After the little visit with Carmen, we decide to do a detour to Luciana's boarding school- the Westover Academy for Girls. Unlike Kensington, which has the classic Upper East Side brownstone look so typical of New York, Westover Academy is a sprawling estate tucked in the lush greenery of Greenwich, Connecticut.

The structures are all made out of sun-bleached sandstone familiar to castles built all over Europe. The architecture is extremely English as the whole estate is a castlelike monolith with medieval-style turrets reaching out to the sky and the school's coat of arms hanging over the massive wooden-oak doors of the entrance. As we walk up the school, we listen to the buzz of the landscapers pruning the school's frosted hedges next door. The air smells like lilacs, cold air, and lavender. It's a typical idyllic Connecticut moment—everything about the town is so pretty and postcard-perfect, it's a far cry from the urban howl of New York. It's so peaceful and quiet that I find the silence unsettling, preferring the roar of the city over this serene country bullshit any day.

We are further reminded of the English touch of the school when we arrive at the admissions office, a place decked out in colors like the American Flag. Everything is in red and blue with cream upholstery and copper fixtures over the classic Colonial Connecticut furniture.

"Luciana, say to wait here?" I ask Parker.

Parker nods. A couple of Westover girls pass by us. They sneak looks at us, their stares judging our designer coats and heels. We're New York girls so we're not afraid to wear all-black or pull off loud and bold fashion choices; we're avant-garde and fashion-forward with an urban touch to our clothes. The Westover girls are so cookie-cutter preppy: all straight-haired, squeaky clean skin, wearing the same matching shade of Laura Mercier lip plumper and carrying Dooney & Bourke logo bags, addicted to the catalog of Ralph Lauren and Lacoste and smelling like their mother's classic Chanel No.5, a crisp, clean scent of lemons and bergamot. 

Parker and I stare them down, eventually, they back off and check out Aidan, Orson, Hanif, and Phineas. In which, I make sure to head over to Orson and peck him sweetly on the mouth. They walk away straight after that.

The Westover uniforms are truly ugly- they're nothing like the little but still acceptable plaid mini skirts and tailored navy blazers of Kensington's monochrome but ultimately fashionable uniform. Instead, the Westover uniform is awkward midi maroon knit skirts with a grey cable knit over a buttoned-down Oxford shirt and a tie, paired with ugly sensible black low heels. At least Kensington allows us to accessorize our uniforms with heels and jewelry.

And yet, even with the ugly itchy knit uniforms of Westover, when Luciana Santiago makes her entrance back into our lives, she still looks extremely flawless. In true Luciana Santiago fashion, she has rolled up her midi-skirt and tailored it so it fits her in a less baggy way and is more of a chic maroon pencil skirt. Her grey sweater has been tucked in. Her hair is shinier than ever, fastened neatly with a little gold heart barrette. Her skin is glowing, probably from all that clean New England air, and she's not wearing a lot of makeup due to Westover restrictions but she still looks stunning.

"Oh my god, you guys came!" Luciana squeals, hugging all of us. She smells like cinnamon and chocolate when she engulfs me in her arms.

"What are you wearing?" guffaws Parker at her uniform.

"Ugh, I know," Luciana groans. "I can't wait till I'm out of here for the first day of Spring Break and be out of this ugly uniform."

"How's the shopping like here?"

Luciana rolls her eyes so hard it disappears to the back of her head. Oh, Luciana and her legendary eye-rolls. "Tragic, honestly. I miss Madison Avenue!"

Parker laughs and puts an arm around Luciana. "Fuck, I miss you."

"I miss you too, girl." Luciana's gaze flickers to me; she scrutinizes my outfit from head to toe, noting how I'm atomically blonder, toner, and tanner than ever before, resplendent in my little outfit of satin puff-sleeves and furs. "Amory, oh my God, I love how blonde you are now!"

"Thank you," I coo warmly, even though there's a sizzling feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's so weird being confronted by someone after ruining their life. It's the same feeling I get after I made Georgina cry on her birthday. I can not tell if it's the guilt eating me up or it's something else.

She notices Orson holding my hand and of course, the little hickey Orson gave me on the car ride here peeking out from my Hermes silk scarf. A tight expression irons out the warmth in her smile and it soon becomes a little bit strained. She gives Orson and me a little eyebrow raise and her saccharine smile fade. "When did that happen?"

I momentarily forgot how Luciana used to pine for Orson back when she was at Kensington. In fact, one of the reasons why I got fully accepted into the Elite in the first place was because of her pathetic, hidden longing for him. In my initiation for the Elite, I had to teach Bailey and Melissa a "lesson" because Bailey had hooked up with Orson when Luciana had told her Orson was quote on quote "hers". And the numerous times Luciana will try to get his attention or make him jealous by flirting with or hooking up with his friends. And part of the reason Luciana has liked me so much, in the beginning, is how much I've vehemently friend-zoned Orson, proving to her how much I wasn't into it- a phase that's just all part of my plan to make him fall for me. Then when she was gone, it became much easier to stake my claim on Orson without making her my enemy.

