DISCLAIMER: This contains sexually explicit scenes; so if that offends you don't read it. The author and/or Nifty are not responsible for those under eighteen (18) years of age reading this. UNDERWORLD is property of the author and should not be used without the author's permission.
Derrick was sitting on his folding chair by the door, his hands fidgeting, and his thoughts rushing through his head about a mile a minute. It was the usual pre-party panic. After almost two years he should be over it, but it had become a ritual by now, like brushing his teeth. Carrie walked over to him and put her hand on his should reassuringly, "It'll be okay, it always is."
He just looked up at her, God she knew him well. Well she should, they'd known each other since before he first arrived.
"Derrick! Come here!"
When he heard the words he tensed up. His mother sounded excited, maybe accusatory, and harsh. Could she have found out? Did she hear from somebody? Or maybe somehow found the websites on his computer? A million questions ran through Derrick's mind as he left his room and headed downstairs to the kitchen. These were the same questions that rushed through his mind every time she called him that way. Had she had found out what he was never ready to tell her? On one level he knew that his mother would always love him no matter what. No, it was more the fear of change that kept him firmly in the closet. When he walked into the kitchen, shaking, he was more than a little surprised to see his mother turn around wearing one of the biggest grins he had ever seen on the woman. Derrick's mother looked quite good for her age of forty years. His father had left her with the baby and ran off to his promising business career with a younger woman. This only motivated Derrick's mother where others would have collapsed. He was always proud of her for that. Her face was well framed with locks of dark auburn hair, and her blue eyes shined with happiness. Both were traits he shared and wore quite well. "You got in!"
"Wh-where?"
"Horace Green!"
"Oh my God! How?"
Derrick's anxiousness had turned from panicked to thrilled. He had just been accepted on a scholarship to attend one of the most illustrious private schools in Manhattan. He had always been academically proficient and he had taken the test a while ago to see if he was good enough. Apparently he was.
"I'm so proud of you!" She hugged him. Derrick was still in shock. Suddenly it dawned on him. How could he, a skinny pale kid from a middle class household in Queens, possibly survive in the competitive, blue-blooded environment of an Upper East Side private high school? He knew only one person who could help him, Carrie.
When he finally had a minute to himself, he called her cell. Carrie and Derrick had been best friends for years. Their mothers had been best friends before they were born and never lost touch. Not even when Carrie's mother divorced and remarried very, very well and Carrie herself was launched into the land of Bergdorf Blondes and Aristo-brats three years ago. Carrie hadn't let it corrupt her, but at the same time learned to ?adapt? to her surroundings quite well. She was still the crazy, fun, artistic type he first connected with and the first person he ever came out to. Carrie viewed the high society of New York City as a science project and conducted her research with the vigor of a seasoned PhD. As a girl who could list the top 10 private schools in the state, including all the places the jocks, drunks, and husband-hunters go, who knew the names of all the prominent New York families, old money and new, as well just where dropping their names would do the most good. As a girl who's familiarity with the fashion world gave her an encyclopedic knowledge of all the Madison Avenue and Soho boutiques, and not to mention, as a girl who was a Horace Green student herself. She would be his sherpa through this strange new, martini-soaked wilderness. She was enthusiastic to hear his voice again.
"Hey! And how is my favorite pet fag today?"
"You mean there's another?" Derrick accused, with mock pouting. "Quite well actually. You're never going to believe this, but..." he paused for dramatic effect, "I've just been accepted into Horace Green!"
"Oh my God! You're going to be HG alumnus!" she screamed, Carrie was eccentric and had the best reactions, "You'll be sporting Ralph Lauren and guzzling cosmos in no time." Derrick laughed; yup, she was the perfect guide.
"So, of course I'll need the help of someone who knows the school. Not only the school, but that whole social scene, there's so much potential."
"I love how enterprising you are," she teased. "Well, you sure know who to call. I've mapped out all the nouveau rich from HG to St. George's, Choate, and beyond."
