The fund-raiser. Is there anything in the world I feel like doing less now than celebrating? But tomorrow is the night and pretending is something I’m good at. At the very least, I try to focus on some of the good things in my life because you’re supposed to count your blessings and be thankful, the church says.
So there’s my mom and my brother and Ro and Clive and Candy and Clive’s parents because of the article, then there’s the Vogue story coming out, although that could go either way, depending on how everyone sees it, and then yes, I am in a decent school, at least until the end of the semester, so I feel a little better and work on putting something on my face resembling a smile.
Beyond the bogus smile there’s the issue of clothes, so out comes the backless dress again even though I know what I’m opening myself up to because there are more than a few people in my school who have no taste whatsoever and they wouldn’t recognize a couture dress if Armani came in with it on his own back, so all they’ll immediately say is OMG, Gia is such a total slut, yada, yada, yada.
But anyway I call Clive and since this is a black-tie gala, he’s in the middle of getting dressed.
“This feels totally strange,” he says.
I start to wonder about his neck although I’d never just come out and ask, but I’m thinking that he can’t possibly wear that ratty navy cashmere scarf with a black tux, can he? I’m super curious to see how he’ll handle that, and I ask him if he wants me to come over and help him get ready and put in his studs or do his bow tie or whatever.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll meet you there.”
As I’m about to hang up I hear, “Wait, Gia. I wanted to tell you yesterday. I found out something about Michael—”
“Don’t tell me, I don’t care anymore.”
“But it’s—”
“Clive. Promise me something.”
“What?”
“That you’ll never mention his name again to me.”
“You don’t want to even—?”
“It’s over. He’s history.”
“But I—”
“Clive, please?”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
As I get ready, my mind briefly flicks back to Michael and the restaurant and the blame and, yes, it is so over because we’re at opposite ends of the world and screw his secrets or whatever because he blames me for everything. And now I’m convinced what I should celebrate is ending things with him. I put him out of my mind and blow out my hair and then run downstairs and get in the car because Vinnie is driving me to the restaurant, which is this really classy place.
When Morgan does things, they go over the top. One of the groups being celebrated is the Botanical Gardens and their people are bringing in to-die-for orchids in rich purple and the faintest shades of celadon and yellow, and even some in black. A major league florist was invited to decorate the restaurant so he’s hanging plant vines everywhere and the place is turning into more of a tropical environment rather than just a pricey Asian restaurant called Asian Fusion Odyssey.
The work of the Humane Society is also being celebrated, and their people are there with brochures and freebies like refrigerator magnets with pug faces and what have you, but then I see them bringing in cages with dogs for adoption, and I wonder who approved that. But whatever, because I love dogs, and I hope that the rest of the school does too and doesn’t go ape shit and say things like, “I mean, I personally love dogs but what if someone is allergic? Or what if one of them bites someone and we get sued?”
I’m walking around looking at everything and then I stop dead in place. “Clive Laurent, oh my God!” I scream at the top of my lungs because he looks so totally adorable.
“Gia, what is it?” he says, rushing up to me. “You’re scaring me to death.”
He’s even had his hair cut so it’s layered perfectly, and he’s wearing this black tuxedo with a black shirt under it, and instead of the ratty blue scarf, a beautiful, long, red silk scarf is knotted around his neck and it looks so opulent and extraordinary that I kiss him on the lips, and he laughs.
Clive and I walk around eyeballing everything, and there’s just one area where there’s no display.
“I wonder what they’re going to put in that space,” I say.
“Who knows,” he says, taking my arm and leading me in the other direction.
Then Ro arrives. I really don’t get to see her dressed up that often except at weddings. She’s wearing an extraordinary navy blue dress with an oversized bow across the bodice and I’m guessing that it’s Prada off the truck or something that could pass for Prada. Her long dark hair has been blown out and looks fabulous. She says that Dante is coming too, which I guess is cool because he’s such a douche that I usually have a good time with him.
Celebrate is feeling like prom with everyone in black tie. Candy, who is a clotheshorse like me, is wearing a dress she bought from a secondhand store in LA where the stars dump their gowns after the Oscars.
“I have no idea who wore this,” she says. “All they told me was that it was someone who was nominated.”
It’s a pale yellow gauzy gown by Valentino that’s super simple, and with her long blond hair, Candy looks like she could be at the Vanity Fair after-party.
Ro and I and Clive and Candy make the rounds when two guys carry in a giant rectangular box that someone said is a cake, but you can’t see it because it’s inside. They finally get a table with a tablecloth and put the box on top of it.
