"Who is she? Ever seen her before, Ivy?"
"Suzanne, you've been in this school a lot longer than-" "You're not even looking," Suzanne interrupted.
"Because I'm watching our hero, just like I'm supposed to be doing. What does waller mean?
Everybody shouts 'Waller!' when Tristan does a turn."
"That's his nickname," Beth replied, "because of the way he attacks the wall. He hurls himself head first into it, so he can push off fast."
"I see," Ivy said. "Sounds like a total brain to me, hurling his head against a concrete wall. How long do these meets usually last?"
"Ivy, come on," Suzanne whined, and pulled on her arm. "Look and see if you know who the little brunette is."
"Twinkie."
"You're making that up!" Suzanne said.
"It's Twinkie Hammonds," Ivy insisted. "She's a senior in my music class."
Aware of Suzanne's continuous staring, Twinkie turned around and gave her a nasty look. Gregory noticed the expression and glanced over his shoulder at them. Ivy saw the amusement spreading over his face.
Gregory Baines had a charming smile, dark hair, and gray eyes, very cool gray eyes, Ivy thought.
He was tall, but it wasn't his height that made him stand out in a crowd. It was his self-confidence. He was like an actor, like the star of a movie, who was part of it all, yet when the show was over, held himself apart from the others, believing he was better than the rest. The Baineses were the richest people in the wealthy town of Stonehill, but Ivy knew that it wasn't Gregory's money but this coolness, this aloofness, that drove Suzanne wild. Suzanne always wanted what she couldn't have.
Ivy put her arm lightly around her friend. She pointed to a hunk of a swimmer stretching out in the ready area, hoping to distract her. Then she yelled, "Waller!" as Tristan went into his last turn. "I think I'm getting into this," she said, but it appeared Suzanne's thoughts were on Gregory now. This time, Ivy feared, Suzanne was in deep.
"He's looking at us," Suzanne said excitedly. "He's coming this way."
Ivy felt herself tensing up.
"And the Chihuahua is following him."
Gregory Why? Ivy wondered. What could have to say to her now after almost three months of ignoring her? In January she had learned quickly that Gregory would not acknowledge her presence. And as if bound by some silent agreement, neither he nor Ivy had advertised that his father was going to marry her mother. Few people knew that he and Ivy would be living in the same house come April.
"Hi, Ivy!" Twinkie was the first to speak. She squeezed herself in next to Ivy, ignoring Suzanne and barely glancing at Beth. "I was just telling Gregory how we always sit near each other in music class."
Ivy looked at the girl with surprise. She had never really noticed where Twinkie sat.
"He said he hasn't heard you play the piano. I was telling him how terrific you are."
Ivy opened her mouth but could think of nothing to say. The last time she had played an original composition for the class, Twinkie had shown her appreciation by filing her nails.
Then Ivy felt Gregory's eyes on her. When she met his look, he winked. Ivy gestured quickly toward her friends and said, "You know Suzanne Goldstein and Beth Van Dyke?"
"Not real well," he said, smiling at each in turn.
Suzanne glowed. Beth focused on him with the interest of a researcher, her hand clicking away on the ballpoint.
"Guess what, Ivy? In April you won't be living far from my house. Not far at all," Twinkie said.
"It will be a lot easier to study together now."
Easier?
"I can give you a ride to school. It will be a quicker drive to your house."
Quicker?
"Maybe we can get together more."
More?
"Well, Ivy," Suzanne exclaimed, batting her long, dark lashes, "you never told me that you and Twinkie were such good friends! Maybe we can all get together more. You'd like to go to Twinkie's house, wouldn't you, Beth?"
Gregory barely suppressed his smile.
"We could have a sleepover, Twinkie."
Twinkie didn't look enthused.
"We could talk about guys and vote on who's the hottest date around." Suzanne turned her gaze upon Gregory, sliding her eyes down and up him, taking in everything. He continued to look amused.
"We know some other girls, from Ivy's old school in Norwalk," Suzanne went on cheerily. She knew that Stonehill's high-class commuters to New York City would have nothing to do with blue-collar Norwalk. "They'd love to come.
Then we can all be friends. Don't you think that would be fun?"
"Not really," Twinkie said, and turned her back on Suzanne.
"Nice talking to you, Ivy. See you soon, I hope. Come on, Greg, it's crowded over here." She tugged on his arm.
As Ivy turned back to the action in the pool Gregory caught her chin. With the tips of his fingers he tilted her face up toward him. He was smiling.
"Innocent Ivy," he said. "You look embarrassed. Why? It works both ways, you know. There are plenty of guys, guys I hardly know, who are suddenly talking like they're my best friends, who are counting on dropping by my house the first week of April. Why do you suppose that is?"
Ivy shrugged. "You're part of the in crowd, I guess."
"You really are innocent!" he exclaimed.
She wished that he would let go of her. She glanced past him to the next set of bleachers, where his friends sat. Eric Ghent and another guy were talking to Twinkie now and laughing. The ultra-cool Will O'Leary looked back at her.
Gregory withdrew his hand. He left with still bright with laughter. When Ivy turned back to the pool again, she saw that three rubber-capped guys in identical little swimsuits had been watching her. She had no idea which, if any, of them was Tristan.
"I feel like a fool," Tristan said, peeking through the diamond-shaped window in the door between the kitchen and the dining room of the college's Alumni Club. Candelabra were being lit and crystal stemware checked. In the large kitchen where he and Gary were standing, tables were laid out with polished fruit and hors d'oeuvres. Tristan had no idea what most of the hors d'oeuvres were or if they were to be served in any special way. He hoped simply that they and the champagne glasses would stay on the up side of his tray.
Gary was struggling with his cuff links. The cummerbund of his rental tuxedo kept unwrapping itself from his waist, its Velcro failing to stick. One of his shiny black shoes, a size too small, was tied with an emergency purple sneaker lace. Gary was a real friend, Tristan thought, to agree to this scheme.