"But what if she doesn't?"

Dax looks me over and adjusts my tie one last time. "Trust me. She will."

"I don't know about all this music business," I say, stalling my departure for the party. "Perhaps joining the music department isn't the right course. I should find a different way to get closer to her."

"No," Dax says. "I think the music angle is your best shot. I've been doing some research into it and found that there's a whole neurochemistry to singing that we can use to our advantage." I raise my eyebrows.

"There's scientific evidence that when people sing together their brains release oxytocin-that's a neurotransmitter, a chemical, that'd a.s.sociated with social bonding. It causes a sense of trust and well being towards the person you're singing with."

I nod, liking the sound of that, even though I don't know how to sing.

Another concern eats at me. "But it's forbidden," I say. "Music isn't allowed in the Underrealm."

"We're not in the Underrealm, anymore."

"But still . . ." The idea of outright breaking one of the Court's most steadfast rules makes me feel as though my nerves have been left exposed to the open air. "If my father finds out . . ."

"Simon signed off on this plan-granted, reluctantly-so he's not going to tell on you to the Court.

Not unless you do something impulsively stupid again."

I shake my head, not wanting to rehash what I did in the grove once more.

Dax puts his hand on my shoulder. "I know it goes against everything you've been taught, but sometimes Champions have to make exceptions to the rules. Just be smart about which ones you choose to bend." He slaps my shoulder. "Now, go knock 'em dead." I a.s.sume he means that I should make a good impression at the party, and not to follow the literal interpretation of that expression.

chapter twenty-six.

daphne

Back in Ellis, throwing a party usually meant a handful of friends, chips, dip, and a movie projected onto the side of my mom's barn. But I get the feeling the mayor's party isn't like anything I've seen in Ellis when I find the garment bag that Marta has spread out on my bed. I'd been planning on wearing one of the maxi-skirts that had come in my boxes of belongings, which arrived earlier in the week, but as I unzip the garment bag, I find the most exquisite blue dress that I have ever seen. It's a cascading silk gown, the color of brilliant blue cornflowers, with a strapless, sweetheart neckline. The boning in the ruched, crossover bodice holds tightly against my chest when I zip up the dress. The gown is lit with shimmering gla.s.s beads along the lace-trimmed empire waistline, and ruched blue silk sweeps through the floor-length skirt and trails behind me in a romantic train as I walk.

Marta has left a shoe box along with the dress. Inside, I find a pair of silver satin pumps with a crystal flower accent along the bridge of the open toe.

I pin one side of my blond, wavy hair back behind my ear with a silk flower, and let the rest hang long and loose. I look in my gilded mirror. The color of my dress makes my eyes pop in my tanned face, and I can't help thinking that the design of the outfit invokes the image of the Grecian G.o.ddess of springtime.

For the first time, I feel happy that Marta knows more about what is going on in my life than I do. I would have felt like a real country b.u.mpkin, walking into a party in a maxi-skirt and tee if other people are going to be in gowns like this.

I am about to tear the sales tag from the dress when I see the price. My mother could probably buy two new coolers for the flower shop for how much my outfit costs. Instead of ripping off the tag, I cut it off carefully with a pair of scissors I find in my vanity drawer. Maybe if I can manage to keep the dress looking really nice, I can sell it on eBay after the party. My mom won't take money from Joe, but maybe she'd take it from me.

I am not used to heels, and I am walking very carefully down the stairs, wondering how I am ever going to ride my bike to Tobin's house in this dress, when I see Joe standing in the foyer. He's wearing a slim-fitting suit that no doubt costs even more than my dress, and he's dangling a pair of car keys in his hand. I almost slip on a stair. Joe is going to the music department's party. Of course he is.

He's writing the play, after all.

"Ready, love?" he says with that darned cheeky grin of his. "I thought we'd take the Porsche."

"I'm good on my bike. Maybe you should walk. Drunk driving is still a crime, even if you have a wall full of platinum records."

"That stings, Daph. That really does," he says, clutching his chest dramatically. "I haven't had a drink all day." He counts on his fingers. "Three days, actually." As I get closer to him, I do notice the lack of a liquor smell lingering in the air. He's even splashed on a bit of cologne, removed his longer extensions so his hair now frames his chin, and shaved. He looks better without the stubble.