"A while ago," I confirm for her. Orson grins at me and pecks me on the cheek.

"Finally got her to cave," Orson gives me a little conspiratorial smirk. I could've sworn I spotted bitterness flickering over Luciana's face for the briefest moment and I flashback to that moment in the club bathroom of Mahiki when Luciana had ranted for almost ten minutes about how Bailey, an underling of the Elite, was all over Orson.

I make sure to smile really big at Luciana when Orson squeezes my hand in his palm, all haughty and condescending, just to remind her that she's no longer an Elite anymore.

-

Later that day, Parker, Luciana, and I decide to grab sushi and cocktails for dinner and drinks as a "girly catch-up" before we take a red-eye private-jet flight to Miami for Spring Break. We're milling over gossip and enjoying $600 saketinis (made with ancient Tanqueray sweet gin and Daiginjo), and sipping Hector Romain cognac, which dates back to 1835 and retails here for a cool $1,200 per ounce.

"All the girls from Westover always come here and honestly, they give Nakazawa a run for their money with their omakase menu," Luciana says, sipping her Sakura Martini, a drink that's completed with a submerged cherry blossom, a Plum Rob Roy, and a pair of highballs.

The restaurant Luciana has suggested for us to go is one tucked inside the Greenwich Country Club, a stucco French Pavilion style building that has the restaurant overlooking a serene lake and the golf course. With its all-glass decor, the light from the stained-glass window sparkles across our cheeks as we admire the restaurant's decor, taking in the massive Murano glass chandelier that hovers over our lacquered walnut table and the custom, hand-painted wallpaper that's based on a 16th-century Japanese screen painting of a garden scene.

"Oh my God, is it me or did Anabelle Mcleod get butt injections?"

Luciana is scrolling through Instagram, showing us a picture of Anabelle on Harbour Island. Her body looks unreal in her Missoni bikini top and Daisy Dukes shorts, exposing her Aruba-tanned cheeks to the world. "It's collagen," Parker explains, her tone borders on mocking, "So it's not like real surgery apparently," she adds with a smirk.

"Everybody knows if there's a needle involved, it's surgery," Luciana mock-pouts. "Her butt looks too big for her tiny little body. I mean, like come on, sweetie you're not fooling anybody."

"She should've used Parker's mom surgeon," I sigh. It's the ultimate inside joke in the Elite. Parker's mom is rumored to have connections with Dr. Ben Stork, a surgeon rumored to be the Michelangelo of Botox. His hands are so deft at plunging needles into fine lines, fragile cheekbones, and delicate nasolabial folds that even his patients with the thinnest skins never bruised, and his artistry are so subtle people would probably make the assumption the bigger lips or bigger butt is the result of "puberty".

Even at the expense of her own mom, Parker laughs as she dips her fingers in the bowl of bar snacks, the chunky salmon rillettes flavored with lots of herbs, and a vapor-smooth foie gras terrine enhanced by a little pot of house-made strawberry- jam on the side. "Honestly though," Parker says after the bout of giggles disappears and Luciana places her phone back into her eggplant-colored Botkier purse, "How have you been? How's Westover?"

"Well, I mean you saw how tragic the uniform is," Luciana sighs loudly; she's no longer in her ugly knitted Westover jumper. Instead, she has changed out of it in her dorm and opted for a tight shocking-pink silk blouse that stretches against her ample cleavage, belted with a chain of interlinked gold medusa heads and a tight pair of black trousers. To match the blouse, Luciana trades those ugly leather clogs for a pair of bright pink neon Aquazzura suede fringe-and-tassel sandals, showing off her pretty manicured white toenails.

"It's all-girls and everyone is just so lame. They're all like clones who do horse riding and polo, it's so boring! And the boys from the brother school are even worse, they're all Uber-preppy with no originality. God, the food here is terrible- I even miss the bagels in New York."

Parker laughs into her Kiwi & Shiso cocktail, which is made with gin and Chartreuse, "Of course, nothing beats the bagels in New York. When you're back for summer vacation, should we go down to 2 Bros for the dollar slice?"

If you're wondering, yes, the Elite do eat the iconic street food of New York City. It's not fine-dining all the time; it's just that we're munching on the grease and cheese of the dollar slice in Sergio Rossi pumps and Valentino furs. And we make sure to work off the calories later at Equinox.

