"You're friends with Dylan Ward, aren't you?"

Schuyler shrugged. "Yeah. What about him?" She checked her watch. The second bell was going to ring soon, and kids from her class were already hurrying up the stairs to the lower court gyms.

"I just—do you know him well?"

Schuyler shrugged again. She wasn't sure what Bliss was asking. Of course she knew him well. She and Oliver were his only friends.

"I've heard rumors," Bliss said, looking around to see if anyone was listening to their conversation.

"Oh yeah, what?" Schuyler raised an eyebrow. She stuffed her sweatshirt in her locker.

"Well, that he was involved in some accident with some girl in Connecticut this summer—"

"I haven't heard anything about that," Schuyler said, cutting her off. "But people around here talk about everybody. Do you really believe that story?"

Bliss looked shocked. "Not at all! I don't believe it one bit."

“Look, I should go," Schuyler said brusquely, shouldering her tennis racket and walking away.

"Hold on," Bliss called, walking next to Schuyler and hurrying to keep up as Schuyler loped up the stairs.

"What?"

"I just … I mean …" Bliss shrugged. "I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot. My bad, okay? Can we start over? Please?"

Schuyler narrowed her eyes. The second bell rang. "I'm late," she said flatly.

"It's just, we went to the Met the other day and I thought we had a really nice time, but I don't know, he hasn't spoken to me since," Bliss explained. "Do you know if he has a girlfriend or anything?"

Schuyler sighed. If she was late for class her grandmother would get a note. Duchesne didn't have anything like «detention»; the only punishments it meted out were tattletale notes home to overly involved parents who would commit hara-kiri if their kids didn't get into Harvard. She looked at Bliss, taking in her nervous demeanor and hopeful smile.

Reluctantly, Schuyler came to the conclusion that maybe Bliss wasn't one of those Mimi clones after all. She didn't have pin-straight blond hair or sport an obnoxious "Team Force" insignia on her gym hoodie like the rest of Mimi's gang, for one. "As far as I know, he isn't dating anybody. He did mention meeting someone the other night at a club…" Schuyler allowed finally, watching Bliss's reaction.

Bliss blushed.

"I thought so." Schuyler nodded. Against her better judgment, she found herself relenting. If Dylan had taken her to the Met, Bliss really couldn't be all bad. Schuyler wasn't sure Mimi would even know what the Met was. Mimi's life revolved around shopping and getting into VIP rooms. She probably thought "the Met" was some kind of nightclub.

"If you want my advice, take it easy on him. I think he really likes you," she said, giving Bliss a sympathetic smirk.

"He does? I mean, he's talked about me?"

Schuyler rolled her shoulders. "It's really none of my business," she said, hesitating.

"What?"

"Well, I doubt he'd mind if you asked him to the fall dance. He probably would never even think of going himself, but he might go if you asked."

Bliss smiled. The dance was tomorrow night. She could do that. Her parents would have to let her go—it was a school event, and there were bound to be tons of chaperones there to appease their anxiety. "Thanks."

"No problem," Schuyler said, running up the stairs without giving Bliss a backward glance.

Struck by the idea, Bliss scribbled a quick note and tore off the paper from her binder. She carefully removed all the broken bits on the side, spritzed it with her perfume, and stuffed it in Dylan's locker.

She was shocked at her brazenness. She had never needed to pursue a boy before. But there's always a first time for everything.

The yearly Duchesne back-to-school dance was called the Fall "Informals," although it was anything but informal. The dance was held at the historical headquarters of the American Society, a grand red brick mansion on Park Avenue and Sixty-eighth Street. The society was an organization dedicated to keeping an archive of early American history, including documents from the first colonies and the Mayflower journey. The second floor housed a wood-paneled library with a barrel-vaulted ceiling as well as several cozy, clubby rooms ideal for dinner and dancing. It was a popular event space, and many brides-to-be shelled out a fortune for the privilege of having their wedding on Park Avenue. But for Duchesne students, it was just the place where they had their school dance.

Earlier that evening, Oliver and Schuyler were hanging out in his room, doing nothing as usual—but when Schuyler casually mentioned she'd heard that Dylan—of all people— was going to the lame dance, Oliver pounced on the idea. "Let's go."

"Us? Why?" Schuyler was horrified.

"C'mon, it'll be funny."

"No it won't." Schuyler argued. "Us go to some snobby dance? Just to see Mimi Force lording it over everyone?"

"I heard they do a pretty good spread," Oliver wheedled.

"I'm not hungry."

"C'mon, what else are we going to do?"

After the excitement of the past weekend, when they'd ventured to The Bank, it did seem a bit dull to just sit on Oliver's bed reading magazines together.

"All right," Schuyler agreed. "But I need to go home and change."

"Of course."

When Oliver picked her up, Schuyler was wearing a cocktail-length fifties-style black lace prom dress, dainty white wrist gloves, fishnet stockings, and round-toe high heels, almost as a joke. She'd found the dress on eBay for thirty dollars. The strapless dress fit perfectly around her tiny waist, and the skirt blossomed out at the hips like a graceful bell held aloft by a layer of tulle petticoats. She'd found her grandmother's pearl necklace, with the black satin ribbon, in the bottom of her music box, and tied it around her neck. Oliver had chosen a deep blue silk smoking jacket over a black shirt and black wool pants. He presented Schuyler with a breathtaking rose corsage.

"Where did you get it?" Schuyler asked as he slipped it around her wrist.

"You can have anything delivered in New York." Oliver grinned. He handed her a boutonniere, and she pinned it on his lapel.

"How do we look?"

"Perfect," he said, offering her his arm.

When they arrived at the American Society mansion, a host of sleek black town cars were dropping off students paired off in dates. The girls were in chic black cocktail dresses and pearls, the guys in blue blazers and wool trousers. No one had corsages. Instead, the girls were carrying long-stemmed calla lilies, which they carelessly tossed aside when they entered the room.

"I guess we didn't get the memo," Schuyler quipped.

They headed upstairs, trying to blend in. Several girls whispered when they saw Schuyler in her dress. "It's got to be from Marc Jacobs," someone whispered. "More like a costume shop," her friend sniffed. Schuyler turned crimson from embarrassment.

They found Dylan on the second landing by the cornucopia display. He was wearing a camel-hair sportscoat over a sharp black dress shirt and well-cut wool trousers. Bliss Llewellyn, the pretty redhead from Texas, was sitting on his lap. She was wearing a slim Costume National black sheath dress, Prada slingbacks, and the ubiquitous string of pearls around her swanlike neck.

"Hey guys," Dylan said, when he saw his friends. He shook hands with Oliver and pecked Schuyler on the cheek. "Y'all know Bliss, right?"

They nodded. Since when did Dylan say "Y'all"? He must really be into this girl.

"You clean up nice," Schuyler teased, brushing a piece of lint off Dylan's jacket.

"Is that Hugo Boss?" Oliver mocked, pretending to inspect the material.

"Yes, and don't get it dirty," Dylan shot back, chagrined but grinning nonetheless.