"Good for you. I can still take my bike."

"Good luck in that dress," he says.

He does have a point. "I'll walk, then."

"Sorry, deary, it'll be dark soon, and if you think I'm letting you out on those paths after what happened to that Perkins girl, you've got another thing coming. I nearly had a heart attack last time."

"She's the one who had the heart attack."

"Sorry. Wrong phrasing, but the gist is, I'm driving you to the party or you're not going at all." I give Joe a look that shows that I'm not amused. I don't know where he gets off thinking he can pick and choose when to act like a real father. Though I'd be lying if I don't admit that part of me almost likes it. If the idea of being able to drive me to a party is enough to keep him from yucking it up with his good old buddies Jack and Daniels, it at least says something about him. What that something is, I'm not quite sure.

"Okay, we can go together. If you let me drive the Porsche," I say, because a red Porsche is always more preferable to a yellow bike when making an entrance at a party.

"Do you know how to drive a stick shift?" Joe asks wearily.

"No, but I'm a fast learner."

He hesitates for a moment.

"I can always walk. . . ."

"Fine," he says and hands over the keys. "You look stunning in that dress, by the way. I knew that color would be perfect with your eyes."

"You picked out my dress?"

"Does that surprise you?" he says with a wink and grin.

Part of me wants to go back upstairs and change into my maxiskirt just to spite him, but the part of me that has never felt so beautiful in my life manages to win out. "Thank you," I say softly.

"Now let's go party, shall we?" he says, offering me his arm.

The mayor's mansion is on the exact opposite side of the lake from Joe's place, so it takes us a while to drive there-mostly because I keep stalling out the Porsche. I am surprised at how well Joe has managed to keep his cool as we grind our way into Tobin's driveway. We stop in a long line of cars waiting for valets at the front door.

"Right here's good enough," Joe says, gritting his teeth. "We'll just let the valet come to us. How's that?"

We idle in silence for a few minutes. There hadn't been much time for talking on the drive over except for Joe's strangled instructions on how to shift gears. "So . . . ," he says awkwardly and I know an attempt at conversation is coming. Joe gives me a grin that reminds me of the stray dogs my mom is p.r.o.ne to bringing home. Long, reaching notes fill his voice as he asks, "What are your thoughts about the opera? Are you excited to be playing Eurydice? What do your friends think?" I can't help laughing. Doesn't he realize that because of his "grand gesture," I don't have any friends?

Other than Tobin, that is. I'd thought I didn't care about meeting new people when I agreed to come to Olympus Hills, that I'd come just for the music, but after almost a whole week of having n.o.body to talk to at school, with Tobin out on suspension and the Sopranos' blackballing me, I'd never felt so lonely. In Ellis, I had people to eat lunch with and hang out with on the weekends-here, I spend most of my free time writing new songs so I'd look too busy to care when the Sopranos pa.s.s me, talking behind their hands.

And I miss CeCe. I'd never been super-BFF-close with any of my school friends. But CeCe-despite her being almost five years older than me-and I had been supertight ever since she came to Ellis when I was eleven. Except now I've been gone for a week and still haven't been able to get her to call me back. And my calls are all going straight to voice mail. Jonathan says she took the week off with the flu, but I can only think that she's superp.i.s.sed at me for abandoning her. And it only made things worse that today is her birthday.

But it's more than the friends thing that irks me so much about Joe's big surprise. It's the same reason I wanted to change out of this gown when I'd heard he'd picked it out for me. Anger rises up my spine and I find myself wishing I had changed.

"I'm not your puppet, Joe. You can't just offer to buy me nice things or dress me up pretty and put me in some play and make me sing the words you've written-and pretend it makes up for every minute of my life that you've ignored me. You should have told me about your plans beforehand. You should have asked me if I wanted to be part of it."

Joe's grin vanishes. "I thought you'd be happy. I'm just trying to help. . . ." As they fall flat, I realize those reaching notes coming off him were the sounds of eagerness.

