Skags and I have an issue with the term “brunch,” as in, we think it’s stupid. I mean, if you’re having a meal and it’s in the a.m., that’s breakfast. If you’re having a meal and it’s in the p.m., that’s lunch (or dinner, if it’s after 5:00 p.m.) I don’t care what you eat. French toast at 1:00 p.m.? Lunch! Hot pastrami sandwich at 6:00 a.m.? Breakfast.
Naturally, my mother loves brunch.
I will say that the woman can cook. By the time I got up at 10:00 a.m., she already had a spread laid out on the table on the back deck—popovers, strawberry-flavored butter, mixed berries, scrambled egg whites with local (of course) goat cheese, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. She’d done it all herself in the space of about thirty minutes, probably less. She may fall short of the mothering ideal in most regards, but when it comes to whipping up a fantastic meal, she’s just about perfect.
“Hey, Mom,” I said blearily, blinking my eyes in the bright sunshine as I joined her on the deck. “Thanks for breakfast. This looks awesome.”
She turned toward me with a smile that faded quickly as she took in my ensemble (a ratty basketball T-shirt and a pair of paint-splattered drawstring shorts.)
“Still in your pajamas?” she asked, a clear note of disapproval in her voice. I was, but I decided to mess with her a little.
“Naw,” I said breezily, sitting down and buttering a golden-brown popover. “I figured I’d go over to Baxley’s for lunch by myself, then maybe stop by the Marc Jacobs in the village and drop by the Fairweathers’ for tea.” Her look of horror was so classic that I snorted, cracking up.
“Don’t joke about things like that,” she said, shaking her head and delicately spearing a berry with a fork. “I don’t understand why you can’t just give me an honest answer. I know you think your father just hangs the moon, and you two have always been buddy-buddy, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stand for you giving me nonstop attitude for yet another summer.”
“Oh my God, this strawberry butter is so good,” I interjected suddenly. “Did you use that wild strain you found at that farm last year?”
“Yes,” she said, her expression lightening. Nothing brightens my mother’s mood like flattery. It’s like lighting a candle flame in front of a moth: instant distraction.
Her cell rang, and she checked the incoming number and snatched it up.
“Hello, Merilee,” she sang sweetly. “How are you this morning? I’m . . . oh, Delilah. Hello, darling. You’d like to talk to Naomi?” Her eyes lit up with glee, and she snapped her fingers in front of my face, actually bouncing up and down a little with excitement. “Of course, dear, here she is.” She handed me the phone, mouthing unnecessarily, It’s Delilah! For you!
While it’s true that this phone call from Delilah was an unprecedented development, my mother’s freak-out hardly seemed necessary. She stared at me expectantly, a dopey grin stretched across her face. I could tell she was going to hang on every word of this conversation.
“Hey, Delilah,” I said, turning away from my mother, the hyperactive puppy. “What’s up?”
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t have your number, so I just thought I’d call your mom. Teddy and Jeff and I want to go to the club to play tennis, and Jeff needs a partner. Want to come?”
I am not athletic in the least, and while the prospect of seeing Jeff was kind of tantalizing (even though I wasn’t quite convinced he was the nicest guy), the surrounding circumstances would undoubtedly prove annoying and embarrassing. These kids came out of their mothers’ wombs wielding tennis rackets, and I’d only played once, when Skags decided we needed to get more physical activity (actually, she had noticed a hot girl at the public courts in our neighborhood and wanted an excuse to run into her).
And besides, I’d planned to spend the day studying my SAT book and doing a practice test, which takes a few hours. I know that sounds incredibly lame, but (and this sounds even lamer) I’ve wanted to go to Harvard since I was a little kid and saw Legally Blonde, which is the sort of guilty-pleasure movie you wouldn’t think a nerd like me would like, except that it is perfect, and makes me wish the Beasts at our school were anywhere near as kind and awesome as Elle Woods. The unfortunate reality is that beautiful blond popular girls usually are superficial bitches, and not good-hearted humanitarians like Elle.
“Thanks for asking, Delilah,” I said, “but I promised myself I’d study my SAT book today.” I could actually hear my mother go into a conniption behind me. She hurried around the side of the table to face me and glare.
“I know that sounds completely dorky,” I added hastily, averting my eyes from my mother’s gaze, “but I’m trying to get into Harvard early action, so I have to take the SAT at the end of the summer.”
What are you DOING? my mother mouthed. I turned away from her, toward the backyard, and she let out an audible groan.
“Is everything okay over there?” Delilah asked, sounding concerned.
“Oh, that’s my mother,” I said. “Her cake just collapsed in the oven, and she’s mourning the loss.”
“My cakes never collapse,” Mom hissed at me, plopping down in her chair and folding her arms in a huff.
“Well, I totally understand about the SAT thing,” Delilah said. “You’re not a legacy, are you?”
“No,” I said. “My dad went to the University of Wisconsin.” I didn’t add, “And my mother went to nowhere,” because she was already pissed about the cake crack.
“Well, my father and grandfather and great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather all went to Harvard,” Delilah said. “And my father is on the alumni board. So if you need any help when it’s time to apply, just let me know. I’m applying, too.” She did not add, “And I will automatically get in,” although we both knew that was true.
“That’s really nice of you,” I said. “I might actually take you up on it.” The thing with rich people is that they often offer to help you with a fancy connection, but you usually can’t tell if they genuinely mean it or if they just want to show off their fancy connections. But I wanted to go to Harvard so bad that in this case, I didn’t really care. It was worth a shot.
“Please do,” said Delilah. “Well, I understand why you’re not coming, but Jeff’s going to be pretty disappointed.”
I blushed. “Really?” I said in a squeaky voice. Then I blushed again, because a squeaky voice is like the number one sign you’re nervous about something, and being nervous about a guy means you’re into him, and I guess I kind of was.
Delilah laughed. “We’ll all get together really soon,” she said. “Every day can’t be SAT day.”
We said our goodbyes and hung up. I looked at my mother.
“She invited you out, and you said no,” she said flatly. “I put you in contact with these people and provide all these opportunities for you, and you just turn them down, time and time again.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You’re the only mother I know who would get pissed that her daughter would choose studying over playing tennis,” I said.
“She invited you to tennis?” Mom moaned. “And you said no?”
“I just don’t feel like engaging in any activity where balls fly at my nose,” I said, quoting Clueless, another favorite movie.
“Well, you should!” my mother snapped, rising to her feet. “That’s how people make friends in this town!” I cracked up, and she stamped her foot in exasperation. She’s such a child.
“I’m going to town,” she said. “To BookHampton, to sign some stock.” My mother loves doing that—popping into any bookshop in the world to see if they have her cookbook, and then magnanimously offering to sign any copies. I would love it if, just once, a bookshop owner said, “Nah, we’re cool.” But they all flip out like she’s this big star, which I guess she actually is.
“See ya,” I said, returning to my breakfast. She gave an exaggerated sigh and made her customary dramatic exit.
I felt strangely drained as I tried to eat my popover and eggs. Well, I guess it’s not so strange—my mother is kind of an emotional vampire at times. I decided to revive myself with a phone call to Skags. Her real name is Tiffani Skagsgaard, but if you call her Tiffani, she will hunt you down and destroy you. It’s always hard for her the first day of school, when the teacher calls out “Tiffani Skagsgaard?” and is confronted with this very boyish-looking young lesbian furiously shouting, “It’s SKAGS!”
She picked up the phone on the second ring. “S’up?” she grunted.
“My mother is the most superficial person on the planet,” I said.
“And water freezes at zero degrees Celsius. Tell me something everyone in the world doesn’t already know.”
“That’s the thing, Skags—not everybody in the world knows it. In fact, I’d say most people in the world don’t know it. They think she’s this warm, loving culinary goddess who nurtures people with love and food.”
“Hold up—I don’t think anyone would ever mistake your mother for warm. She’s not Rachael Ray. She’s an ice-queen-prom-princess type. And I assume she’s already ruining your summer.”
“Yeah, and get this—she made me take a helicopter from Manhattan to East Hampton just because she wanted to kiss up to Senator Fairweather’s wife. It was the Fairweathers’ helicopter, and I had to ride with Delilah and Teddy Barrington and this kid Jeff.”
“The Teddy Barrington?” Skags shrieked in a high-pitched, girlish tone. “Dreams do come true!”
I laughed a little. “He’s totally bizarre,” I said. I told Skags about the shoving incident I’d witnessed at Baxley’s.
“Dude, that is seriously messed up,” she said. “Jesus. That poor waitress. She’s, like, the abused mistress. How’s Montauk Barbie this year? You think he hits her, too?”
