As we walk to the door, I lean in and whisper, “Valet parking for a high school barbecue? Oh. My. God.”
Trey laughs and puts his hand around my waist, pulling me toward him. “And the judges award ten snoot points to Carrington Day.”
The valet who assisted me darts up the steps ahead of us to open the front door. A woman with a guest book stands at a little podium in the foyer. Trey steps forward, pulling the invitation from his pocket. She glances at it and then at me, an uncomfortable look on her face.
“I’m Trey Coleman,” he says. “This is my guest, Kate Pierce-Keller.”
“Oh, yes. Hello, Trey. Welcome to Briar Hill! I was just a bit surprised, because all of the other guests have been parents . . .”
“Mine are out of town, unfortunately, and Kate was kind enough to accompany me.”
“I’m sure it’s not a problem.”
She fumbles around on the podium shelf and locates Trey’s printed name badge, along with a blue Sharpie and a blank Hello My Name Is______ sticker for me. I’m sorely tempted to write Inigo Montoya in the blank, just to see if anyone here will get the lame joke, but I resist temptation and print Kate Pierce-Keller.
Then I realize there’s no place to put the stupid thing. I try to stick it to the bodice of my dress, but between the lack of sleeves and the lower neckline, the only swatch of fabric big enough for the sticker is right on top of my breast, which makes it stick out funny and means that everyone will have to stare at my boobs to find my name. The gathers at the waist keep it from sticking there, and it would look silly anyway. I finally just slap it on my little black bag.
Trey is leaning against the doorway when I look up, clearly amused at my dilemma. “Clever solution.”
“Well, it was either that or paste it to my forehead.”
I return the marker, and the woman nods toward the center entrance. “The hosts are greeting everyone out on the patio. Just walk through there, and you’ll see the doors off to the left.”
There are tall windows on two sides of the room, one facing the front lawn and the other, on the left, opening to the patio. A large crowd is milling about, most of them on the flagstone patio. Fewer than half seem to be around our age, so clearly the woman was correct that most of the guests were parents. Beyond the patio, out on the lawn, are two white party tents, covering the buffet tables. Another tent, off to the side, has smaller tables laden with silver serving trays and about a dozen uniformed attendants behind them.
I glance around the living room for Trey, a task complicated by the room’s immensity. It reminds me more of a hotel lobby than any living room I’ve been inside. There is a grand piano in the right-hand corner, near the entryway. A few chairs are scattered along the walls, and on the far side of the room, opposite the piano, is a cavernous stone fireplace, along with a collection of sofas and chairs, all of which look more decorative than functional.
Small art niches are positioned around the walls, about three yards apart, each as carefully lit as Trey had predicted. What catches my eye, however, is the larger niche centered above the windows overlooking the front lawn, which displays an enormous Cyrist symbol. It resembles a cross in some ways but has a loop at the top, like an Egyptian ankh. The arms of the cross are looped as well, sort of like an infinity symbol, and there is a large lotus flower in the center, where everything overlaps. The Cyrist symbols on top of the temples are usually white, but this one is chrome and crystal, about fifteen feet high.
I turn back toward the patio windows and see Trey, who is also staring up at the thing with a stunned expression. I walk toward him, but he turns and crosses quickly to the center of the room to intercept me. “Maybe we should go,” he says. “Dad will just have to . . .”
It’s not like I thought I’d be able to avoid Cyrists entirely. That’s kind of hard to do, now that they’re about a quarter of the population. On the other hand, I had most definitely planned to avoid strolling into one of their lairs, since that didn’t really work out so well the last time I tried it. My eyes dart around for Dobermans, but the house and yard seem to be hound-free. And even though part of me is screaming that we should really get out of here, I also don’t want Trey to have to disappoint his dad because of me.
“Hello?” We both turn around as one of the large doors leading to the patio slides open. A friendly-looking woman, about Katherine’s age, but with a good deal more padding, waves in our direction. “The party is out here,” she says. “I’m Angela Meyer, Eve’s grandmother. Please, come and join us.”
Eve. It’s not that uncommon of a name. There have to be dozens of Cyrist girls in the DC area named Eve, right?
I pull Trey close so that I can speak without the woman overhearing. “It’s okay, Trey. Really. We won’t stay long. It may not even be the same Eve, and even if it is, I doubt she’ll remember anything.”
“Eve?”
He looks puzzled, and I realize he probably didn’t understand all of our video chats. For that matter, I’m not even sure how much we said about that disastrous trip to the Sixteenth Street Temple. Between Trey feeling bad about me getting bitten and me feeling bad about dragging him there in the first place, we were both pretty eager to forget it.
I start to explain, but Mrs. Meyer is looking at us expectantly, so I just pull him toward the door. “Find Tilson and say hello for your dad. Then I’ll pretend I’ve gotten an emergency call.”
He still looks doubtful but follows me to the patio. Mrs. Meyer steps forward and takes my hand in both of hers. She reminds me of the woman on the Grandma’s Oatmeal Raisin cookie box—curly silver hair, glasses, a sweet smile, and a twinkle in her eye—except she’s wearing a stylish dress in a pale coral instead of a flour-dusted apron and she smells like Estée Lauder rather than cinnamon and sugar.
“I’m so delighted you could make it . . .” She glances downward, searching for the name tag.
“Kate Pierce-Keller,” I say, holding up my bag. “The name tag wouldn’t fit.”
“They really don’t make those badges for us girls, do they?” She stops midlaugh and tilts her head to the side, her eyes squinting as she looks at me. “But I know you, don’t I? Are you a friend of Evie’s from the temple?”
Her eyes slide down to my hand, clearly looking for a lotus tattoo. “Oh, I guess not,” she says.
Trey steps forward. “I suspect she gets that all the time, Mrs. Meyer. She looks a lot like one of the girls on a Disney Channel show. I’m Trey Coleman, a new student at Briar Hill this year.”
I have no idea what show he’s talking about, but I’m thankful for the save.
She lets go of my hand in order to take Trey’s. “So nice to meet you. Please, both of you, come in—or, I guess I should say, come out!”
Mrs. Meyer leads us across the light gray stones toward a table with rows of tall, stemmed glasses. She glances around, head shaking in dismay. “Everyone is all jammed together on the patio. I’d so hoped we could spread out a bit, but the rain left the lawn all mushy. Those of us in heels are going to have to tiptoe to avoid sinking in.” She hands a glass to each of us, then grabs a third for herself.
“It’s just sparkling cider for you young folks. And for the hostess as well. I’ll have my champagne when all of this craziness is over.” She winks at me and then stands on tiptoe in order to look around the crowd. “I was going to find Evie and her friends so that I could introduce you, but I don’t see her. Oh dear, there are more guests at the door now. I’m going to have to leave you on your own, sweetie . . .”
She hurries back to her station at the edge of the patio, and I turn to Trey, who is scanning the crowd.
“Well, she seems nice,” I say. “Too bad it didn’t filter down to her granddaughter.”