"Oh my God, yes!" Luciana squeals excitedly, then she casts me a sidelong glance. "So Amory, what's the deal with Orson? The last I remember, you hated his guts and now you two are...dating." She says the last bit with much difficulty. She eyes me as I drink my plum wine saketini, clanking down the fancy delicate glassware, and my eyes dance from the drinks on our table to Luciana's face

"Oh, it just kind of happened. I lost this dumb bet to him way back in December and I had to be his girlfriend for a month."

"And then Georgina came along," Parker quips.

"Holy shit, Georgina Carlton?" Luciana says, all wide-eyed to this new information. Parker and I nod simultaneously. There's a long pause before I speak again, pretending to look like I'm considering my words very, very carefully.

"Oh yeah, Georgina," I laugh a little. "That was a thing."

"I mean when it comes to Georgina, Orson is usually pretty blinded," Luciana says, speaking from experience as the go-to fuckbuddy for Orson in this squad. She has known Orson and Carmen since the pee-wee days of preppy baby Elite kids trotting around in cashmere cardigans and Burberry backpacks. She doesn't need a crash course on the dynamics of Orson Calloway and Georgina Carlton. It is to my knowledge before I come along, every time the comet that's known as Georgina Carlton comes crashing into Orson's life and breaks his heart, Luciana is there in the wings, legs spread open for him to come running back in comfort.

There's a term we use for women like that- Comfort Pussy. Luciana is at best, one of Orson's longest friends whom he had several sexual occasions with either under the influence of substances or heartbreak or boredom, and at worst, Comfort Pussy.

"Oh trust me, I know," I look at Parker; she bites her lip as she remembers how Georgina blackmailed Orson and everything about the whole Carlotta thing. "But we took care of her."

"You should've seen it," Parker guffaws to me and I giggle along.

Luciana shits in her seat awkwardly, feeling left out. "Seen what?"

"The way Amory took down Georgina; it made Bailey and Melissa's destruction seem like a pity parade. We might've taken it too far but oh well," Parker shrugs.

"No use in feeling bad now," I laugh, "It's too late."

One corner of Luciana's mouth pulls up into a sarcastic smile. "Isn't that kind of how it works? Don't we always go too far?"

She has simpered in a way I couldn't quite read. When Luciana throws me a wink, I feel a pinch of terror. Does she know?

Her words spin in my head like clothes in a dryer: Don't you always go too far?

I press down my doubt. No, there's no way Luciana could know. If she did, she would've said something by now.

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," I said, pushing my chair back and standing up.

"I'll come with you," Luciana said, following me to the restaurant's bathroom, a mausoleum of big long rectangular mirrors and white marble. I head into the stall to quickly pee as Luciana reapplies her lip gloss, a gorgeous toasted almond-colored. When I came out, she popped the tube of her Marc Jacob gloss shut and began to speak, glistening lips moving like the lights of the bathroom reflected back into the mirror.

"So you and Orson are pretty serious, huh?"

"Yeah, we are."

Luciana sets her jaw and bites on the insides of her teeth. "I mean, I don't need to tell you- you know what you're getting into when it comes to Orson."

I turn the water on in the sink to wash my hands. "What is that supposed to mean?"

My question makes her turn to me automatically.

"You think he's going to love you?" Luciana spits in my face with her clenched jaw, about to unsnap. It reminds me of something I learned once in biology: a crocodile's teeth are constantly replaced. Their whole life, they never stop growing new teeth. And their teeth are their blades, painted in deep red blood.

A pause, then my voice like a needle in her ear: "And what makes you think he loves you?" I answer, sending her a bland smile.

She looks angry at my remark but she's speechless. "Did you know," I carry on in a cold voice, "that he actually left Georgina for me? Before she died, he threw her away for me. I guess it has to do with the fact that I ruined her, of course. But has he ever done that for you? No, I'm guessing he only came to you because you were just...there."

She's shocked I would say something so mean. After all, aren't we friends? Well, friends don't question and encroach on the validity of my relationship.

She thinks just because she's here for the vacation, she gets to have him. Like it was before. I know Luciana has been banking on seeing Orson for spring break and getting with him. Me around as his official girlfriend, the position she covets, puts a wrench in those plans.

Luciana's face morphs meanly, and her smile becomes a snarl. "I made you!" She points a nail at me, her French manicure jabbing at me instead of her usual long painted claws. "Before me, you were just some new girl nobody from Cali. You wouldn't be where you are today if it wasn't for me!"

Even though she's a whole head taller than me, I do not quake in her presence. Instead, I coolly step forward. We're so close I can hear Luciana's furious, fast breaths, her tongue clicking in her mouth after hurling fire at me.

"You didn't make me, Luciana. I made myself, I came here myself, got him myself," The corner of my lips curls, "It's not my fault you fell off."

And with that, I stride out of the bathroom.

-