“No, I don’t think he does,” I said. “Delilah’s actually pretty good, I think. You know she’s always nice to me. I think she’s trying to hook me up with this Jeff kid.”
“Is he hot?”
“He’s not your type.”
“Well, obviously not. Why do you think she wants you to mate with one of the jet set?”
“I don’t think it’s like this big plan, I just think she thinks we’d go well together. He’s cute enough”—I was downplaying the situation, obviously—“and he doesn’t seem like he’s a complete idiot. Kind of has an attitude, but whatever. Delilah called me this morning and asked me to go play tennis with her and Teddy and him today, but I said no because I’m doing my SAT book.”
Skags groaned. “You and that freaking SAT book are like the lamest pair in history, you know that? You’ve been glued to it for months. Why don’t you just go out and play some tennis?”
“You sound like my mother.”
“Gross! No, I don’t.”
“Well, she was all pissed that I’m not going.”
“That’s just because she’s obsessed with Montauk Barbie’s Republican robot mom. I’m the one with your best interests at heart here: some good old-fashioned physical activity, bonding with the local teen population, getting out of that stupid fancy house for a reason that doesn’t involve your mom dragging you to some dumb party. I don’t care if it means you have to hang out with some Waspy teen-dream hooker.”
“She’s not a hooker. She’s just—she’s a nice girl who happens to come from a very stupid world. And I feel kind of bad for her about the cheating thing—Jeff said everybody in town knows.”
“You’ve always been a Delilah Fairweather apologist. Every summer you call me up and tell me the dumb stuff she does and says, and every summer I’m like, ‘This girl sounds like an empty shell of a human being,’ and you’re like, ‘No, she’s nice, it’s the other kids who suck.’ Someone has a girl crush.”
“I’m not gay, Skags.”
“A girl crush is different from being gay, dude. A girl crush is like when one girl is so into another girl that it’s almost sexual, but not quite. A girl crush is way creepier than being gay, which is not at all creepy and, in fact, is completely awesome, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Have you ever seen The Roommate?”
“No.”
“Dude, it’s got Leighton Meester from Gossip Girl. Blair freaking Waldorf! It’s so much fun.” One thing you should know about Skags—despite the fact that she considers herself cooler than everyone else, including me, she is in love with Netflixing old episodes of Gossip Girl. She pretends it’s because she thinks Blake Lively and Leighton Meester are hot, but actually she gets really into the soapy story lines and has passionate opinions about whether Dan should be with this girl or that girl. She’s seen every single episode at least twice.
“I don’t have a girl crush on Delilah. I just appreciate the fact that she treats me like an actual person. None of the other kids around here have ever given me the time of day.”
“Except for Jeffrey, the new love of your life.” Skags went into her impression of my mother. “And what do his parents do, Naomi, dear? Are they in plastics? Coal? Mass-produced sex toys?”
“Yes,” I said. “They’re vibrator moguls.”
“Oh, Naomi, darling, that is just delicious!” Skags cracked herself up and broke character. “Oh, dude! Change of topic, but such a good one. Guess who came into the DEBJ yesterday?” Skags works at a little café called That’s a Wrap, which we refer to as the De-Ethnicized Burrito Joint.
“Who?”
“La reina de las bestias. The queen of the Beasts!”
“Jenny Carpenter?”
“JCarpz herself. She rolled in alone, ordered a chicken wrap with extra guacamole, and then told me she’s been eating nonstop since she broke up with Taylor Cryan.”
“Did she look fat?” I asked evilly.
“Dude! No. I mean, her boobs looked big, but they always look big.”
“Gross.”
“Deal with it. Anyway, it was pretty obvious she wanted me to know she was single, because she’s completely into me.”
“Double gross.”
“Is this 1992, Naomi? Who says ‘double gross’? More like double hot. I’m gonna hit it by the end of the summer, I swear.”
“You’re such a guy.”
“No, Naomi, I’m a young woman who subverts the conventionally accepted gender paradigm because I refuse to conform.”
“Oh, right. I forgot.”
Skags switched gears abruptly. “Listen, for real, you sound exhausted. I know your mom is sucking the life out of you. Why don’t you skip the SAT book and take a nap? You know you get sick when you don’t get enough rest.” There was a sudden note of concern in her voice that was kind of sweet. Sometimes I think Skags is more like a mom to me than my own mom is. Which is weird, because Skags is actually really similar to my dad, which maybe means I have two dads? I don’t know.
Anyway, a nap sounded good to me, so I bid Skags farewell and brought the plates inside. I knew Mom’s weekly housekeeper was coming that day, but I still scraped and rinsed the plates and put them in the dishwasher myself. I’m aware this doesn’t make me some kind of heroine, but it’s behavior that my mother actively discourages, especially if other people are around.
“Darling,” she once said at one of her beloved afternoon iced tea parties, emitting a peal of shrill laughter, “you don’t need to do that. Give the help something to do!” Then her assembled “friends,” all of them social climbers in their own right, laughed as well. It made me kind of hate her in that moment.
I went upstairs to my bedroom, which Mom had done in this obnoxious boat theme: blue and white stripes everywhere, with antique ships in bottles and old framed maps. She dubbed it New Nautical Chic, and when Town & Country came to photograph the house, she made me wear the most heinous sailor dress and pose by the bed. I was twelve and sported those blond highlights her stylist, Jonathan, had put in, plus a bunch of makeup he piled on me. I looked like an overgrown version of one of those beauty pageant toddlers. Skags, who still went by Tiffani back then, taped a copy of the article to the front of my locker the first day of seventh grade. I didn’t talk to her for a week.
But just like she really knows her stuff when it comes to breakfast preparation, my mother is a genius when it comes to picking out bed linens. Still in the pajamas that had so horrified her, I slid between the 1,200-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets and drifted off to sleep almost immediately. I have a dim recollection of noting the time on the antique wall-mounted clock in the corner (taken from an old lighthouse, natch)—11:07. I figured I’d get up at one.
When I woke up, the clock read 6:00 p.m. I’d slept for (as Skags would say) seven freaking hours. I don’t know what had me so tired, or why my body felt it needed to store up so much sleep. At least my mother wasn’t home—she really would’ve flipped if she found out I ditched a day of tennis with Fairweather and Barrington offspring in favor of just sleeping. I mean, my mom doesn’t even like it when I sleep more than seven hours a night. She regards sleep as a necessary evil, and essentially a waste of her time. She’d eliminate it from all our lives if she could.
I wandered down to the kitchen to make myself an iced coffee. I swear I had all the best intentions of actually cracking open that SAT prep book, but when I looked out the window above the sink, I was astonished by what I saw.
Something truly faaaaaabulous was happening at our next-door neighbor’s place. In all the years I’d been coming to stay with my mother in East Hampton, I’d never seen anything like it.
Gleaming red-and-white-striped tents lined the left and right borders of the backyard. The tent flaps were down on three sides, but the side facing the river pool was open. Some of the tents contained catering stations—I could see two Baxley’s vans parked in the driveway—while others displayed games you might see at a carnival. You know that one where you shoot a stream of water into a clown’s open mouth and fill a balloon that rises above his head? That was one of the games. There was also a game of Whack-a-Mole, one of those horrendous weight-guessing booths, a dart challenge where you had to try to pop a balloon to win the prize listed on its tag, a beanbag toss, a ring-the-bell competition with a big old-fashioned mallet, a miniature rifle range, and a bunch of other activities that would’ve seemed perfectly at home at the Jersey Shore but which seemed hilariously out of place in stuffy East Hampton.
As two white-gloved cater waiters struggled to set up a giant tub of lobsters near a grill, I noticed with delight that Baxley’s was not the only food provider on-site. It seemed the hostess next door had seen fit to engage the services of a company that did carnival snacks like funnel cakes, grilled corn on the cob, cotton candy, roasted peanuts, ice cream, and (my absolute favorite) sno-cones! I don’t know what it is that I so love about pouring a bunch of artificially flavored and colored high-fructose corn syrup over ice, but I’m a big fan. Big.
And to top it all off—and this was what I really couldn’t believe—there was a Ferris wheel! I mean, a pretty, romantic, old-fashioned, classic Ferris wheel. It wasn’t giant like an amusement park Ferris wheel, but it was pretty large! It even matched the rest of the décor, being red and white. They’d centered it in the backyard along the rear perimeter, practically in Georgica Pond, and it dominated the entire scene, dwarfing the tables and chairs that were set up around the U-shaped river pool. The footbridges that crossed the river pool here and there had been festooned with red and white balloons.