He really thinks he's helping me, I realize. Mr. Morgan says that Olympus Hills productions usually bring in a huge audience, but with a name like Joe's backing the opera, scouts from all the major music colleges, not to mention Broadway, and probably big recording labels will show up for opening night. This is a billion times bigger than that talent compet.i.tion I'd wanted to enter back in Utah. Normally, I'd kill for a break as big as this one. I'd work my b.u.t.t off to take advantage of every second of the opportunity, and a part like this is exactly the reason I'd agreed to come to Olympus Hills. But I wanted to get the part because I'd earned it, because I'd put in the hard work-not because Joe gifted it to me.

Maybe Mr. Morgan had given me the part because of my audition. Tobin and Iris had said that I'd done an amazing job. But the suspicion (in both my mind and every other student's) would always be there-that I'd only gotten the part because I am Joe Vince's daughter.

I want people to hear my voice when I sing. Not his.

I want them to see me. Not just a shadow of Joe.

"It's fine," I say. "I'm sure the play will be great."

I suddenly feel the urge to put a little distance between the two of us. I pull the car's emergency brake and open the door. "I'll find you when I want to go home," I say and exit the Porsche.

There are luxury cars galore lining the street in front of the mayor's mansion, and I'm not the only one who's showing up with an escort, based on the number of adults who mill about in suits and fancy gowns. I don't see one maxi-skirt in the group of students who are all dressed more like they are going to the metropolitan opera instead of a school party. Clearly, no one is going to be eating chips and dip.

I walk through the house at the behest of the doorman and follow orchestra music out into the backyard. The mayor's house isn't as large as Joe's, but the yard is at least ten times the size, large enough to accommodate the band and s.p.a.ce for a dance floor on the stone patio alone. The decor of the party is a modern fusion of ancient Greek and j.a.panese influences that would make a designer like Jonathan drool. Glowing, cube-shaped lanterns hang from every tree and lotus blossoms cupping tea-light candles float on the surface of the pool. Partygoers fill the yard, some dancing, others talking in small groups, their happy chatter mixing with the music from the orchestra.

I look for Tobin but I don't see him anywhere in the crowd, so I make my way to the long buffet tables that take up most of the north side of the yard. A spread of every kind of food imaginable sits on elevated tiers on white satin tablecloths. Floral arrangements of orchids, tulips, cherry blossoms, hyacinths, and narcissus cascade from tall Grecian-looking urns on the buffet. I pick up a plate made of thin bone china from the stack at the end of the table and make my way through the culinary paradise in front of me. I don't even know the name of some of the foods, but I do recognize the sushi rolls, because Jonathan has a weakness for late-night infomercial shopping and once bought a "create your own sushi" kit at one in the morning. I use silver tongs to pick up pieces from two rolls that look familiar, and then a third one that looks scary. Like it has spider legs sticking out of the ends.

I take two desserts. One is a piece of baklava, and the other is something a waiter informs me is a mini taiyaki-a traditional j.a.panese fish-shaped treat made from a crispy waffle on the outside with sweet jam on the inside.

Another waiter in a tux offers me a flute of champagne. "Um, I'm only sixteen," I say, waving the gla.s.s away.

I hear t.i.ttering notes from behind me. I turn and see Lexie and the Sopranos nearby, each holding a gla.s.s of champagne. I look around and notice they're not the only underage drinkers at the party.

Considering this is a school-related event, hosted at the mayor's house, I am surprised that none of the adults seems to care. That sort of thing would never fly in Utah.

Lexie's eyes seem trained on my every move, like she's judging the way I've arranged the veggies from the sculpture of crudites on my plate. I shove a piece of rainbow roll in my mouth and give her a sarcastic little wave. She drains her gla.s.s of champagne, takes a second gla.s.s from the waiter, and then says something I can't hear to her friends. I gather the meaning, when two seconds later, she and the Sopranos turn on the heels of their designer shoes in a coordinated move, so all I can see of them are their backs. I swallow my bite of sushi-almost sighing at how amazing it tastes compared to Jonathan's homemade creations-take my plate, and leave the buffet.

I nibble my food and wander the party for a while, looking for Tobin. When my efforts prove to be fruitless, I make my way through the crowd toward the patio and the one somewhat friendly face I've seen all evening.

