After I left Jacinta examining her lawn, I went into the house and sequestered myself in my room, curling up with a Noam Chomsky book my Honors US History II teacher had recommended the previous year. I finished it in two hours and moved on to an old favorite, Anne of Green Gables. After that, I went through another old favorite, the L. M. Montgomery book Emily of New Moon. I fell asleep with an almost-finished Emily of New Moon clutched in my hand, my clothes still on.
I woke up the next morning to the buzz of a text from my mother. It read, Emergency meeting at HQ—tell no one.
I rolled my eyes and texted back, Oh, so I shouldn’t post it on Facebook?
That’s not funny, came the response.
My mother and I have slightly different senses of humor.
I put the phone down and rolled over to go back to sleep. I was drifting off quickly when my phone buzzed again. I was prepared to fire off a bitchy retort to my mother, when I saw that the text was from Jacinta. It was an 813 number. I wondered where 813 was, anyway.
Have you called Delilah yet? the text read.
Not yet, I texted back. But I will soon.
☹
I’ll call her now, I texted. For some reason, I didn’t want to do anything to make Jacinta unhappy—even if what would make her unhappy was waiting a completely reasonable amount of time to meet Delilah Fairweather.
THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU XOXOXOXOXO ☺ <3, came the response.
I’m not the biggest fan of talking on the phone, unless it’s to Skags, because my phone voice gets kind of high-pitched and weird. I’m sure there’s some complex, deep-seated psychological reason for this phenomenon, but as yet, I can only attribute it to performance anxiety. I hate saying the wrong thing, because then I revisit it in my head over and over again for days after. I don’t know where I get it from, because my dad seems to have no trouble barking orders on or off the basketball court, and my mother has probably never wasted a single moment of time feeling embarrassed over anything she’s said, no matter how dumb.
I called Delilah’s cell. It rang a few times and she picked up, sounding kind of out of it.
“Helllllooooo?” she said lazily.
“Hey, Delilah, it’s Naomi,” I said in my high-pitched phone squeak. “Naomi Rye.”
“Well, of coooourse it is,” she said in her breathy Marilyn Monroe voice. “You’re the only Naomi I know. The number one Naomi!” She giggled through a yawn. “Sorry. I get a little loopy when I sleep late.”
“I was wondering if you’d like to come by today,” I said. “My mother’s gone to the city, and I thought you could meet my neighbor, Jacinta Trimalchio. She threw this amazing party the other night.”
“Ooh,” Delilah said. “Oooooooooh. Jacinta Trimalchio. I would love to meet her. Was her party as fabulous as everyone said?”
“It was really fun,” I said, thinking of Jeff and the Ferris wheel.
“Well, of course for you it was, you naughty thing,” Delilah said. “By the way, have you talked to Jeff?”
“Not since the night before last,” I said.
“That’s no way for a gentleman to act!” she said, sounding playfully indignant. “You don’t make out with a girl and then not at least text her the next day. I must speak to him about this immediately.”
“No, no—it’s no big deal,” I said quickly. And at that exact moment, my phone buzzed with an incoming text from Jeff.
Want to come to the beach? it read. No Ferris wheels, but I’ll buy you a lobster roll. They sold lobster rolls at the beach snack shack in East Hampton for, like, sixteen dollars a pop, but it was at the public beach. I guessed Jeff’s rented house didn’t come with access to a private stretch of beach. “You’ll never guess who just texted me,” I told Delilah.
“Shut up,” she said. “Is he psychic?”
“Maybe he’s . . . magical,” I said dramatically. We giggled together, just like Skags and I did when something cracked us up. Well, almost like that.
“So it’s what, ten?” I said. “You want to come over for lunch at, like, one o’clock?”
“That should give me enough time to pick out something fabulous to wear,” Delilah said. “And to get myself together.”
After we hung up, I texted Jeff that I couldn’t do the beach but might be able to hang out later in the day.
I demand to know why you shall not be accompanying me on a sunbathing excursion, he wrote.
I shall be otherwise occupied with a ladies’ lunch, I texted back.
Which ladies, madame?
Madame Jacinta and Madame Delilah, sir.
Well, should your schedule permit, please do contact me later, dear lady.
Perhaps I shall. Perhaps I shall.
Despite the good looks and the money, he was really kind of a dork. I liked that about him. I don’t feel comfortable with guys who aren’t at least a little bit weird.
