but I don’t see him anywhere in the crowd, so I make my way to the long buffet tables that take up most of the north side of the yard. A spread of every kind of food imaginable sits on elevated tiers on white satin tablecloths. Floral arrangements of orchids, tulips, cherry blossoms, hyacinths, and narcissus cascade from tall Grecian-looking urns on the buffet. I pick up a plate made of thin bone china, from the stack at the end of the table, and make my way through the culinary paradise in front of me. I don’t even know the name of some of the foods, but I do recognize the sushi rolls, because Jonathan has a weakness for late-night infomercial shopping and once bought a “create your own sushi” kit. I use silver tongs to pick up pieces from two rolls that look familiar, and then a third one that looks scary. Like it has spider legs sticking out of the ends.
I take two desserts. One is a piece of baklava, and the other is something a waiter informs me is a mini taiyaki—a traditional Japanese fish-shaped treat made from a crispy waffle on the outside with sweet jam on the inside.
Another waiter in a tux offers me a flute of champagne.
“Um, I’m only sixteen,” I say, waving the glass away.
I hear tittering notes from behind me. I turn and see Lexie and the Sopranos nearby, each holding a glass of champagne. I look around and notice they’re not the only underage drinkers at the party. Considering this is a school-related event, hosted at the mayor’s house, I am surprised that none of the adults seems to care. That sort of thing would never fly in Utah.
Lexie’s eyes seem trained on my every move, like she’s judging the way I’ve arranged the veggies from the sculpture of crudités on my plate. I shove a piece of rainbow roll in my mouth and give her a sarcastic little wave. She drains her glass of champagne, takes a second glass from the waiter, and then says something I can’t hear to her friends. I gather the meaning, when two seconds later, she and the Sopranos turn on the heels of their designer shoes in a coordinated move, so all I can see of them are their backs. I swallow my bite of sushi—almost sighing at how amazing it tastes compared to Jonathan’s homemade creations—take my plate, and leave the buffet.
I nibble my food and wander the party for a while, looking for Tobin. When my efforts prove to be fruitless, I make my way through the crowd toward the patio and the one somewhat friendly face I’ve seen all evening.
“I see I’m still being stonewalled by the Sopranos,” I say to Iris, and bite off the pointy end of an asparagus spear. “And it seems to be contagious.” I use my veggie to point out a line of short freshman girls who have followed Lexie’s example and have turned their backs toward me.
“I know. I’d better be careful. I could get totally blacklisted by the Sopranos just for talking to you.” Iris smiles, but I can tell from the shaky notes coming off of her that it’s something she’s actually worried about. She’s being polite to me because she’s too nice not to be.
I clear my throat. “Have you seen Tobin?” His assertion that he had something to show me is the only reason—besides the food, I’ll admit—that I’m still here. I’ve been waiting almost a week to see what it is, after all.
Iris glances over her shoulder at the Sopranos to see if they’re watching. “Haven’t seen him yet. Maybe he’s in the kitchen with the caterers?”
“Thanks. I’ll leave you alone now,” I say, and start to turn away.
“Hey,” Iris says. “I don’t think they’re right, you know. I heard you sing at the auditions. You might not have seniority, but you still deserve the part. I … I just can’t afford to make enemies. Being a schollie and all.”
I nod. “Thanks, and I get it.” Being a scholarship kid in a world populated by the spawn of the rich and famous is probably anything but easy. I can’t blame her too much for being afraid of Lexie and her mafia.
“They’ll probably move on to a new target soon,” Iris says, trying to sound reassuring. “Like the new guy. Once word gets out that Mr. Morgan let him into the program without an audition, they’ll be out for his blood—no matter how hot he is.”
“New guy?” I ask.
A weird feeling rushes through me—I can’t tell if it’s anticipation or dread.
“Over there.” She gives a quick nod toward the large magnolia tree that’s dripping with shimmering lanterns, near the pool.
I follow her quick gesture. I’m not sure if I expected to see anyone else, or if I knew it would be him all along.
But there is Haden, standing under the tree, nursing a glass that looks like it’s filled with Coke, right in Tobin’s backyard. There had been one nice thing about the last week: Haden’s suspension meant that I hadn’t had to think about him—much—in the last few days.