As I watched a small army of workers rush around lighting the tiki torches that lined the river pool, I thought I heard a knock at the front door. I figured I was just hallucinating, so I stayed in the kitchen spying on the circus unfolding next door. It occurred to me that my mother would absolutely lose it when she saw that her peaceful evening of silent cupcake contemplation was going to be ruined by some kind of noisy party next door. I honestly would’ve assumed it was a party for little kids, except that one of the red-and-white-striped tents was a fully stocked bar—manned, I noticed with some surprise, by Giovanni, the kid from Baxley’s. As I looked around at the other cater waiters, I recognized quite a few faces. I even saw Misti-with-an-i, straightening the spotless white tablecloths on the white circular tables and adjusting the perfect white cushions on the white folding chairs. Each table was anchored by an expensive-looking crystal bowl in which floated white candles and red roses. Misti yelled something at Giovanni, and he hurried over with a lighter and began attending to each candle. Even from my vantage point, I could see the look of scorn she shot him as she watched him work, her hands on her hips.
We still had a couple of hours until sunset, but all the lights in the house were blazing, and a harried-looking woman wearing a headset kept rushing in and out of the back door, surveying the progress in the yard and barking orders to various sweaty men who were hoisting boxes, pushing hand trucks, handling armloads of red and white flowers, and doing a seemingly endless series of other tasks involving color-coordinated objects. I caught a good look at the woman’s face and realized that I actually knew who she was—this was Greta Moriarity, my mother’s favorite party planner (though, of course, Anne Rye never liked to publicize the fact that she used a party planner—she liked people to think she did everything herself). I’d met Greta a few times over the years, and she had always vaguely terrified me. Now, as she screamed at a large man carrying a giant red-and-white vase, I could see that she terrified other people, too.
Conspicuously missing from this whole scene was my neighbor, the gorgeous angelic creature I’d seen the previous evening. It seemed as if this horde of caterers, construction workers, carnival barkers, and—were those guys in dark suits security guards? Why yes, they were—other employees had just spontaneously descended upon the castle-like house and elaborate grounds next door and magically made this spectacle come to life. I was sure they’d been at work outside for the duration of the seven hours I’d been asleep—and I had a feeling Greta had been directing activities inside the house since before I woke up in the morning. Suddenly I heard the door to the garage slam. My mother’s shrill voice called out, “Naomi!”
She swept into the kitchen, loaded down with bags from Marc Jacobs and Calypso and Citarella, and stared at me with disdain.
“You haven’t changed?” she demanded.
“Wait, I haven’t?” I shrieked, staring at myself in mock shock. I couldn’t help it.
“That’s disgusting,” she said, huffing around the kitchen and noisily unpacking fancy cheeses and jars of expensive tapenade. “That’s really disgusting. You haven’t even showered today, have you?”
“Just been really focused on studying,” I lied.
“Well, if you haven’t noticed, there’s an absolute circus unfolding next door,” she said. “I doubt we’re going to get much peace and quiet tonight. I didn’t think anything could be worse than those Saudis, but this girl next door is clearly about as gauche as it gets.”
I edged out of the kitchen and toward the front staircase in order to beat a hasty retreat, but stopped when I noticed something affixed to the front door. It was a little pink envelope. I grabbed it quickly and went back into the kitchen.
“Hey, Mom,” I said. “Somebody left this for you.” I gave it to her, and she stared at it with a furrowed brow. (Well, her brow would’ve been furrowed if it hadn’t been so loaded with Botox.)
“But it’s got your name on it, Naomi,” she said, a touch of wonder in her voice as she handed it back to me. “And look at that gorgeous handwriting.”
I looked. She was right. There on the front of the pale pink envelope was my name in the most exquisite cursive. It looked as if the writer had used a calligraphy pen, but the handwriting was so lovely that I wondered if it had been done professionally. Every Christmas, my mother throws an eggnog soiree at her big Manhattan apartment, and she always hires this fancy stationer, Dolores Weathers, to address the invitations and fill out the place cards. The writing on this pink envelope was even prettier than anything Dolores had ever cooked up.
My mother’s eyes lit up. “Perhaps Delilah is having a party!” she said excitedly. “I’d think Merilee would’ve mentioned it to me—we met up for lunch today, it was wonderful—but it’s possible she wanted it to be a lovely surprise for you.” I was intrigued, for sure. I tore open the envelope (“You’re ripping it up!” my mother scolded me. “This might be something you want to keep!”) and unfolded the white note inside. It was a substantial piece of card stock, the sort of thing one might print a wedding invite on, and it contained the same elaborate handwriting:
Dear Naomi:
Hello, love! We’ve never met, but I’d love to remedy that situation by welcoming you to my carnival party this evening. You’re welcome to bring anyone you like. The party begins at 7 and should conclude around 1. Please give your mother my apologies for any inconvenience it may cause her—I’m afraid I’ve been a terrible neighbor and haven’t found the time to introduce myself yet. I’ll admit, I’m a bit shy! Rather appropriate for a blogger, I should think. Anyway, I admire her so much and hope to meet her in person soon. And I really hope to make your acquaintance tonight. Come ride the Ferris wheel—it’s going to be so beautiful under the moon.
Best regards,
Jacinta Trimalchio
I scanned down to the bottom of the page and read the small print there: ARE YOU WANTED? THEWANTED.COM.
“Oh, wow,” I said. “This is that girl.”
“What girl?” my mother asked eagerly, snatching the invitation from my hand. She scanned it quickly, her mouth curving up into a smile when she read the part about how much Jacinta admired her. Then she seemed to notice what was at the end of the note.
“TheWanted.com!” she gasped. “Isn’t that the online internet website Delilah was talking about?”
“Yes,” I said. “I am pretty sure that is the online internet website Delilah was talking about.”
My mother’s eyes lit up. “Ooh,” she said. “Let’s look at it, darling. This girl is famous!” I could tell any resentment she held toward the new neighbor was gone forever.
I popped open my laptop and went to TheWanted.com. The pink background matched the pink envelope, and the header displayed “The Wanted” in Jacinta’s distinctive handwriting. The site was designed with a simple elegance—no bells and whistles, no distracting pop-up ads (God, I hate those). The navigation bar below the header displayed the categories: Parties, Fashion, Beauty, Models, and What’s Jacinta Wearing? I clicked on the last category and brought up a seemingly endless page of daily posts of Jacinta from the neck down.
“She’s so thin,” my mother said admiringly. “Is she a model?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, scrolling through the entries. “But she sure seems to have a lot of clothes.” I paused on one post from the previous October entitled “Birthday Suit.” In the photo, Jacinta’s lithe frame was outfitted in a lavender bouclé pantsuit with bright gold buttons down the front of the jacket and a bold, showy white lace ruffle encircling her long, swan-like neck. The hem of the pants stopped above her ankles. She wore lavender-and-white saddle shoes and lacy white ankle socks. It was one of those outfits that was completely weird and would’ve gotten her laughed out of school if she’d tried it in Chicago, but it made sense on some fancy style blog. The post read:
As if I even need to tell you this is Vivienne Westwood! The asymmetrical collar should’ve given it away, loves. The best 18th birthday present I could’ve asked for was a new box of Viv for—and you know I’ll always be honest with you about this—free, free, free! So yes, they wanted me to blog about it, and yes, I’m doing it, but only because it is actually this fabulous. For those of you who’ve been accusing me of sporting too many high-fashion freebies lately: I thrifted the shoes, socks, and the blouse with the incredible lace collar. And you can’t see my makeup (anonymity is the spice of blogging, angel faces), but it’s cheapy-cheap stuff from the drugstore. Just so you know I’m still your down-to-earth fashionista! All my love, Jacinta.
And there, at the bottom, was her beautiful signature.
“I like what she’s doing,” my mother said a little dreamily. “Her branding is fantastic. A mix of high-end and DIY. Aspirational yet accessible. Fresh.” I could tell my mother was going into one of her marketing term fits, when she stops speaking like a human and starts spouting terms that she and her business associates throw around.
“And of course,” Mom added, “I love the lavender. It’s not my style, but it’s very young and now. Oh, darling, I’m so thrilled she’s invited you to her party! You are going, aren’t you?” Through the kitchen window behind her, the Ferris wheel suddenly lit up with a dazzling panoply of twinkling white lights. It seemed party time was drawing nigh.
Maybe it was the almost pathetic look of hope in my mother’s expression. Maybe it was my natural curiosity about this fabu fashion goddess next door. More likely it was the fact that I’ve always loved carnivals. Whatever the reason, I found myself saying, “You know what? I am gonna go.” My mother followed me upstairs, jabbering all the way.
“Now, don’t wear all black like you did yesterday,” she said. “My God, you looked like you were going to a punk-rock funeral. Let me see what you’ve packed.” Uneasily, I let her go through my suitcase. As she combed through T-shirt after T-shirt, she heaved several disappointed sighs in a row.