"I see I'm still being stonewalled by the Sopranos," I say to Iris and bite off the pointy end of an asparagus spear. "And it seems to be contagious." I use my veggie to point out a line of short freshman girls who have followed Lexie's example and have turned their backs toward me.

"I know. I'd better be careful. I could get totally blacklisted by the Sopranos just for talking to you." Iris smiles, but I can tell from the shaky notes coming off of her that it's something she's actually worried about. She's being polite to me because she's too nice not to be.

I clear my throat. "Have you seen Tobin?" His a.s.sertion that he had something to show me is the only reason-besides the food, I'll admit-that I'm still here. I've been waiting almost a week to see what it is, after all.

Iris glances over her shoulder at the Sopranos to see if they're watching. "Haven't seen him yet.

Maybe he's in the kitchen with the caterers?"

"Thanks. I'll leave you alone now," I say and start to turn away.

"Hey," Iris says. "I don't think they're right, you know. I heard you sing at the auditions. You might not have seniority, but you still deserve the part. I . . . I just can't afford to make enemies. Being a schollie and all."

I nod. "Thanks, and I get it." Being a scholarship kid in a world populated by the sp.a.w.n of the rich and famous is probably anything but easy. I can't blame her too much for being afraid of Lexie and her mafia.

"They'll probably move on to a new target soon," Iris says, trying to sound rea.s.suring. "Like the new guy. Once word gets out that Mr. Morgan let him into the program without an audition, they'll be out for his blood-no matter how hot he is."

"New guy?" I ask.

A weird feeling rushes through me-I can't tell if it's antic.i.p.ation or dread.

"Over there." She gives a quick nod toward the large magnolia tree that's dripping with shimmering lanterns, near the pool.

I follow her quick gesture. I'm not sure if I expected to see anyone else, or if I knew it would be him all along.

But there is Haden, standing under the tree, nursing a gla.s.s that looks like it's filled with c.o.ke, right in Tobin's backyard. There had been one nice thing about the last week: Haden's suspension meant that I hadn't had to think about him-much-in the last few days.

"He's in the music department now?" I ask.

But where the heck is Tobin? I have a feeling this party will go south pretty quickly if he sees this unexpected guest.

"That's what Bridgette said."

I don't wait for her to fill in any more details and head toward the tree where Haden stands. He doesn't look at me. Just takes a sip of his c.o.ke and lifts his gla.s.s toward a few soph.o.m.ore girls, who pa.s.s him, giggling. The girls are giggling, that is, not Haden. The way his lips are set on his stony face, I wonder if he ever laughs. Or smiles, for that matter.

I stop and watch him for a few minutes, all the time wondering if he's ever going to look up at me, until a girl in a purple satin gown stumbles into him. He catches her before she falls over. She laughs and I realize it's Lexie. Obviously, no Soprano memo to blackball Haden has gone out yet. She smiles up at him-way up, considering she's way more than a foot shorter than he is, even when she's wearing heels. She tries to wrap an arm around his neck, but he politely pushes her hand away. In her other hand, she holds a champagne flute, and I wonder how many of those she's drained since the two I saw her with.

I'm guessing quite a few, from the way she's swaying in her pumps.

Having a biological father who clearly has a problem with alcohol, I'd always resisted the temptation to sneak a beer behind the Ellis Filler-Up on Friday nights with some of the kids from my old school.

And watching Lexie make a fool of herself as Haden walks her over to Bridgette and deposits her nonchalantly with the Sopranos, I still don't see the appeal of getting drunk.

I've watched too many Where Are They Now? specials on VH1 at CeCe's apartment to know that talent won't get you very far without a little bit of self control. It's a miracle Joe hadn't washed up years ago.

Haden returns to his tree, gla.s.s of c.o.ke in his hand. He takes another sip and pulls a slight gagging face, like he can't stand the taste. I wonder why he keeps drinking it. And why does he seem to look at everyone here except me?

I scan the party again for Tobin and when I look back at Haden, I catch his eyes on me for a split second before he looks away at the pool.

So he has seen me.

"You're being too obvious," I say, approaching him.

"Pardon?" he asks, his eyebrows raised, breaking up the stoniness of his features.

"You're still stalking me, and you're being quite obvious about it."

"You're being very flattering of yourself," he says.