Blue Bloods by Melissa de La Cruz

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 whis pered when they saw Schuyler in her dress. “It’s got to be from Marc Jacobs,” someone whispered. “More like a cos tume shop,” her friend sniffed. Schuyler turned crimson from embarrassment.
    They found Dylan on the second landing by the cornu copia 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.
    Bliss smiled happily at them. She winked at Schuyler. “Cool dress,” she said, and it sounded like she actually meant it.
    “Thanks.”
    “So—have you checked out the place? Some good eats upstairs,” Dylan said.
    “No—but we will,” Oliver promised. They left the cou ple and wormed their way through the crowd upstairs to the buffet.
    The rooms had been decorated with white Christmas lights, and in the back, there was an elegant display of hot and cold roast meats, silver plates laden with exquisite hors d’oeuvres and French pastries. In the middle room, a sweaty mix of patrician girls and rich boys were gyrating to the beat of a hard rap song. The lights were off, and Schuyler could only make out the shadows of their faces. She could see that all the boys from Duchesne were carrying little silver Tiffany hip flasks that stuck out of their side pants pockets. Occasionally, they would surreptitiously take a swig or pour a bit of alcohol in their date’s cups. Even Oliver had brought his monogrammed one. There were several teachers milling about, but no one seemed to notice, or care about the covert tippling.
    “Want a sip?”
    “Sure,” Schuyler said, taking the flask from his hand. The liquor was warm and hit the back of her throat. Her head buzzed for a minute, and she took a couple more gulps.
    “Easy there! That’s 181 proof ,” Oliver warned. “You’re going to get wasted,” he said gleefully.
    But Schuyler