“Do you possess anything that doesn’t have a cartoon character, a band, or a snotty saying on the front?” she asked, holding up one of my favorites, a green shirt that read, “I’m a big fan of your work.”
“Not that I’m aware of,” I said.
She opened her eyes wide and met my gaze with a steely determination. “I knew something like this would come up eventually,” she said, straining to remain calm. “So you know what I did, dear? I stocked up on some Marc Jacobs basics, just for you.”
I groaned. “I hate when you shop for me,” I said.
“It’s for your own good,” she called over her shoulder as she rushed downstairs to get the bags. “You dress like you’re mentally unstable. You’re seventeen years old, Naomi. It’s time to start dressing like a woman, not an angry child.” In a flash, she was back upstairs with her bags.
“At least it’s not Lilly Pulitzer,” I said, and my mother blanched. Lilly Pulitzer dresses look like the most boring person in the world barfed on some fabric and fashioned it into a frock. When I was a kid, my mother was a Lilly Pulitzer devotee until some socialite whose event she was catering told her she ought to change into her real dress before the guests arrived. (I’m not kidding—this actually happened.) Ever since then, Mom has hated Lilly Pulitzer with an all-consuming passion.
“Watch your mouth,” she said, and for a moment her Chicago accent came out. Then she pulled out a dress and showed it to me.
I had to admit, it was actually nice. Marc Jacobs does good stuff that isn’t too flashy and embarrassing but still manages to be pretty. My mother had selected a color-blocked twill sheath dress that was dark blue on top and green from the waist down. It had an empire waist, which looks fine on me because I’ve got no curves to speak of. The straight up-and-down thing suits me just perfectly.
“How much was it?” I asked suspiciously.
“You are your father’s daughter,” she said with a sigh, rolling her eyes. “Four hundred.”
“For that?” I was incredulous. “I mean, it’s pretty, but it’s so simple. It probably cost seventy-five cents to make. And the three-year-old in Indonesia who sewed it probably made, like, a nickel.”
“It’s perfect,” my mother said. “And you’re going to wear it.”
Of course, then I wanted to wear literally anything but the dress. My mother’s tone made me feel for a moment I’d actually prefer wrapping myself in toilet paper and sashaying across the lawn. But the truth was that I looked good in it. For the first time in years, I let her brush my hair. She pulled it into a simple low ponytail and wrapped a piece of hair around the elastic band to hide it, then curled the tail with one of her eighteen thousand beauty appliances. She would’ve put makeup on me herself, but I howled in protest when she pulled out the medieval-looking eyelash-curling contraption. I just used some of her Guerlain mascara and put on a little lip gloss. She insisted I borrow a pair of simple pearl earrings and a strand of pearls. I drew the line at heels, so she gave me a pair of dark blue Ferragamo jelly flats with a peep toe. I watched her try unsuccessfully to hide her horror at my lack of a pedicure, but I guess she figured she’d won the sartorial battle and didn’t need to push her luck by demanding I paint my toenails.
We both looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror inside her enormous walk-in closet. For the first time since I got those highlights back when I was twelve, I saw my mother’s eyes light up with pride.
“See,” she said triumphantly. “You really can be a pretty girl when you try.”
“Um,” I said. “Thanks.” It was as close to a genuine compliment as I was going to get from her.
I waited in the kitchen and watched through the window as the first hour of the party unfolded. Thankfully, my mother was holed up in her home office on a conference call with her lawyer about something or other and didn’t nag me about arriving on time. Everybody knows you don’t get to a party right when the invitation says it starts. You run the risk of being the first person there, with no one to talk to, which is even worse than getting there when all the other people have gathered. Then at least you might have the chance to strike up a conversation with someone you know.
Of course, it occurred to me that I might not know anyone at this party. I tried my best to make out the people parking in Jacinta’s long driveway and along our street, and I thought I saw some of the regulars from the clambakes at Baxley’s. I grabbed my mother’s binoculars (she claims to be a birdwatcher, but I think she just spies on people across the pond) and peered through them.
There were the Fitzwilliams sisters, Audrey and Katharine, who were notable for being Kennedy cousins and for getting drunk at every clambake or garden party I’d ever seen them at. Their parents never seemed to notice or care, which is probably why they kept drinking. They had each paired off with a Stetler brother, neither of whose first names I could recall, and they all made a beeline for the bar tent as soon as they rounded the corner of the house and entered the backyard. None of them seemed particularly surprised or delighted by the carnival surroundings. I saw Audrey Fitzwilliams give the Ferris wheel a dispirited glance before downing the first of what would undoubtedly be many shots that evening. One of the Stetler brothers put his hand on her butt as if that were perfectly normal public behavior.
I didn’t recognize any of the other people streaming into the backyard. The girls all wore pretty dresses and sported perfect tans, while the boys wore polo shirts or short-sleeved button-downs with khaki pants or shorts.
“Naomi!” My mother’s voice behind me startled me. I turned around, and she folded her arms in disapproval. “Are you going to just stand there and watch, or are you going to join in the fun?”
I looked at the clock, which read 7:55 p.m.
“I guess it’s time for me to join in the fun,” I said. “But I might be back in five minutes, if it sucks.”
“Give it an hour at the very least,” Mom said. “Anything less would be terribly rude.”
She stood on the back deck and watched me as I walked across the lawn and, my heart beating extra-fast, rang the bell at Jacinta Trimalchio’s castle door. In the gathering darkness, the lights shone bright through the windows. Though I could hear a crowd chattering inside the house, no one answered the door. Nervously, I looked across the lawn at my mother, who gestured that I should ring the bell again. I obeyed, but still no response. Somewhat relieved, I was about to turn around and head home when the door swung wide open, and Jeff Byron greeted me.
“Jeff!” I said in surprise.
“Naomi!” he said, mocking me—but with a big flirtatious grin. “Come join the circus.” He put his arm around me and put his hand on my back, leading me inside.
“Oh my God,” I said, staring at the luxurious, crowded foyer in which we found ourselves. “This is—”
“Tacky? Fun? Ridiculous?”
“All of it,” I said in wonder.
It was a soaring three-story foyer with a white marble floor and an enormous crystal chandelier that had been fitted with pink lightbulbs. A huge white marble butterfly staircase dominated the space, its white marble balustrade resplendent with bright red bunting. Everywhere I looked, I saw red roses: garlands of them hanging from the chandelier, draped around gilt-framed mirrors, peeking out from behind the ears of New York’s wealthiest young women. White-jacketed cater waiters with red flowers in their lapels circled among the dozens of guests hanging out in the foyer, offering raw oysters and fried oysters, glasses of red wine and glasses of white wine, flutes of pink champagne, and bits of fruits and meats and cheeses intermingled in complicated, fancy haute cuisine ways that my mother would’ve identified and judged immediately. And up on the landing of the butterfly staircase, where the stairs met the second floor of the house, sat a white-and-red-clad full band banging out old-fashioned music that sounded like something from Skags’s other favorite Netflix show, Boardwalk Empire.
“How many people our age do you know who’d throw a party set to Jazz Age standards?” Jeff said, grabbing two glasses of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray and handing me a flute.
“Is that what that music is?” I asked, taking a big gulp of my champagne. I’m not much of a drinker, but the dazzling lights and sounds and colors had me feeling like some kind of relaxing substance was in order. I made a split-second vow to myself that I wasn’t just going to be Naomi the confession receptacle at this party. I was going to—participate, whatever that meant. Champagne seemed like a start.
“Yup. I know it sounds pretentious, but I love jazz.” He pressed his hand into my lower back and led me up the staircase, so we could stand closer to the band. “This is ‘Always’ by Irving Berlin,” he said into my ear. I shivered a bit and drew a little closer to him.
“How do you know so much about music?” I asked.
“My dad owns a record label,” he replied casually. “He’s into all kinds of music, but he loves 1920s and 1930s jazz the best of all.”
“My dad coaches a public high school basketball team,” I said, taking another swig of champagne. Already, I felt less awkward than I usually did at these East Hampton parties.
“Your dad sounds like more fun than my dad.”
“Your dad sounds richer than my dad.” I was kind of tipsy already.
“Maybe, but he’s kind of an asshole,” Jeff said with a hint of bitterness. “You’ll never meet anyone more obsessed with the size of his house or the price of his car. Everything is like a trophy to him. You wouldn’t believe how superficial the guy is.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” I said, swallowing more champagne and thinking for a moment about how cute Jeff’s floppy brown hair was.
“So what kind of record label does your dad own?” I finished my champagne and reached out for another as a waiter passed.