"I know, which is why I believe that between the two of us we can take them by storm."
"True, my familiarity with the territory and your tactics are quite a force to be reckoned with. So what exactly are you thinking we?ll do?"
"Well, I'm not sure, actually," he was slightly embarrassed to admit it. He'd gotten caught up in the moment.
"Nice one, so what was it I just said about your tactics?" she responded sarcastically.
"Oh, you're so cruel. Don't worry, once I scope out the situation I'll begin forming a plan."
"Until then."
"Maybe not, are you going to be at the armory antique show this Wednesday?"
"Of course, my mother insists."
"Well I'll be there too with mine, so perhaps we'll be able to occupy each other."
"Thank God, I was ready to hang myself." Derrick's mother still retained some of the connections from her high society life before her husband left, the strongest of which being with her best friend, Carrie's mother. As a result, she was able to salvage occasional invitations to these kinds of events.
This conversation was typical of Derrick. One wouldn't think that, inside his tall, lithe form, topped off with dark hair and eyes that pierced, lived such a calculating mind. Carrie was his counterpoint, while Derrick seemed to absorb life, Carrie exuded it. She was shy in crowds and had self esteem problems, but when she was around Derrick, her true inner enthusiasm for life shined through.
At the armory, the antique show was what one would expect, of interest only to those truly in love with the art world. While Derrick was certainly an enthusiast of art, he couldn't bear these sorts of functions. Milling about the various booths with Carrie, the two of them prepared for facing a year of Horace Green together.
"Well, my mother's already drunk."
"You're so cruel to her." Carrie judged amiably.
"We have a love-hate relationship that you won't find in most families."
"Certainly not in mine, my mother would have a heart attack if I sat on the living room couch."
Derrick's mother was always one for wine at a social event. She was far from an alcoholic, only drunk in that cocktail party sense, that leads to the accidental vulgar joke to some stiff Park Avenue matriarch, or in the worst case, tripping on your manolo blahnik. Derrick had just noticed his mother laughing hysterically with Carrie's mother and stepfather. The woman was crazy and fun like that, as far as mothers go. She had great stories and her own brand of humor that sometimes bordered on outrageous, at least for someone in her position.
The scene now shifts to their first day at Horace Green. The two of them walked down the hall in their uniforms, Carrie excited with Derrick, but at the same time this crowd intimidated her. No matter how she studied them like guinea pigs a part of her still looks up to these sort of people, the ?in? crowd. Derrick, on the other hand, surveyed the landscape with a studious eye, absorbing every detail of their motions, tones of voice. The Manhattan rich kids all lolled about, but within them was a competitive flame, fueled by equally competitive parents, who'd been breeding them for the right preschool, the right high school, and ultimately the right college, since the day they were born. The girls huddled in clumps, their skirts hiked up and their sweaters a size too small, to show off their assets, glaring viciously at one another. The boys were all cocky, walking down the hallway with a strut as though they were kings of the world, and in the eyes of many, they were. But in Derrick's eyes, they were a cash crop waiting to be harvested. The way their lives are driven by pride, lust and greed, it was tailor made for him. Though he appeared weak, normally the perfect bait for this kind of people, Derrick could come off as downright demonic, to those who knew him. Sure, in a school like Horace Green, there were a fair number of academics, but it was this A-list that interested him.
As their classes went on, Carrie and Derrick eventually found themselves sitting outside the school, waiting for Derrick's mother to pick him up. Then, as if by magic, Derrick heard the conversation of a bunch of adolescent clackers, so named for the sounds their $500 heels make on the tile floors.
"So, what are we doing for homecoming?"
"Marissa's throwing something, everyone's gonna be there."
Eureka! Parties. That was what made these people tick, the ideal hybrid of the myriad of vices in their culture. Parties were the perfect tools with which he can use this school to his advantage. He turned to Carrie with a wicked grin that she immediately recognized as a sign that he was plotting something.
