Free The Bluest Blood by Gillian Roberts Page A

she wanted to play when Mackenzie was in Kansas.
    “Not with you,” she said. “I have found male perfection.”
    “Again? Who is it this week?”
    “This is different. This is Dr. Wonderful. An M.D. who works for a foundation in India.”
    This was indeed different. Sasha tended toward the fringes of acceptability. Her men were more likely to be social outcasts than to have social consciences.
    “Did I mention handsome? He’s gorgeous. And sexy? Flawless. My reward for all the bad apples. The handsome prince after all the frogs I’ve kissed. Perfect.”
    Perfect Pete, she called him. Dr. Wonderful. And he wanted to be with her every possible moment until he had to go back to India. Nauseating, like an eighth grader. “A simple yes or no would have sufficed,” I said. “But…good luck and have fun.”
    “Fun,” she said. “I have never before—”
    I hung up. After I got in my car, I sat there, motor running, while I agonized over whether I should go home and change before my TV debut, redo my hair and face, or stay with the pale green sweater I had on, a comfortable favorite, and fresh lipstick.
    I put a tape on and let the Three Tenors go off the decibel meter. Their dulcet tones entered every one of my pores. It didn’t help me reach a decision about anything, but it made me not care. Aural sex will do that every time.
    I put the car into reverse, looked around, and saw Jake Ulrich wave from the corner. I waved back. He slowly, slowly lowered his hand. The pace and timing of the wave made it less a friendly salute, more the motion of a drowning victim’s hand above the water. I looked back. He still dawdled at the end of the parking area. And Griffin was with him.
    I pulled out of my slot fighting to override intuition, but I lost the round, and turned off the ignition. “Hey,” I said, getting out of the car. “What’s up?”
    Griffin, his usual taciturn self, said nothing, but ducked his head deeper into his long overcoat. I think that meant everything was going satisfactorily.
    Jake looked fidgety, wired. Yesterday, his stepfather had bullied his school into acquiescence, and today, Jake had led his schoolmates in protest against that very triumph.
    “Today was cool,” Jake said. “Felt good having everybody agree on something. We’re planning the piece for the paper. Remember? You said we could.”
    Griffin nodded. He often had a gleam in his eye that made me suspect a private but rich vein of humor. Maybe someday he’d want to share it.
    I didn’t remember giving the go-ahead, but why not? This was the happiest, most energized Jake I’d seen in months of taking his emotional temperature and worrying over the results.
    “I want to trace everything that happened, back to the time the grant was announced, then the ceremony, and what all happened. Get quotes, opinions and all, real investigative journalism. What do you think? Griffin’s been taking photos, too.”
    Again, Griffin did his head-duck, indicating agreement. “A lot,” he said.
    “Plus we could get some of the news footage, do you think?”
    I hadn’t needed to stop my car or to worry. Jake was fine.
    “Nothing like this ever happened at Philly Prep, I’ll bet,” Jake said. “It’s like the Sixties. Maybe we could have a sit-in tomorrow.”
    “Better still,” I said, “time it for Open House. That’d be terrific. A great first impression.”
    Griffin’s eyes gleamed even more.
    “I was being facetious,” I said. “Don’t you dare!”
    He grinned. I was sure there was an interesting person in there and I wondered why he kept him hidden, even now, when he lived in comfort and safety.
    “There’ll be picketing,” Jake said. “Prospective students deserve to know what the place is really like.”
    “Sounds great.”
    They gave each other high fives. “I told that TV lady I was writing it,” Jake said. “She invited me to be on this show they’re taping. She said I’ll be the voice of the student body. Cool,