“Hip-hop,” Jeff said.
“Naturally,” I replied. “It’s clear that you lead a thug life.”
“Absolutely. See these pants? Ralph Lauren. My mom bought them for me. Hard. Core.”
“I assume you’re in a gang—I hear Trumbo is full of them.”
“Oh, it’s a dangerous place. Our school motto is ‘Ride or die.’”
“Let’s go outside,” I said suddenly, grabbing his hand without thinking. I downed more champagne.
Jeff looked at our hands in amusement. “Whatever you say, madame.” I led him back down the staircase and through a palatial living room and an epic dining room—no, a dining hall—both of which were a blur of red and white flowers and table runners and tablecloths and cushions and vases and also, of course, shiny gorgeous people. The rear wall of the dining room was made of floor-to-ceiling panels of glass, one of which was an open sliding door. We walked out onto the crowded two-level deck, where another band was playing more of that jazzy, bubbly music (“‘Doin’ the Raccoon,’” Jeff said. “Late twenties.”), and gazed at the extravaganza unfolding in the backyard.
“So this Jacinta girl—do you know her or what?” I asked, taking another generous sip of bubbly.
“Not at all,” Jeff replied. “I didn’t even think she was real, and then when we were done with tennis today, I got this handwritten note back at my house.”
“With the most incredible handwriting, right?”
“Yeah, it was like John Hancock or somebody had written me the Declaration of Invitation.” It wasn’t that funny, but I found myself giggling inanely. Champagne and a cute boy will do that to anyone, I guess, even a smartass girl from Chicago who knows better.
“For a while, people thought she was one of the girls at Trumbo, but I guess she’s not. All of the girls and some of the gays—like the stereotypical gays—are obsessed with being her Facebook friend. But even her Facebook doesn’t show her face, or where she really lives.” I could hear an irritated Skags inside my head going, “And what exactly is a ‘stereotypical gay,’ you heteronormative fascist?” but I knew what Jeff meant.
“Then right at the end of the school year, she tweeted that she was going to spend the summer in East Hampton. Everybody went nuts. But I don’t even know if she’s here. It’s kind of impossible to tell, you know?”
“I don’t get why she singled me out,” I said, grabbing another glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
“You aren’t kidding around, are you?” Jeff said, chuckling. He patted me on the head, a gesture that for some reason infuriated me.
I was about to say something bitchy, but I saw a plate of fried oysters floating past me and realized I was incredibly hungry.
“Wait!” I fairly shouted at the passing waitress, who obediently paused and walked toward me. I realized too late that it was Misti. She recognized me, too, and looked momentarily terrified.
“Um,” I said. “Hi.” Her eyes wide with nervousness, she simply nodded at me. Gingerly, I took a fried oyster, and Misti darted off in another direction.
Behind me, I heard one girl say to another, “You know, that’s the girl who . . .” She lowered her voice at that point, but I caught a few words—“Teddy” and “Fairweather” and “disgusting.” Then both girls giggled merrily and walked past us into the house.
“Teddy’s behavior is gonna bite somebody in the ass one of these days,” Jeff remarked dryly. “Not him, of course. Never him. But somebody.”
“Excuse me,” I said haughtily, remembering his condescending attitude about my drinking. “I am going to find the bathroom.” Without waiting for his reaction, I turned around, wobbled for a moment, and then set off on my quest. I did really have to pee.
I wandered around the first floor through the dining room, living room, foyer, slightly smaller second living room (people were already making out on couches), incredible kitchen (my mother would die), cigar room (it smelled nice), billiards room (it was stuffed with drunk guys smoking cigars and playing pool), and two-story Beauty and the Beast–style library (perfection) before I found the bathroom. I opened it without knocking and swiftly walked right in, shutting the door behind me. Against the white marble countertop, right beside the canyon-size white marble sink, leaned two lithe brunettes snorting white powder off an oversize white marble-backed hand mirror.
“Oh,” I said, suddenly really uncomfortable. “Oh. I’m—I’m sorry.”
“You want some?” one of the girls asked cheerfully. Her companion giggled.
“N-no thank you,” I replied, backing up. “I just have to pee.”
“Go ahead,” said the first girl. “I don’t mind.”
“Just make sure it’s just pee,” her companion tittered, and they both burst into high-pitched laughter.
“Right,” I said. “I’m gonna go.” And I did, getting the hell out of there.
The bathroom was located next to the kitchen, beside an unobtrusive back staircase. I hurried up the steps, passing a couple in the midst of a heated argument (“I told you Daddy doesn’t want us to take the boat out on our own!”), and bypassed the second floor in favor of the third, where I practically ran directly into a tall, stunning rail-thin girl with long red curls and dramatic cat’s-eye makeup.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just looking for the bathroom. Do you know where it is?”
“No worries, love,” she said lightly. “There’s one in each of the bedrooms.”
“How many of them are there?” I asked curiously.
“Six. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and indigo, just like the rainbow,” she said. “Only thing the owners missed is violet.”
I drunkenly thought for a moment and then declared, “I would like to pee in the blue bedroom.”
She laughed as if I were the cleverest and funniest person in the world. It was a pretty, gentle sound. “The blue bathroom, love,” she reminded me with a grin. “I don’t think the blue bedroom is the right place for that.”
I considered this. “True,” I said. “I’m not that drunk.” Laughing again, she linked her arm through mine and led me through a magnificent blue bedroom to a pretty blue bathroom. It was far larger and more impressive than even the white marble masterpiece of a downstairs powder room I’d previously visited. There was a claw-foot blue bathtub that rivaled the size of the shark tank at the Shedd Aquarium back home in Chicago. There was a blue-tiled shower that could have easily fit six people. There was even a wall-mounted flat-screen TV set facing the throne-like blue toilet. I resisted the urge to switch it on.
I emerged to find the redhead sitting on the four-poster bed. Drunkenly, I plopped down next to her.
“This is some crazy party, huh?” I said.
“Crazy in a good way or crazy in a bad way?” she asked anxiously.
“Oh, in a good way. Everything is so beautiful and red and shiny,” I slurred. “I got invited today. I live next door. I mean, I don’t live next door, I just stay there for the summer with my mother, who is a crazy person.” The girl laughed her lovely laugh again. “I’m serious. She is nuuuuuuts. But anyway, this girl, Jacinta—I never heard of her, but I guess she’s famous? Like she writes this famous blog?”
The girl looked at me and smiled kindly. “That’s me, love. I’m Jacinta.” I squinted at her and realized this was indeed the beautiful alien girl from the other night, clad in a wig and a boatload of makeup. Those big green eyes—how had I missed them, just because they were encircled by loads of smoky liner and shadow? They seemed unmistakable now, as did her ultrathin form.
I blushed. “Oh my God,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Jacinta looked worried for a moment. “Why would you be sorry?” She put her arm around me and smiled, her big eyes sparkling with friendliness. “I’m actually wearing a wig,” she said, tugging at a red curl. “I love dressing up and playing pretend. Don’t you?”
“I haven’t done it in years. I used to go through my mother’s closet and pretend to be a princess, but then one time I was wearing this super-dark lipstick and I stained one of her favorite dresses, so I got banned from dress-up for life. I’m Naomi, by the way. Naomi Rye. Thank you for inviting me; it was really nice of you. Like, really nice. I don’t usually get invited places. I mean, here. I just—why did you invite me, by the way? Is that rude to ask? I don’t mean to be rude.” I had a full-on case of the Nervous Naomi Babbles.
Jacinta smiled warmly. “I invited you because we’re neighbors, and because I’m interested in you and what you do,” she said.
“Oh, I don’t do anything, really,” I said, wondering for a horrible moment if she just wanted to get to my mother. Once in a while somebody will suck up to me because of who my mom is, but usually it’s some fawning housewife type, not a skinny teenage alien fashion priestess.
“Sure you do,” Jacinta said brightly. “You were in a bunch of photos on Facebook last summer from different charity events. There was the Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume Institute Subcommittee Tea, and the after-party honoring Robert Caro for the East Hampton Library Authors Night, and the Friends of the Central Park Turtle Pond tapas fiesta.” The casual way she rattled off the different names startled me.
“Man,” I said. “I barely remember the reasons for those parties. You must have a great memory.”
“Well, they were all at Senator and Mrs. Fairweather’s house,” she replied, as if that explained everything.
“Oh. Right.”
“It seems as if your family and the Fairweathers are quite close,” she said with a studied casualness.
“I guess my mom is friends with Mrs. Fairweather,” I said.
“And you must be friends with Delilah Fairweather, then?” she said with a hint of eagerness that slightly confused me.