"Oh God, what is it?" She asked apprehensively.
"I know what we're going to do."
"And?" He'd piqued her interest.
"Parties. We'll take it upon ourselves to become the go-to guys for all the best social events at Horace Green."
"Oh my God, that's brilliant."
"Thank you."
"But how?"
"Don't worry about it. First, we need a venue. We'll rent out someplace; maybe in a hotel or something, I know there are some industrial lofts available for these sorts of events. We spread the word of a party, loosely tied to a school event, you know, vacations and stuff like that. We'll need a pull, a theme maybe, like a black and white party. Spread the word, create a buzz, add a cover charge and before you know it, we'll be turning a profit from their own insatiable sinfulness."
"That's all well and good, but you're leaving out where we're going to get the money from. We need to be able to rent out a space, get food and drinks."
"Then we'll start small, as party promoters for some other socialite. They foot the bill, we promise a profit and create the buzz and do the planning."
"PR, of course. But who?"
"Well, we'll have to find them. A candidate who needs our help just as much as we need theirs."
"Indeed."
"So this is the entire school directory?" Derrick asked Carrie, as the two of them sat side by side squeezed together on the subway. They were active and never able to sit down and complete anything. So, of course taking the subway down to Soho and wandering around the neighborhood of boutiques was ideal for their task.
"Yup. The Celebutantes down to the Prepford wives," this sentence is a perfect example of the language the two have developed between each other over the years.
"Now remember what we're looking for. A young social climber with resources and drive who wants to create a name for herself by hosting a truly extravagant affair." So, armed with highlighters, they began to flip through the book, attempting to plough through the massive amount of information, for that one, ideal candidate. For each potential host or hostess, Carrie provided the tidbits of info not provided in the matchbox-sized contact information. She was a one-woman filing cabinet, full of dossiers of who did what, where and with whom.
They highlighted a few and made a list, then they arrived at their stop on Prince street and Carrie decided to treat them both to a little something at Balthazar's. The two of them had an unspoken agreement about Derrick's financial situation and Carrie was so naturally giving anyway, that she almost always ended up paying for lunch or even a cab fare on occasion. In the restaurant's warm French interior, packed with people as usual, the two young New Yorkers went through that list and narrowed it down even more. The process repeated itself as they enjoyed their lunch at a small table cramped next to a support beam. Later, as Derrick tried on a blazer he couldn't afford at Hugo Boss and Carrie stood by patiently in an even more expensive coat off the rack, they were down to the final five.
"Rebecca, Gloria, Joseph, Harriet, or Hugh," she read off to Derrick.
"I think Hugh sounds promising," he responded, never tearing his eyes away from his reflection in the store mirror, "He has the right mindset. Desperate, rich, attention craving, right?"
"Totally. In fact, I think I know how we can convince him."
"I'm listening." Intrigued, Derrick turned around to face Carrie with a wry grin and returned the blazer to the rack.
"Well, it appears that our little Romeo has his sights set on Diane Kuller."
"Diane? Empress of HG Diane? Daughter of loaded restaurateur Harold Kuller Diane?"
"None other, I see you're getting better at your A-list vocabulary," she complimented.
"Well, I've been studying my flash cards." They laughed and Derrick brought them back on topic, "But wait a minute, how can Hugh Greenford be after Diane Kuller when he's some fresh import from Greenwich, Connecticut with no family ties to New York?"
"He'll do what my step-father did, he'll buy himself a place in society," Carrie countered.
"But of course." Carrie's stepfather was a truly self-made man. He came from a middle class German family and became owner of an Investment Funds company of esteemed reputation. He was assimilated into the High Society by throwing hundreds of parties, a habit he still maintained, as well as joining every club imaginable, the Union Club, the Knickerbocker, the University Club, and many others.
"We'll approach Hugh with the offer to help bring him onto the scene and Diane's radar. After all, it only takes one amazing party in order to gain a good reputation."
"Is that all?"