Not even two minutes after I stopped texting Jeff, which was not even three minutes after I stopped talking with Delilah, which was not even ten minutes after I got off the phone with Jacinta, the doorbell rang. Even though I was still wearing my dress from the previous day and obviously hadn’t showered or brushed my teeth, I decided to answer the door. I figured there was probably only a 1 percent chance it was Jeff, anyway.
Outside my mother’s front door, I found a very jittery Jacinta standing and shifting her weight from one leg to the other, like a little kid waiting in line to see Santa. She was wearing some kind of old-fashioned white peignoir with a long white silk nightgown underneath, and her white-blond bob was all messy and unkempt. She looked like she’d just rolled out of bed in 1962 or something. I opened the door and grinned at her.
“She’s coming over at one,” I said.
Jacinta let out a whoop and actually danced a little jig. I laughed out loud—she was so unself-conscious in her delight. I mean, the girl was wearing white fluffy bunny slippers on someone’s front lawn in the Hamptons in the blazing midmorning sun, and she clearly couldn’t have cared less if anyone saw her.
Then Jacinta rushed past me into the house and started going over everything with a critical eye, as if she were investigating a murder scene.
“Mm-hmm,” she’d say while examining a set of family photographs hanging on the wall. Or “aah” when glancing over the décor in the dining room.
“Uh, Jacinta,” I said tentatively. “What are you doing?”
“Just getting a feel for the place, love,” she said distractedly. “You won’t mind if I have flowers brought over, will you?”
“No, I mean, flowers are always nice,” I said, confused. “Are they for my mom or something?”
“Oh no,” Jacinta said, as if the very idea were unimaginable. “Oh no, they’re for Delilah. She loves red and white roses.”
“Oh,” I said. “Of course.” I didn’t ask how Jacinta knew what kind of flowers a total stranger loved. I assumed she’d seen it on Facebook or something.
She whipped her cell phone out from the pocket of her peignoir and called up a florist to order six dozen roses—three dozen white, three dozen red. There was a feverish look in her eye.
“Are you feeling all right?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m perfectly fine!” she said unconvincingly. “Just want to make sure everything’s right. You wouldn’t mind if I had my housekeeper bring over cookies, would you? She’s over today, and she usually cooks a few days’ worth of meals for me. . . . It wouldn’t be any trouble to have her bake cookies—I ask for them all the time anyway.”
“Just as long as she doesn’t bake them in my mother’s kitchen,” I said. “Anne Rye is a territorial animal when it comes to anyone else touching her stove, unless she’s hired them herself.”
“She’ll do them at my house,” Jacinta said. “I’ll have her run them over just as soon as they’re done. You said Delilah’s coming at one, yes? I suppose I ought to have the housekeeper bake them so that they’re out of the oven at twelve thirty, and they’ll be just the right temperature at one. But what if Delilah is early? If it’s twelve forty-five, the cookies might still be too hot. And if she’s late, they might start to cool off too much.”
She was pacing, talking to herself almost as if I wasn’t even there. I had never seen a girl so nervous about meeting another girl.
“I have to go home and get ready,” she said suddenly. “Oh, Naomi, thank you so much!” She threw her arms around me and hugged me close. I hoped I didn’t smell too bad, pre-shower.
“Hey, Jacinta?” I asked before she could leave.
“Yes?”
“Where’s 813?”
She cocked her head and looked at me curiously. “Why do you ask?”
I was a little taken aback. “Um, I don’t know, I was just wondering when I saw your phone number.”
“Oh, my phone number,” she said, chuckling. “When I was fourteen, my parents thought I should get a dose of real American living. So they sent me to boarding school in Florida. It was awful. I was back with them in Europe after three months! But I kept the cell phone, and I use it whenever I’m in the States.”
“Oh,” I said, thinking that I’d never heard of anyone being sent to boarding school in Florida.
And then, as quickly as she’d come over, she was gone. I watched her dash across the lawn, practically accosting a woman who was carrying cleaning supplies from a humble-looking car into the house.
