Wealth, status, and beauty define the elite of Kensington Prep. Every one of them possesses the ability to get away with anything and everything they want, unscathed and remain as privileged and superior as ever.
But Amory Scout decides that tim...
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The security guard at the Wall Street Heliport entrance hands back my passport and wave us through. For "breakfast", Orson has this idea of taking his father's jet to fly us to Paris for au pain chocolates at the Jardin du Luxembourg.
Parked in the distance is Orson's father's Gulfstream VI, a massive jumbo jet with one undulating scarlet stripe painted along its fuselage like a giant calligraphy brush stroke. "Is that's your dad's plane?" I ask.
Orson nods, "Yes, of course, it saves him so much money and time. He's always traveling so it just makes sense to have one."
We pull up to the red carpet that extends from the airplane's staircase onto the tarmac. The ground crew immediately bustles around the car, opening doors and removing the luggage while Orson's chauffeur drops us off in the gleaming Rolls Royce. Along the length of the carpet, fifteen flight crew members stand at attention like troops ready for inspection, attired in traditional French maid uniforms seen at Orson's penthouse.
I feel extremely uncomfortable as one of the flight attendants in a maid outfit helps me out of the car and makes a big fuss about carrying my Saint Laurent Noe tote bag for me, which is heavy from all the calc textbooks I put inside. Eventually, I give up and let her take it for me.
At the top of the steps, they enter the cabin door and are immediately greeted by the chief purser. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Calloway. Good to see you again."
"Hi, Fernando."
Next to Fernando stands a flight attendant who bows deeply before asking me, "Your shoe size, please?"
"Er...I'm a size six," I say, wondering why she asked.
Moments later, the flight attendant returns with two velvet drawstring bags. "For you," I look inside and see a pair of honey-colored monogrammed Louis Vuitton faux fur slippers.
"Maral prefers for everyone to wear these on the plane," Orson explains, slipping off his loafers. My ears perk at the mention of Carmen's mom's name. It's Orson's stepmother. I wonder how he feels about her. Obviously, he's closed with his stepsister but...
I follow Orson into the jet and am immediately introduced to a chic space decorated with streamlined white saddle-stitched leather sofas and glistening shagreen console tables. The tables are all furnished with handsome polished-nickel reading lamps extending down from the ceiling. One wall of the plane is lined with a bank of flat-screen televisions, while the other consists of silver ladder racks hanging with the latest fashion magazines.
"You're tired so you should make use of the yoga studio Carmen asked Maral to install on the plane." Orson leads me towards another room as I swallow the utter disbelief that there are people rich enough to install a state-of-the-art Ayurvedic yoga studio with inlaid pebble walls and heated pine floors in their private jet.
"So this is your dad's newest plane?" I ask, looking around in disbelief.
"No, it was Maral's. It was her fortieth birthday present from her parents."