“Um,” I said. “I guess. I mean, she’s a really nice girl. I usually see her a handful of times each summer. She asked me to play tennis today, but I couldn’t. Maybe I’ll play another time soon.” At this, Jacinta smiled and looked pleased.
“Usually my mother just makes me go to things with her, and it’s so awkward because I know I don’t fit in,” I continued. “But this party, your party, is such a fun party.”
“Well, that’s the whole point, love,” Jacinta said. “Fun. I want everyone to have the most fun they’ve ever had in their entire lives. I want it to just be the most perfect party, the most perfect summer. For everyone.”
“I’ve never had that much fun here,” I confessed. “My mother can be—difficult.”
“Well, we’re going to change that,” Jacinta assured me. “Not your mother—we can’t do anything about her. But you’re going to have a wonderful summer. I’m going to throw the best parties, and you’re coming to each and every one. You have guest-of-honor status. I was thinking of doing a pirate-themed one, with lots of rum drinks and live parrots and a ship-shaped sandcastle in the backyard—my party planner says she knows an artist who will do one for me.”
I didn’t know how on earth I’d achieved guest-of-honor status simply by peeing in this girl’s blue bathroom, but she was so genuinely friendly that I figured I’d just go with it. It was possible that, behind her gorgeous otherworldly façade, she was actually a completely normal human. Like back home in Chicago, it’s not considered wild or out of the ordinary for a person to be nice. People say hello and when they ask how you’re doing, it seems like a lot of them actually care about your answer. It’s hard to find someone like that in East Hampton—someone who is nice to you just for the sake of being nice, not because they want something from you.
“The jazz bands are so different from anything I’ve seen at a party before,” I said.
Jacinta looked worried again. “You don’t think they’re too much, do you?” she asked. “I could’ve hired a DJ, or I could’ve just put my iPod on shuffle, but I wanted to do something that people would really remember. Something really different from all the other parties. But maybe I went overboard with the music.”
“You’ve got a Ferris wheel in the backyard, and you’re worried the jazz is overboard?”
Jacinta’s brow furrowed for a moment, and then she smiled. “I guess you’re right,” she said ruefully. “I just wanted to make a big splash.”
“It’s awesome, Jacinta,” I said honestly. “The whole thing. The roses, the music, the carnival in the backyard, everything. People are having a great time.”
Suddenly she happily wrapped me in a big hug, the way a little kid might. She released me quickly, looking nervously at me, and I could tell it had been an impulsive move. I smiled at her to show her that it was okay. She visibly relaxed.
“Let’s go outside,” she said. “I want to see if— I want to see which guests have arrived. I actually haven’t even been downstairs yet.”
As we walked downstairs, I really took a look at her outfit for the first time. Unlike most of the guests, who looked as if they’d stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad, Jacinta’s ensemble was quirky and funky. She wore a long, translucent vintage-looking pink camisole over what looked like a vintage Victorian black corset (like me, she had nonexistent boobs, so the effect was pretty and elegant rather than va-va-va-voom sexy) and a black lace slip. Her black kitten-heel sandals matched her black-painted toes and nails, which also sported a constellation of tiny rhinestones. I could just imagine my mother’s face if I showed up with black fingernails with rhinestones. One arm was loaded with black plastic jelly bracelets, while the other was bare. And except for her white-blond eyebrows, you’d never know she wasn’t a natural redhead. Really, she was one of the most interesting-looking people I’d ever seen.
The white marble butterfly staircase was loaded with revelers, but the crowd parted as Jacinta regally descended. I followed, a little shyly, because suddenly all eyes were trained on us. Chatter fell to a hush, and the jaunty music would’ve had the spotlight if it hadn’t so obviously been occupied by Jacinta.
I felt someone grab my arm. Startled, I turned to face Audrey Fitzwilliams. She and Katharine, clearly wasted, stared at my new friend, openmouthed.
“Is that Jacinta Trimalchio?” Audrey asked loudly. Her voice echoed in the quiet. Jacinta, halfway down the staircase, turned and smiled sweetly.
“It is, love,” she answered. “And you two are wearing the most gorgeous shoes I’ve seen since I got out to East Hampton. I adore espadrilles for summer.” I watched as the girls nearly fainted into the arms of their respective Stetler brothers.
“You look amazing,” Katharine told Jacinta reverently, and I watched as several of the assembled girls nodded in agreement. Jacinta walked back up the steps toward them.
“Katharine and Audrey, yes?” she asked. They bounced up and down like eager puppies and nodded.
“You looked divine at Alexandra Fox’s birthday party earlier this year,” she said. “I reposted a few snapshots of you two on the blog.”
“Oh, we saw,” they said in unison.
“It was the coolest thing,” Katharine said. “The coolest thing ever.”
“We took a screenshot and printed it out and hung it up!” Audrey nearly shouted. She was one of those people who gets louder and louder as she gets drunker and drunker.
“I’m so glad you two are here,” Jacinta said sincerely, wrapping them both in a spontaneous hug. Their eyes nearly popped out of their heads as they hugged her back. You would’ve thought God himself had descended from heaven to embrace them.
We continued on our way down the staircase, with people falling all over themselves to say hello to Jacinta. Those who tried to shake her hand invariably got a hug. She paused and asked about a dozen people how they were doing, and if the food was all right, and did they need something else to drink, and had they tried the Ferris wheel yet? Word rapidly spread through all the rooms in the house that Jacinta Trimalchio had made an appearance, and an ever-growing crowd followed us through the house as if Jacinta were the Pied Piper of Hamelin. As we slowly made our way to the back deck, I caught snatches of chatter.
“I heard she’s a distant cousin of Prince William,” one girl said to her friend.
“She’s definitely not American—you can tell she’s trying to hide an accent,” a boy in a peach bow tie said to his date (a boy with whom he was holding hands).
“She’s soooooo thin,” a tiny girl in pink ballet flats said to her friend. “I mean, like thinner than L.A. thin.”
“Her parents are dead,” a drunk guy announced to no one in particular. “She’s this orphan heiress.”
If Jacinta heard any of the comments, she didn’t let on. She was too busy sweetly greeting strangers and telling them how honored and delighted she was that they’d made time in their schedule to come to her little party. I’d never seen someone so obviously rich display so much genuine gratitude. Even in her wig and layers of makeup, Jacinta was the most authentic person at the party.
On the deck, Jeff Byron immediately came over to me.
“I didn’t know where you went,” he said, and something in his voice pleased me. He wasn’t whining, exactly, but he hadn’t been happy about my exit. I liked that.
“Miss Naomi,” Jacinta said, “do you want to ride the Ferris wheel with me?” Jeff looked at her, startled, taking in the unusual getup and those Cleopatra eyes.
“I’m Jacinta,” she offered, opening her arms for a hug. “And you’re Jeffrey Byron. I’m such a fan of Byron Records. I’m so glad you could make it!”
Jeff looked bewildered as Jacinta enfolded him in her arms. When she stepped back, he said, “You’re Jacinta Trimalchio?”
“I am,” she said. “Are you enjoying yourself? Did you like the appetizers? If you’re still hungry, there’s lots of food in the backyard. The grilled lobster is really, really great. And how do you know Naomi?”
“We just met yesterday,” I said. “We have a—friend, I guess, in common.”
“Really?” Jacinta said, her eyes lighting up. “What friend?”
“Delilah Fairweather,” Jeff said. “Do you know her?”
Jacinta’s eyes widened, and she smiled so energetically I thought she might break her own face.
“We were just talking about her upstairs,” she said. “She is my favorite up-and-coming model. I think she’s just absolutely amazing. Jeff, you’re friends with her boyfriend, Teddy Barrington, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Jeff said, looking a little surprised.
“I see you together in photos on Facebook all the time,” Jacinta said by way of explanation. Then she let out another sweet laugh. “Oh God, that sounds a bit stalker-ish, doesn’t it? It’s just that I’ve got to go through all the party photos to pick the best ones for my blog.”
“Trust me, I know,” Jeff said reassuringly. “All the girls at Trumbo are obsessed with The Wanted.”
“I was hoping Delilah and Teddy would come tonight,” Jacinta said. “I was too shy to send them invitations, but I figured if their friends were here . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“I’m sure they were just busy,” I said. “Next time you should send them invitations.”
“I’ve really been wanting to meet Delilah,” Jacinta said, looking out at the Ferris wheel. “I think she’s the next big supermodel. In a couple years, everyone will know her name.”
“And her father may be president,” Jeff interjected.
“Oh, but she’ll be famous on her own,” Jacinta said wistfully. “She’s too good to stay unknown.”