“Just leave it inside for now,” Clive says.
“So you do know,” I say and look at him funny.
He doesn’t answer or maybe didn’t hear me, and we walk off.
To me, the highlight of the event is the dogs from the Humane Society. There are six cages with seven dogs. Just looking at the dogs with those sad, sad I’ve-given-up kind of downcast eyes makes me want to cry because I mean that loveless life and the loneliness…
The first cage has two puppies, probably the easiest to adopt out. The other five are a young beagle, a very alert and wary German shepherd with pointy ears, a senior golden retriever, a skinny black lab, and a graying pit bull named Herbie with a very resigned expression on his face as if he’s a poster dog for discrimination against pits and he has thrown in the towel on anything ever changing for him.
Everyone with a beating heart who walks by stops and plays with the dogs.
“I’ll adopt this one for sure,” says a boy I don’t know from school. “My mom loves beagles, so I’m sure it will be okay with her.”
He thinks they’re going to fling open the cage and let him walk off with the dog.
“Here’s an application to take home,” a woman from the Humane Society says. “After you fill it out, come back to the shelter with your parents.” Then yada, yada, yada, after paying the fee and getting recommendations from people who’ll vouch for the family as responsible dog owners, they’ll consider letting them take the dog. Then I’m thinking that the lengthy process with all the paperwork is similar to what you have to do to apply to Morgan—without the dog payoff in the end.
The night goes on and we sample all the food like baby back ribs from a barbecue place that started in Austin, Texas, and Asian fusion noodles with bok choy and pea pods with peanut sauce and an over-the-top macaroni and cheese comfort food from Per Se and jumbo shrimp from the Palm and I don’t know what else, and then we return to the cake box.
“Yes,” Clive says finally. “Open it now.” He turns to me. “Gia, I want you to share the first piece with me.”
I look at him like, what? He doesn’t say anything so I stand there with Ro and Candy and Clive while this guy who must have been the baker carefully slices open the box with a long knife. I look at the cake curiously. It looks like a certificate of some kind, only up in the corner is a face. My face. And at the top, in chocolate lettering, is the word scholarship.
“Clive?”
“My parents have created a scholarship in your name,” he says. “This coming year, it goes to you. After that, it goes to girls with strong academics who need financial help and can’t afford a school like Morgan.”
“I can’t accept…”
“Gia,” Clive whispers to me, his fingers tightening on my arm, “you can, and you have to, because the scholarship is as much for me as for you. I can’t imagine finishing school here without you. You are what I want to celebrate at our school.”
For once in my life, I’m speechless.
After about a thousand pictures of me with almost everyone in the school, my scholarship is literally eaten up.
“We haven’t told the school yet,” Clive says. “I wanted you to know first.”
“You didn’t have to do this,” I insist. “You don’t have to feel sorry for me.”
“I don’t feel sorry for you, Gia,” he says. “I felt sorry for me at the thought of you leaving. And anyway, you said you’d be there for me,” he says. “You gave me your word.”
“I did…”
“So?” He holds out his hands.
I wipe away the tears and in a little while the event starts to wind down, but then I see Christy and Georgina, which kills the mood. I feel like spraying them with whipped cream to hide their smug smiles, but they walk away, and five seconds later there’s a scream.
Christy’s near the pit bull’s cage and she’s shaking her head yelling, “He bit me! He bit me! He’s so aggressive, and I think he has rabies because his mouth is full of foamy saliva.”
But then a guy from the Humane Society rushes over and says very deliberately, “No, he does not have rabies, and he has had all his shots. Where did he bite you, young lady?”
“Here,” she says, holding out her hand, and he looks and narrows his eyes and keeps looking, and she shrieks, “Are you blind?”
Even though it’s barely a scratch, someone says we should call an ambulance and have her taken to the emergency room just in case, which is total manure because she’s just trying to ruin things. Not only that, but who is she taking it out on—poor, homeless Herbie who has nothing left to lose? So I hate her even more for that and maybe she should be tested for rabies.
The lights come on after that, destroying whatever is left of the mood, and everyone streams out, and the pace of clean-up quickens, and the dogs get picked up and their cages are loaded onto a van outside, which is totally sad.
“Do you think we should go over to Lenox Hill Hospital just to see how she is?” Clive asks.
“No fucking way,” I say because I’d rather go to the shelter and apologize to Herbie. If there’s anyone I’m concerned about it’s him and what may happen to him now after the bogus bite incident because you know how things can escalate.