I showered and put on another one of the dresses Mom had gotten me at Marc Jacobs. This one was a simple black shift, and my mother probably would have told me it was too dark and sophisticated for daytime entertaining, but thankfully she was still stuck in New York having her company emergency. I went into the kitchen and put on one of the prototype aprons my mother’s company was considering releasing after “evaluating the success of our inaugural product line launch” or something similar my mother had babbled at me when showing me the aprons. It was made of some kind of super-fabulous organic white cotton and had a line drawing of my mother’s smiling face emblazoned on the front.
I may not be Anne Rye, but I’m still her daughter and I’ve picked up a few things in the kitchen over the years. I sort of had to—she used to tote me around to her catering gigs like a combination personal assistant/trophy, dressing me in clothes that matched her own and teaching me about all the cooking and prep work. People thought it was so cute when the caterer’s eight-year-old daughter stood behind a warming tray, spooning out apple compote or mashed potatoes or whatever was on the menu. When Mom opened the cupcake bakery in New York, sometimes I’d help out in the kitchen. That was in the early days, back when my mother did all her own handiwork, before she became a Brand Name™ and could hire loads of people to do things for her.
Still, I’m no slouch in the kitchen. And I make a mean mac and cheese—not that boxed Kraft stuff, but the real deal. As in, I use three kinds of cheese: Pecorino Romano, Gruyère, and sharp white cheddar cheese. And my mother taught me long ago that fresh pasta is almost always better than dried, boxed, or bagged pasta, so she either makes her own for dinner parties or keeps some fresh pasta from a specialty store on hand. She happened to have fresh elbow macaroni from Citarella in the fridge, so I was in luck. Throw in some nutmeg, pepper, milk, flour, bits of bread (yes, bread—makes it soooo good), salt and butter, and boom! I had whipped up a truly kickass version of a classic American treat. At the last minute, I decided to take some bacon my mother had bought from the butcher, fry it up, slice it into little pieces, and add it to the mixture. I did this for two reasons: one, bacon makes everything better; and two, my mother is disdainful of the trend in which people add bacon to things that don’t require bacon (like ice cream, milk shakes, salads, you name it—people are nuts for bacon these days). Then I cut up some watermelon into cubes and tossed it with some balsamic vinaigrette, arugula, and feta.
The doorbell rang at eleven thirty, and the florist and her assistants marched in with three big vases of red roses and three big vases of white roses. I didn’t know what to do with them, so I just kind of spread them around the first floor. I even put one vase in the bathroom, because why not? The bell rang again at noon, while the macaroni was gently bubbling in the oven. I took off my apron and went to the door to find Jacinta wringing her hands on the front steps.
“Jesus,” I said when I opened the door. “You look amazing.”
She was wearing purple eye makeup that set off her enormous green eyes, and a beautiful mint-green sleeveless dress that consisted of finely wrought lace over a satiny sheath. Little, slouchy green leather elf boots and lavender fishnets completed the look. It was delicate and sweet and sexy and hip.
“She’s not here yet,” Jacinta said, looking at me with mournful eyes. “She’s not coming, is she?”
“It’s only noon,” I reminded her, ushering her into the house. “She’s coming at one. Did you decide about the cookies?”
She looked at me blankly. Then something seemed to register.
“Oh, the snickerdoodles,” she said. “Delilah’s favorites. They’re coming at twelve forty-five.”
I put a hand on each of her arms and looked up at her. I’m not the type of girl who touches people a lot, but this girl was a serial hugger, and I figured I wasn’t crossing any boundaries. “Jacinta,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m freaking out,” she whispered.
I steered her over to the couch. “Lay down,” I ordered. “Or lie down. I never know which one it is.”
“I don’t know, either,” she said faintly, obeying me.
I made a mental note to check my SAT book. That was exactly the kind of trick they’d probably use to make you lose points.
Then I heard the oven timer ding.
“That’s the mac and cheese,” I told her. “I’ve got to take it out to cool.”
“Mac and cheese?” Jacinta repeated, looking confused. “Like Kraft mac and cheese?”
“No way,” I said. “I don’t mess with that Kraft garbage. This is the real deal. Homemade with fancy cheeses.”
Jacinta looked a little relieved that I had made a properly pretentious version of comfort food. I left her on the couch and went to the kitchen to get the dish out of the oven. Then the doorbell rang, and it was Jacinta’s housekeeper with the snickerdoodles. Then I realized I still hadn’t set the table on the deck, or made fresh lemonade.
I bustled about, feeling like Suzy Homemaker, and set out what my mother would have called “an exquisite spread” on the table on the back deck. I was so consumed in my activity that I jumped a little when the doorbell rang.