She turned her big green eyes on me, and I watched her hesitate. Finally, she said, “Would you ever have her over to the house, and invite me over, too?”
I was surprised by the timidity with which Jacinta issued the request. You’d think a girl who could summon two hundred strangers to a party wouldn’t be too worried about meeting a new person, especially not a person she’d already praised several times in public on the internet. I was beginning to think Jacinta was something of a Delilah Fairweather fangirl.
“Of course I will,” I said. “Any time you want.”
“Oh, Naomi!” Jacinta exclaimed, wrapping me up in another tight hug. “I would be soooo grateful! I’m so glad we’re friends!”
“Me too,” I said, my voice muffled against her armpit. She was much taller than me.
A horde of excited girls descended on Jacinta then, asking if they could take photos with her, and she graciously obliged them. As they jabbered at her like hyperactive geese, Jeff leaned over.
“It’s the Jacinta Trimalchio?” he whispered without a trace of sarcasm. “I mean, it’s really, really her?”
“It’s really, really her,” I whispered back.
“Wow,” he said in wonder. “I can’t believe she’s real. Any Trumbo girl who missed this party is going to be seriously pissed off.”
My stomach was starting to growl, which always happens when I’ve had too much alcohol. I had determined that several glasses of water and some food were in order, lest I wake up hungover the next day. I’m a real lightweight when it comes to alcohol, and Skags has taught me some tricks over the years to prevent the dreaded morning-after headache and stomach trouble. The funny thing is that Skags doesn’t drink at all, but she says she likes to watch out for her stupid friends. She’s sweet that way.
“Let’s go down to the carnival,” I suggested. “I want to check out the food tents.”
“Oh, you just want me to win you a stuffed animal,” Jeff said.
“I’m a feminist, Jeffrey. I will win my own stuffed animal.”
“Do feminists ever ride Ferris wheels with men they’ve just met?”
“Feminists do whatever they want. That means I’ll see how I feel after I get some grilled lobster in me.”
He took my hand and led me down the stairs, past the lower level of the deck, and into the backyard wonderland of lights and music and delicious food smells.
We ate grilled lobster, grilled corn on the cob, funnel cake (we split one), homemade gelato (I got salted caramel; he got mint chocolate chip), and cotton candy. At the bar tent, we ordered a ginger ale for me and a beer for Jeff, who high-fived Giovanni as if they were old friends.
“How you doing, man?” Jeff asked.
“All right, man, all right,” Giovanni said, pouring our drinks with an easy grin.
“Working hard as usual, right, my man?” Jeff said.
“You know it,” Giovanni responded, handing us our beverages.
“You’re doing a great job,” Jeff said.
Maybe I was just still drunk, but I thought he had the peculiar feigned ease of a rich person talking to a less-than. It’s the way my mother talks to her housekeeper. It’s not condescension, exactly. It’s like there’s this knowledge hanging in the air that one person has more power than the other, and we’re supposed to pretend everything is nice and normal and equal, but in reality, luck or chance has showered benefits on one person that the other person couldn’t dream of. I didn’t like it, but I brushed the feeling aside, reminding myself that Jeff was actually fun and smart and, as far as I could tell, not all caught up in the social-climbing game.
He was also the best shot I had at getting a beach boyfriend, something I’d always secretly wanted—not that I’d ever, ever, ever admit it to anyone, especially not Skags. All the boys in East Hampton had always seemed so douchey, but Jeff was actually intelligent. Another thing that separated him from the pack was that he displayed an interest in me, something no East Hampton boy had done before. To be fair to them, I wasn’t exactly warm and inviting—but neither were they! Oh, it’s a chicken and egg thing, I guess.
Jeff and I walked over to the Ferris wheel and got on board. While I buckled myself in, he murmured something to the attendant. I didn’t catch it.
The wheel moved slowly and kept creaking and groaning. What looked from afar like a sparkling new carnival ride was actually pretty worn-out.
“You’re not afraid of heights, are you?” Jeff asked when we were almost at the top.
“You ask me that now!” I laughed at him. “Wouldn’t the ground have been the place to make that inquiry?”
“Probably. But you’re not, right? Afraid of heights?”
“Nope,” I said. We were almost, almost at the top. Georgica Pond spread out before us, a wide patch of darkness punctuated by occasional twinkling lights on the shore. The party noise had faded somewhat, and I could see Jacinta’s red wig sparkling like a ruby under the lights on the deck. She was still mobbed by people.
“So this isn’t going to bother you,” Jeff said.
“What isn’t going to bother me?”
We reached the top, and the Ferris wheel shuddered to a halt.
“How did you know it was going to—”
“I told the guy to stop us up here.”
“What?” I was utterly confused. For a second I thought about this rich kid in Chicago, this guy who grew up in a penthouse on Lakeshore Drive, who got super-wasted at a party and was all pissed off at his girlfriend, so he pushed her off a balcony. I know it seems weird that my first thought would be that Jeff might murder me, but I was still a little drunk, and it’s not like I had much experience with guys. “I just wanted to do this,” Jeff said, and he leaned over to kiss me.
I had never been kissed before—I know, I know, I was seventeen and that’s old, but whatever, it just hadn’t happened, unless you count the time Alan Scott pecked me on the lips during Spin the Bottle in seventh grade—so you’d think I would freeze up, but actually, I seemed to know exactly what to do. I just leaned over and kissed him back. It was kind of odd, because if you think about it, having your lips on someone else’s lips is just inherently weird—there’s no, like, evolutionary need for it, as far as I know. It doesn’t aid in reproduction, although apparently foreplay is important to the sexual act, according to this sex book my mother sent me when I was fifteen in lieu of having an actual discussion with me about sex. Getting that book in the mail and opening it in front of my dad was one of the single most embarrassing experiences of my life. He grunted, “Oh. Um,” and promptly left the room. But I did read it.
Anyway, we kissed and it was nice, and I had this strange feeling of triumph, like I’d checked off a box on the grand list of Things You Must Do While You Are a Teenager. Then I immediately wanted to text somebody and tell them, but who was I going to tell? Certainly not my mother, and definitely not my dad. Skags would just say that straight make-outs were gross. I wished I had a girly girlfriend I could tell. It’s fun being BFFs with the butch future first lesbian president of the United States, but sometimes I do want to have the kind of stereotypical girl friendship where you paint each other’s nails and talk about boys.
“Thanks, bro!” Jeff yelled down to the ride operator. “You can let us down now!” The guy heard him, and soon we were slowly lowering toward the ground.
“You want to go up again?” Jeff asked, raising an eyebrow impishly.
“Just don’t touch me,” I said. “That was guh-ross.”
“Yeah, it was pretty disgusting,” he agreed. “Never again!”
“Never again!” I repeated.
We made out for, like, the next three revolutions of the wheel.
Eventually, other people started boarding the ride, which was annoying because the Ferris wheel would squeak to a stop and then jerk to a halt every minute. We decided to get off and head back to the bar tent. Jeff held my hand on the way, and I looked down and blushed when he greeted a couple of guys he knew from Trumbo.
I was about to order another ginger ale when Jacinta appeared, trailed by a gaggle of admiring girls. She was holding her camera—not a crappy little thing, but a real-deal, professional-style digital camera with a big round lens and a light that she held in one hand.
“Naomi!” she exclaimed, hugging me like I was her best friend in the world. This girl gave out hugs like it was her job. “Let me photograph you for tomorrow’s blog post!”
“Is it for a Spotlight?” one of the girls asked tremulously. I recognized her as Ainsley Devereaux, a tobacco heiress who I’d never seen express any feeling other than cool boredom.
“It is,” Jacinta said, and the assembled fangirls collectively gasped.
“What’s a ‘Spotlight’?” Jeff asked, amused.
“It’s a special feature I do once in a while when I think someone looks particularly fabulous,” Jacinta explained. “Usually it’s once a month. During Fashion Week I’ll do six or seven.”
“It is a huge deal,” Ainsley said urgently, grabbing Jeff’s arm for emphasis and shaking it. I looked at her hand on his bicep and instantly hated her.
Jeff laughed and freed his arm from the rich girl’s tight grasp. “Yeah, you don’t need to resort to violence to convince me, Ainsley.”
“That was not violence, Jeffrey,” Ainsley said, rolling her eyes. “It’s a big, big deal. All the other fashion blogs and some of the gossip blogs pick it up. Sometimes it’s even on Page Six.” I knew about Page Six because my mother was on it sometimes—it was the New York Post’s legendary gossip page, and it was stupid and bitchy but apparently very influential.
“Delilah holds the record for Spotlights,” Jacinta said as she quickly redid my ponytail. “Five times. I’ll have to talk to her about that when we have our little get-together at your house.” She bent down by my feet.
