“I’ll leave you to it,” my gran said, eyeing the envelope as if she really didn’t want to leave. “I’ve got to get ready for my ladies’ golf club luncheon.”
“Okay,” I agreed, turning away from her in case it was somehow a message from Gavin. She closed the front door, and walked down the hall without a word.
I flipped the envelope over and found it sealed by a big clump of wax stamped with a cursive C. I slid my finger under it, careful not to get a paper cut, and gently pried up the seal. Inside was an invitation to a gala celebrating the eighteenth birthday of one Anders Campbell.
I hadn’t gotten through reading the first page when the phone rang. “It’s Jo,” my grandfather called from the kitchen. I went in and took the receiver from his outstretched hand.
“Did you get it?” Jo breathed into the phone. I imagined she was just coming out of a back handspring or something. She certainly sounded excited.
“Get what?” I stalled.
“The invite! To Anders’ party!”
“Who?”
“I know you’ve gotten it, because I saw the limo drive toward your house after it left mine. Isn’t it exciting? Anders’ parents throw him an epic birthday party every year. When he was eight, they had the Guards Polo Club come and play a tournament just for him. When he was twelve, it was an appearance from David Beckham. Last year, I heard they had Guy Ritchie, Madonna’s ex-husband, give a special screening of his latest film before it hit the theaters!”
“What do you mean, ‘you heard’?” I said. “Weren’t you there?”
“Of course not. I’ve never been invited.”
“But you’re invited now?”
“Yes, same as you. Probably because of you, actually. We know Anders has a big crush on you, and he probably figures inviting me will convince you to go.”
I cupped my hand around my mouth and leaned into the wall in case Jo’s voice traveled out of the receiver. “First of all, we don’t know Anders likes me. All evidence points to the contrary, in fact. He’s a total jerk to me. And secondly, doesn’t he know you can’t convince me to do anything?”
“Come on, Maren, it’ll be fun!”
“Fun? What’s fun about spending an evening with an egomaniac?”
“Lots—if the egomaniac showers you with attention in front of Elsie and her crowd at his lavish mansion party,” she sang. “Wouldn’t it feel just a little amazing to have a handsome, wealthy . . .”
“Don’t forget obnoxious,” I said.
She ignored me. “. . . aristocratic lord wooing you?”
“Did you really just use the word woo?”
“It’s just one night,” she persisted. “You need to get out and have some fun! All you’ve been doing lately is staying home and moping.” She was right. I’d been miserable since Gavin left. I doubted he was sitting around crying about me. Maybe it would be good to flirt a little, mix things up. Gavin might even sense it and be overcome with a fit of cosmic jealousy. The idea perked me up a bit.
“All right,” I conceded. “I’ll go.”
“Just like that? Don’t you have to ask your grandparents first?”
“Oh yeah, good point.” I glanced over at my grandfather, who was at the kitchen table pretending to read the newspaper. He cleared his throat loudly and shook the pages for effect. “I’ll ask and call you back.”
“Tell them it’s desperately important to your social standing at school.”
“Since when do you care about that?” I asked.
“I don’t, but adults eat that stuff up. And I have to go, Maren, but I can’t go alone! This is my only shot! The gardens, the ballrooms . . . I’ve heard they even have a solid gold toilet. I’m going to pee on that toilet.”
“Fantastic visual,” I said. “Thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome,” she giggled. The funny thing was, I knew she wasn’t joking. Peeing on the Campbells’ gold toilet would be the highlight of her year. “Ring me back soon as you know,” she concluded.
Immediately after I hung up, my grandfather abandoned his paper pretense. “So, what’s this I hear about a party?”
“It’s nothing.” I shrugged. “Just a birthday party for a guy in my class.”
“And what fine gentleman is requesting your company?” he said, eyes twinkling.
“He is a gentleman, actually, by title or something. But I’m not sure he’s fine. His name is Anders Campbell.”
“Campbell?” my grandfather practically spat on the table. “Good-for-nothing clan, the Campbells. Their name means ‘crooked mouth,’ you know. Can’t trust ’em.”
“All of them?” I said sarcastically. “Every single Campbell is untrustworthy?”
“Aye. It’s in their blood. Just ask a MacDonald.”
“The MacDonalds hate the Campbells?” I smiled, since in America those two names suggested french fries didn’t like soup.
“Oh, Murdo,” my grandmother scolded, returning from her bedroom. She was wearing a bright blue sweater with a sparkly, brown brooch pinned to her shoulder. “Don’t tell her such things!”
“But ’tis true, Liz!” he protested. He turned back to me. “The Campbells broke the Highland code of hospitality.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“In Scotland, if someone asks you for lodging, even if they’re your worst enemy, you’re obliged to give it to them, to lay aside any grievances and promise no harm will come to them while they’re under your roof.”
“Don’t listen to him, Maren,” my grandmother said. “He’s talking about the 1600s. The Massacre of Glencoe. Really, Murdo!”
“There was a massacre?” Mention of an ancient mass murder piqued my morbid curiosity.
“Aye,” my grandfather answered, excited that he had my attention. “In 1692, a group of the Campbell clan asked for shelter from the MacDonalds. They were graciously accepted, of course, even had dinner with the clan chief. Late that same night, the Campbells murdered their unarmed hosts in their beds!”
“Murdo!” my grandmother chided again. “Why are you telling her all this?”
“She brought it up!” he protested. “She’s been invited to a party for Alistair Campbell’s son, she has.”
My grandmother blanched. “Oh, well, those Campbells are bad. Your grandfather’s right. Best stay away from their lot.”
Just stay away, I thought. Just stay away from the most popular kid in a class of only eighty-two students? Easier said than done.
I convinced my grandparents to let me go.
CHAPTER 16
I spent the afternoon of Anders’ party at Jo’s house, getting ready. I’d never been to a gala before—I’d never even been to a formal dance or a church social—and apparently I had a lot to learn. When I showed up at the Dougalls’ door, they immediately took pity on me.
“Oh, Maren, dear, it’s . . . You’re looking lovely,” Mrs. Dougall said, trying but failing to hide a smirk behind the back of her hand.
Jo was blunter. “Great dress, but what happened to your face?”