Page 61 of The Black Table
“And yet, here I am,” I say, equally evenly. Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s the dress, but I’m feeling…bolder. Feistier. A little looser than usual.
And I like it.
Elena takes a dainty spoonful of bisque.
“That’s such an…interesting dress,” she says, nodding at me. Credit where credit is due: the pause between the indefinite article and the adjective isjusttoo long to be accidental, but still too short to be audibly impolite. Masterful bitchiness. I almost want to golf clap for her.
“Thanks,” I say. For a split second, I consider name-dropping the designer, but reconsider; if the conversation steers toward fashion, I’ll be quickly exposed as a fraud. Instead, what comes out of my mouth is: “It was a gift.”
Elena coughs, and the boy to her left—a red-faced guy with strawberry-blonde hair whose whole head appears to be converging into the same color—snaps to her with concern, but she waves him off.
“Spicy,” she murmurs, smiling, and pats her mouth with her napkin. “Quite a gift,” she says, once she’s recovered. “Maybe I need better friends.” She tilts her head and laughs a little.
To my right, a steward is refilling my glass, like he’s appeared from nowhere, and I smile my thanks. Take a sip. And then, to Elena, a broader smile. “Well, the Pendragons are quite a generous family.” I give the ruffle at my wrist a little fluff. “Kai in particular.”
Bam. Direct hit. Elena’s eyes go wide as the salad plates.Wee-woo, wee-woo, you sank my battleship. I resist the urge to literally cackle. I know it’s petty, know it’s deeply stupid even to care, let alone stoop to her level, but right now, I’m helpless. I can’t resist my own bad instincts.
Besides, I think, with another strong pull of my wine.She almost left me to drown.
After a moment or two, Elena mumbles some conversational segue, turns to the red-haired, red-faced boy, and the discussion swirls and flows around us as the soup course winds down and the stewards whisk away bowls and spoons. No one talks to me, not really, but I listen on neighbors, nod along as if I’m participating rather than eavesdropping, and sip at my wine. Through the peaked windows, I can see the sky has gone a deep sapphire, the full moon pearl-bright against it, and I wonder how late in the night this will all go. Wonder when I’ll get back to my dorm, wonder if Morgan will be there—and why isn’t she here?—and how I’ll ever manage to explain away my new wardrobe.
Salads—blood orange, frisée, toasted almonds—come and go, and as the main dishes roll out, I notice Elena excuse herself—for the bathroom, presumably, although I find myself wishing it were for good. The redheaded guy stumbles to stand and help her seat back, while I sample mymerluza a la vasca—cod, apparently, in a white wine and herb sauce.
By the time Elena gets back, I’m properly tipsy. Just past that point of no regret where I realize I should have stopped half a glass ago, but it’s too late for me to do anything now.
She settles into her seat, smiling graciously as the stewards appear, white-jacketed, pouring more for all of us, and I’m no longer in any position to refuse.
“So,” she says, leaning in, her forearms against the table, just a few inches above. Her elbows, perfect manners, not to be considered rude. “How about we play a little game?”
She arches her eyebrows up, and people around us exchange glances and murmur.
“Oh, come on,” she says. “It’s fun. My cousin at St. Mary’s College in Oxford says they do it all the time. You just have to make sure the deans don’t hear.”
“I’m game,” says the red-headed guy.
“No pun intended,” I mutter into my wine glass. He eitherdoesn’t hear me or doesn’t get the joke. A few others murmur agreement.
“Excellent,” Elena says. She sits back primly, smiling, and lifts her glass. “Never have I ever.” She sweeps a look around. “Everyone know the rules?”
I almost want to snort. Is she serious? What’s next? A round of beer pong on the long tables?But I don’t really care.
“You go first, Chet,” she says, elbowing the redheaded guy.
He goes, if it’s possible, even redder in the face. “Um,” he says, “never have I ever, uh…
“Fucked on the first date!” calls one of his buddies from down the table.
Chet goes pure crimson, and everyone around us laughs. We’ve crossed the line from an academic proceeding to college students again, albeit in all the fancy trappings of a swanky soiree.
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Chet says. “You got me.”
“You know the rules,” Elena says, looking at all of us in the eyes. “If you’ve done that, you have to drink.”
A few swigs from people around us. His titters as friends recognize unspoken truths about their nearest and dearest. I, of course, don’t need to take a drink. I haven’t even…well, it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t say I’m fully a virgin, but certainly don’t need to take a drink in this case.
“Go, go,” Elena says, gesturing at the girl across from her.
“Um…” The girl twiddles the end of her hair, sucking her teeth nervously. “Never have I ever hooked up with two guys in one night.” She throws a sidelong glance at her friend down the table, who laughs, a little embarrassed, and throws back the rest of her wine glass.