“Little get-together? Oh, right.” I felt slightly awkward that Jacinta was straightening my hemline and brushing bits of grass off my sandals.
Jacinta stood up, switching from stylist mode to photographer mode, and pursed her lips, looking at me with an artist’s critical eye.
“I want you to put your hands on your hips,” she said. “No, not like you’re angry. Like, naturally.”
“I don’t naturally put my hands on my hips,” I said. At this, Ainsley got involved, repositioning my fingers and pushing my hands higher on my waist.
“Now put one foot in front of the other, like this, love,” Jacinta said, demonstrating. “And lean forward just a little bit.”
“Hinge at the waist!” Ainsley said.
“Hinge at the waist!” Jeff shouted.
“I’m hinging!” I shrieked. “I’m hinging!” He and I dissolved into laughter. Jacinta smiled good-naturedly.
“This is serious,” Ainsley said. “What’s your name again? Natalie?”
“Naomi,” I said. “We’ve met every summer since we were eleven.” It couldn’t have been the champagne any longer, but something sure had me feeling saucy.
“Okay, I’m bad with names. Naomi. This is a big deal. A. Big. Deal. You want this photo to look amazing. So hinge at the waist.” Obligingly, I hinged at the waist. Jacinta began snapping away from different angles, encouraging me to grin, then to smile slightly, then to look serious, and to open my eyes wider. Eventually, she was satisfied and lowered her camera.
“Perfection, love,” she said.
Ainsley nodded authoritatively. “I agree,” she announced with an imperious air, as if anyone cared. Jacinta ignored her and wrapped me in yet another hug. “Don’t forget about Delilah, okay?” she murmured into my ear.
“I won’t,” I whispered back.
“Jacinta,” Ainsley said eagerly, “I’m going to get something to drink. Would you like something?” Jeez. Ainsley Devereaux wasn’t the type of person to care about anyone’s needs other than her own. She must really be starstruck by Jacinta Trimalchio.
“I would, Ainsley,” Jacinta said. “And so would Jeff and Naomi, I’m sure, wouldn’t they?” Ainsley looked briefly horrified by the prospect of being a cocktail waitress, but she quickly hid her distaste for the task by smiling insincerely.
“I’d like a ginger ale, Ainsley,” I said sweetly. “Thank you so much. You know what? Have him put some vodka in there for me. Why not?” Jeff patted me on the back approvingly.
“Fetch me a Stella, won’t you, Ainsley?” he said with his usual charming smile. Ainsley rolled her eyes at him.
“And I’ll have a lemonade, love,” Jacinta said, lightly resting her hand on Ainsley’s shoulder. Ainsley immediately brightened up at her touch.
Ainsley caught sight of Misti passing by, and reached out and thumped her on the shoulder. It struck me as quite rude, but that seemed to be Ainsley’s style.
“Hey, can you get us a Stella, a lemonade, a gimlet, and a vodka ginger ale?” she said. It was more of an order than a question.
“Sure,” Misti said automatically, with a forced smile.
“Thanks,” Ainsley said, her voice dripping with fake honey. “You know, I heard you were very . . . accommodating. Really giving. And now I see it’s true!” She smiled brightly, and a few of the other girls fought back snickers. Misti ignored them and went off to get the drinks.
“Ainsley,” one of the girls whispered with delight. “You are so bad!”
Ainsley laughed. “What? I was just being friendly.”
“You’re friendly like a snake is friendly,” Jeff said. Ainsley stuck her tongue out at him.
Jacinta led Jeff, Ainsley, and me back to a table near the house. She flagged down one of the fangirls, who brought us caramel popcorn at Jacinta’s request.
“Popcorn for the big show,” Jacinta said.
“What big show?” Jeff and I asked in unison.
As if in response, the sky above us exploded in sparkling red and white peonies and chrysanthemums and starbursts. On top of everything else, Jacinta had arranged for a fireworks display. An obsequious Misti brought us our drinks and hurried away quickly.
“How’d you get a permit for this?” Jeff asked as everyone in the house poured out onto the back lawn to watch the fireworks.
“Oh, I didn’t worry about a permit,” Jacinta said, laughing lightly. Ainsley copied her, laughing too.
“You’ve got chutzpah, Jacinta Trimalchio,” Jeff said admiringly, clinking his beer bottle against her glass of lemonade.
“What is a ‘chutzpah’?” Ainsley asked.
“It means guts in Yiddish,” Jeff said as another round of white stars blasted the sky above us and a cheer went up from the crowd. “Kind of like courage. At least, in the modern sense, that’s how it’s used.”
“I always forget that you’re Jewish,” Ainsley said. “That’s so cute.”
“Yes,” said Jeff. “We’re just adorable.” He grabbed my knee under the table and squeezed, and I did the same to him. Suddenly the two girls I had seen getting high in the bathroom rushed past us, squealing and giggling.
“Pool party!” one of them shrieked, stripping down to her underthings and jumping in the river pool, which was illuminated from below by lights. Then the Fitzwilliams sisters, seemingly even drunker than before, took off everything and splashed down, followed by the delighted Stetler brothers. The crowd roared its approval, clapping and hooting and whistling, while the fireworks concluded overhead and the band on the deck struck up another jaunty tune. More girls and guys followed suit, some jumping in fully clothed, some in their underclothes, and a few more girls completely naked. I hate girls who do stuff like that just for attention. They reminded me of a couple of the Beasts back home, Melissa Donnelly and Madison Delaney, who were famous at school for getting drunk and making out for the football team’s benefit at every single Homecoming dance. Skags calls them fauxbians.
“Ugh,” Ainsley sniffed. “That’s disgusting.”
“I don’t know,” Jeff said with a smile. “I think it’s lovely—from an artistic perspective, of course.” I punched him on the arm, and he cracked up.
It was getting pretty late, and the party seemed on the verge of devolving into some giant drunken orgy. I wasn’t really up for that. I’d already shown up at an East Hampton party by myself, made out with a boy I’d just met the day before, and posed for some big-deal blog. Enough personal firsts for one night.
“I think it’s time for me to head home,” I said. Jacinta was visibly disappointed.
“Oh,” she said a little sadly. She clasped my hand in hers. “Well, you must come over again soon. And at the next party, you must come early and get ready with me. You can always stay over afterward in the blue room if you want!” With some satisfaction, I noticed Ainsley’s look of jealousy.
“I’ll get going, too,” Jeff said, rising. “It’s been a wonderful party, Jacinta. Thank you so much for inviting us.”
“You were invited?” Ainsley asked, aghast.
“Yes, of course,” Jeff said. “You think we’d just show up at some stranger’s house without an invitation?” Ainsley’s bitter silence made it clear she had done just that.
“Oh, Ainsley, love, I simply didn’t get to send out invitations to everyone I wanted here,” Jacinta said graciously. “In fact, I only managed to get notes out to Jeff and to Naomi today. I just put the word out and figured all my favorites would make it here—and most of them did.” Her smile faded for a moment, but just when I noticed its absence, it popped back into place.
“Now tell me about your bag, love. It’s absolutely precious.” Mollified, Ainsley smiled and launched into a monologue about Louis Vuitton. Jeff and I backed away slowly. Jacinta blew us kisses.
“Do feminists mind gentlemen walking them home?” he teased.
“This feminist does not,” I said. “After all, who knows what dangers lie between here and the house next door?”
“Georgica Pond is typically a hotbed of gang activity,” Jeff said.
By the time we reached my back deck, the sounds of splashing, shrieking, and music had gotten a little softer, although it was still pretty noisy. Jeff asked me if he could see me again soon, and I said he could. Then he gave me a long, lingering kiss that left me tingling from head to toe. When he walked away, I wondered for a second if we could fall in love. Then, of course, I felt like a complete dork, because I’d only gotten my first kiss like an hour previously and I was already thinking of L-O-V-E. It must be because I was a little drunk. That vodka and ginger ale hadn’t exactly sobered me up.
I opened the sliding glass back door as quietly as I could, and crept up to my bedroom. I flopped down on the bed, still fully clothed, and stared up at the ceiling. It had been a weird but awesome night. I waggled my feet in the air and looked at my sandals. They were actually really pretty. So was my whole outfit. Maybe my mom wasn’t so stupid. Maybe East Hampton wasn’t so stupid. Maybe this summer wasn’t going to be as stupid as previous summers.
Then I noticed the ceiling was spinning gently, and I flopped my legs back down, dropping one foot to the floor for stability (another trick Skags taught me). I focused on my breath and soon drifted into a pleasant, boozy sleep. The last coherent thought I had was that I hoped my mom would make popovers and eggs again the next morning.