Page 23 of Old Money
“You’ll forgive me for being direct,” he says, gesturing toward the hallway. “But I’ve a full schedule this morning.”
I pause. He pronounced itshed-yule, the English way—or rather the way that Anglophile Americans who’ve never been to England pronounce it. It’s an affectation. Affectations are distinct faux pas, not only at the club, but in all of Briar’s Green. “Putting on airs” signals that you are not of the elegant class, and worse, that you’re trying to fake it—so preening and pathetic it would be uncouth to even acknowledge your gaffe.
I don’t acknowledge it. But I don’t leave either.
Mr. Brody fusses with papers on his desk, making a performance of getting back to work. I wait until he looks up again, jutting out his chin, his face taut and full of loathing. I smile back, polite as ever.
“I’m also quite concerned,” I say, gesturing to the same stack of dried-out ledgers, “about your safety. And the safety of our members, of course.”
“Nonsense,” he scoffs, as close to flustered as I’ve ever seen him. “What on earth do you mean?”
“I would have to check the current village codes, but given the age of the building, and its electrical system—” I glance up at the buzzing light bulb dangling overhead “—I’m fairly certain this office presents a significant fire risk. In its current state.”
At this, Mr. Brody’s mouth drops into an unguarded scowl. He looks at me hard—but it doesn’t work the way it used to. Now, I just look back, waiting until he finally speaks:
“Then we must remedy that.”
Chapter Eleven
July Fourth, 1999
We followed the Dales to the club in our own car, and Mom parked in the staff lot, skipping the valet as usual. I sat hunched forward in the passenger seat, leaning into the last gasp of cool air from the air-conditioner vents. Theo’s tie had come loose on the drive over, and he was still fumbling with it, cursing in the back seat. Mom was pretending to ignore it, fixing her lipstick in the rearview mirror, already visibly tense. She glanced at me with a small, apologetic smile.Would you?I got out and knocked on Theo’s window. He muttered one last expletive and got out.
“Fine.”
Theo had just finished his first year at the upper school, which required ties on formal days. He’d failed to learn to tie it himself, but I—the cat’s cradle master of the lower school—was a natural. By the end of the year, I’d learned a handful of knots by heart (there was always some ridiculous tie fad with the Wheaton boys), and kind of enjoyed my weird new hobby, if only because Theo sucked at it. It made him grouchy, asking me for help, but it wasn’t as bad as asking Mom.
He stood in front of me, lifted his chin, resigned. “Not half Windsor,” he hissed. “It’s gotta be four-in-hand.”
“Huh? Why?”
I knew why. The same reason he’d started wearing Dad’s old watch, even though it was broken. The same reason he’d let hishair grow shaggy, fighting off Mom’s scissors all summer. Because all the upper-school boys did—because Patrick Yates had decided it was cool.
“Four-in-hand looksjustlike half Windsor,” I said. “No one can tell the difference, it’s just harder to do.”
“They can tell,” Theo answered, a thread of sadness in his voice that caught me off-guard. “Please?”
“Okay,” I huffed. “Quit moving.”
He was right. No normie would see the difference—no normie would even bother to look at his tie knot. But everyone in the club would.
***
Caitlin and her parents were waiting on the clubhouse steps, chatting. They all cheered when we came around the corner, as if we hadn’t all left their house fifteen minutes earlier. The three of them made a showy fuss over me in the borrowed dress.
“Just darling,” Aunt Barbara said, then corrected herself. “And so grown-up.”
Caitlin winked at me and mouthed, “Perfect.” Uncle Greg bent to give me his elbow, and everyone laughed. It was embarrassing, but in a good way, somehow, and I felt a bubbly excitement as we entered the club.
The lobby was a crush of bodies: women in white and men in black suits—required dress code for July Fourth. I hung back by the door, stifled by the fug of perfumed body heat, letting the others walk ahead. Caitlin, I noticed, had looped a raspberry-pink shawl over her elbows—a thin, silky thing, hanging low across her back.
Aunt Barbara noticed too. She put a hand on Caitlin’s arm.
“Sweetheart,” she whispered. “The shawl.”
Caitlin shrugged. Aunt Barbara raised her eyebrows. A silent exchange passed between them, and just seeing it from four feet away made me hold my breath and look sideways. They whisperedat each other for a minute, and then Aunt Barbara called my name.
“Alice, dear.” I turned to see her beckoning me with a smile. Caitlin had her arms crossed.
