Jet Set by Carrie Karasyov

Sofia was clearly soaking it all up as she described how “major” the scene was that night.
    â€œI mean, Lola and Rocky won’t play one record without ahundred thousand euros. They’re huge. They played the after party of the Duke of Faxington’s daughter’s wedding in Marbella. Oh! There’s Holly Bollycock of the Bollycock Tea empire.…”
    Her wide eyes drank in every sexy, preened teen in the joint, and Antony, who’d sat with us in a plum corner spot, laughed in amusement. “She’s quite something, your friend,” he murmured. “She’s like a Who’s Who compendium of the whole Continent.”
    â€œTry world ,” I corrected.
    â€œShall we have a go?” he said, gesturing to the packed dance floor where Antigone and Moabi LeTroux were practically Lambada-ing themselves into one being, and Iman and Morgan Wellington, the cricket star, were doing quasi-medical procedures on each other’s tonsils. While thoroughly grossed out by their PDA, I must say, I was jealous that they’d found someone they liked. Following him out into the crowd, I wondered if maybe Antony might be the one to put a little spark in my semester.
    As he twirled me around I saw Oliver walk in with Angelina. He looked at us, then looked away.
    Then I glanced over at Sofia, who was holding up her drink. But next to the glass I saw a huge cocktail ring I hadn’t noticed earlier. She sipped her drink and kept touching the big onyx ring with the other hand. In the whirling collage of thumping beats, glittering clothes, flailing dancing limbs, and blurred strobe lights, not a soul but me would ever notice. As I watched her carefully, I saw her touch the ring, adjusting it and moving her hand in different positions on the table. She kept lifting her hand for no reason, andtilting it at various angles. Suddenly, dancing to the music under the strobe lights, I realized that the onyx in that huge setting was hardly a simple piece of shiny black rock. It was the lens of a tiny camera that was quietly clicking away at the unknowing glamorous couples who shimmied and spun to the turntable music, beautiful heads thrown back in laughter, without a care in the world.
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    Five days later when the glossy issue of GAB! hit the newsstands, the school was wildly abuzz with the explosive ten-page feature on Van Pelt. Antigone and Moabi’s hookup was now international news. Her whole country was practically planning the wedding for their new queen-to-be and her prince, Moabi.
    Ditto for Iman, whose strict father sent emissaries to bring her home for the following weekend for fear the cricket jock would deflower his only daughter. There were even rumors that he was also humiliated by the makeout photos because he’d promised her hand to a diamond magnate family in Nigeria. Tongues wagged. Sofia beamed.
    I knew exactly what was going on but never brought up the camera I’d noticed on Sofia’s finger. That was until I read the “Hot Goss” blurb that described, verbatim, Maxwell’s dalliances with Mrs. Bristol. After the party the other night I’d finally gotten her to promise that she wouldn’t say anything about that piece of gossip.
    â€œSofia!” I snapped, throwing the magazine down on her bed.“It’s one thing to take photos at Club Platinum—that’s your issue. But to print that Maxwell stuff? I mean, that woman is married!”
    â€œSo? They did it—it’s their problem.”
    â€œBut Antony told me that stuff! Now he’ll hate me.”
    â€œNo he won’t,” she said. “Trust me. He won’t.”
    â€œHow do you know?” I asked, still embarrassed by my big mouth.
    â€œHe doesn’t read Gab! Take it from me. Don’t stress. Listen, when people have affairs, it gets out there! It’s not as if he’d be the only person who knew! Plus, hello, Lucy—he’d never in a