The Rule of Four

Flashy, Katie says, watching the pearly butt of the gun.

What's that? I blurt.

Gil seems taken aback. My costume. Burr shot Hamilton in a duel.

He puts an arm at my back and leads me toward the landing between the first and second floors.

See the lapel pins Jamie Ness is wearing? He points at a blond senior whose bow tie is embroidered with treble and bass clefs.

On the left lapel I can make out a brown oval; on the right, a black dot.

That's a football, Gil says, and that's a hockey puck. He's Hobey Baker, Ivy section of 1914. The only man ever inducted into both the football and hockey halls of fame. Hobey was in a singing group here-that's why Jamie's tie has notes on it.

Now Gil points to a tall senior with bright red hair. Chris Bentham, right beside Doug: James Madison, class of 1771. You can tell by the shirt buttons. The top one is a Princeton seal-Madison was the first president of the alumni association. And the fourth one is an American flag…

There is something mechanical in his voice, a tour guide's inflection, as if he's reading a script in his head.

Just make up a costume' Katie interjects, joining our conversation from the foot of the stairs.

I glance down at her, and the leverage gives me a new appreciation for the way she fits into her dress.

Oh, listen, Gil says, looking past her, I've got to go deal with something. Can you two manage on your own for a second?

Over by the wet bar, Brooks is pointing to one of the white-gloved attendants, who is leaning heavily against the wall.

One of the servers is drunk, Gil says.

No rush, I tell him, noticing how Katie's neck looks impossibly thin from this height, like the stem of a sunflower.

If you need anything, he says, just let me know.

Side by side, we begin to descend. The band is playing Duke Ellington, the champagne flutes are clinking, and Katie's lipstick has a high red gloss, the color of a kiss.

Want to dance? I say, when I step down from the landing.

Katie smiles and takes me by the hand.

Listen… rails a-thrumming… on the A train.

At the foot of the stairs, Gil's tracks and mine diverge.

Chapter 26

The dance floor is ten degrees hotter than the rest of the club, couples pressed tight into each other, merging and turning, an asteroid belt of slow-dancers, but I instantly feel comfortable. Katie and I have moved to a lot of music since that first night we met at Ivy. Each weekend on Prospect Avenue the clubs hire bands to suit every taste, and in just a few months we've tried ballroom and Latin and every style in between. With nine years of tap behind her, Katie has enough elegance and grace for three or four dancers, which means that between us we average about as much as the next couple. Still, as her charity case, I've come a long way. We get bolder the longer we're at it, succumbing to the champagne. I manage to dip her once without falling on top of her, she manages to spin from my good arm once without dislocating anything, and soon we're dangerous on the floor.

I've decided who I am, I tell her, pulling her back toward me.

There's a wonderful contact between us, her cleavage tightening, breasts buoyant.

Who? she says.

We're both breathing hard. Tiny drops of sweat are forming at the top of her forehead.

F.Scott Fitzgerald.

Katie shakes her head and smiles. Her tongue flits in the gap between her teeth. You can't, she says. Scott Fitzgerald's not allowed.

We're both talking loudly, our mouths closer and closer to each other's ears in order to hear above the music.

Why not? I ask, getting my lips tangled in a few strands of hair. She has a dot of perfume on her neck, the same way she did in the darkroom, and the continuum between there and here-the idea that we really are the same people, just differently dressed-is enough.

Because he was a member of Cottage, she says, leaning forward. That's blasphemy.

I smile. So how long does this keep up?

The ball? Until the service starts.

It takes me a second to remember that tomorrow is Easter.

At midnight? I ask.

She nods. Kelly and the others are worried about turnout at the chapel.

Almost on cue, we make another turn on the floor and Kelly Danner passes into view, pointing her index finger at a sophomore in a flashy tux vest, the body language of a witch changing a prince into a toad. All-powerful Kelly Danner, the woman not even Gil trifles with.

They're making everyone go? I say, thinking even Kelly would be hard-pressed to manage that.

Katie shakes her head. They're closing the club and suggesting that people go.

There's an edge to her voice when she talks about Kelly, so I decide not to press. Watching the couples around us, I can't help but think about Paul, who always seemed alone here.

Just then, the rhythm of the entire party is thrown off when one final couple arrives at the door, late enough to upstage everyone else. It's Parker Hassett and his date. True to his word, Parker has dyed his hair brown, parted it rigidly down the left side, and donned an inaugural-style tuxedo with white vest and white tie, for a strangely convincing resemblance to John Kennedy. His partner, the always dramatic Veronica Terry, has also come as billed. In a windswept platinum hairdo, candy-apple lipstick, and a dress that billows even without a subway grate to blow it skyward, she is the spitting image of Marilyn Monroe. The costume ball has begun. In a room full of pretenders, these two take the crown.

The reception Parker gets, though, is deadly. Silence falls over the room; from stray corners comes hissing. When Gil, from the landing of the second floor, is the only one able to quiet the crowd, I sense that the honor of arriving last was supposed to have been his, and that Parker has shown up the president at the president's own ball.

At Gil's insistence, the climate in the room slowly cools. Parker makes a quick detour in the direction of the bar, then brings Veronica Terry and his glasses of wine, one in each hand, toward the dance floor. When he approaches, there's a swagger in his step; it never registers in his expression that he is already the least popular person in the room. Once he comes close enough, I realize how he pulls it off. He's traveling in a cloud of cocktail fumes, already drunk.

Katie edges a shade closer to me as he nears, but I make nothing of it until I notice the look that passes between them. Parker gives her a meaningful stare, snide and sexual and assertive all at once, and Katie tugs at my hand, pulling me away from the dance floor.

What was that all about? I ask, when we're out of earshot.

The band is playing Marvin Gaye, guitars licking, drums thumping, the leitmotiv of Parker's arrival. John Kennedy is grinding with Marilyn Monroe, the strange spectacle of history humping, and all the other couples have given them a wide berth, the quarantine of social lepers.

Katie looks upset. All the magic of our dancing has evaporated.

That prick she says.

What did he do?

Then, all at once, it comes out: the story I wasn't around to hear; the one she hadn't intended to tell me until later.

Parker tried to third-floor me at bicker. He said he'd blackball me unless I gave him a lap dance. Now he