Delilah Fairweather stood on the front porch wearing a red shirtdress that had probably been a gift from Ralph Lauren himself. She looked like the epitome of an all-American girl. Skags would’ve scolded me for the thought, pointing out that America is a vast mosaic of individuals of different ethnic backgrounds, colors, shapes, etc.—but Delilah certainly had that classic Barbie look down pat.
“Hello there,” Delilah said.
“C’mon in,” I said, ushering her into the foyer.
“Your house is beautiful,” she cooed. “Your mother has perfect taste.”
“She’s an expert shopper,” I said. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“You couldn’t do a mimosa, could you?” she asked mischievously, her big blue eyes sparkling.
“Sadly, no,” I said. “I know I sound like a nerd, but my mom would flip if she found out I’d opened any of her champagne.”
“Oh, that’s no problem,” Delilah said. “I forget that most people’s parents actually notice if they steal their alcohol. Merilee isn’t the most—attentive mommy.” She giggled.
“I just made some lemonade. Want any?”
“You made it yourself?” Delilah sounded truly impressed. “Of course I’d like some!” Then her eyes widened in surprise. I looked over my shoulder in the direction she was looking, and there in the doorway to the living room was Jacinta Trimalchio, pale as could be in her little dress and elf boots. Delilah instantly generated a friendly smile and looked at me expectantly.
“Oh,” I said, a little confused. “Delilah, this is my neighbor, Jacinta Trimalchio.”
Delilah gave a squeal of delight.
“Oh my gosh,” she said, grinning wide. “I adore your site. It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.” Jacinta appeared frozen by some invisible force, so I gamely put my arm around her waist and pushed her forward. I may get a case of the Nervous Naomi Babbles now and then, but I don’t think I’ve ever appeared this terrified when being introduced to a new person. Jacinta, on the other hand, was looking at Delilah as if she were a ghost.
“Jacinta,” I said after an uncomfortable silence. “This is Delilah Fairweather.” It was such an unnecessary statement that I immediately felt embarrassed.
“Why don’t you sit down and tell me all about the site,” Delilah suggested, and I felt a rush of gratitude toward her. Here she was, confronted with a freakishly silent girl, and she was really making an effort to make her comfortable. Without a word, Jacinta obeyed. The two girls sat on opposite ends of the living room couch staring at each other, while I stood with hands awkwardly clasped in front of me.
“For how long have you been blogging?” Delilah asked politely.
“S-since I was fourteen,” Jacinta said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Four years.”
“Well, I’ve been a huge fan for the past three,” Delilah said, soldiering onward. “I remember the first time you featured me in a Spotlight, when Mom and I did the red carpet for the Whitney Museum benefit. I couldn’t believe it. I was so excited.”
“That’s lovely,” Jacinta said faintly.
I could tell this was going to be a complete disaster. Jacinta was acting completely out of character. Okay, so it occurred to me that I didn’t exactly know her character very well, but she sure wasn’t the confident, bubbly girl with whom I’d gone to lunch.
“I’m going to get some lemonade and cookies,” I announced in an unusually high-pitched voice. “Be right back.” I turned on my heel and left, and heard someone rush after me.
“I’m freaking out,” Jacinta whispered urgently as we walked into the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” I whispered. “You were so excited about meeting her.”
“I’m just—I guess—oh, I don’t know,” she fretted as I poured three glasses of lemonade and set them on a tray. “I’ve wanted to meet her for so long, and now I just don’t know what to say. She’s so—her, you know?”
I tried hard to conceal my growing annoyance. I hate awkward social situations, and it feels like they’re always happening around me. I put some snickerdoodles on the tray and pushed it toward her.
“Here,” I said in a voice that sounded oddly like my mother’s. “She’s your guest. You bring her the cookies and lemonade.”
“Don’t leave me alone in there with her!” Jacinta pleaded.
“I have to make a phone call,” I said, sounding colder than I’d intended.
Practically shivering, Jacinta sighed and picked up the tray, walking into the other room. I got out my cell phone, walking out onto the deck and shutting the door carefully behind me.
“What’s up?” Skags asked when she picked up her phone. “How’s everything in the land of moneybags and Botox?”
“Completely weird,” I said. “I had Delilah over to meet this girl who lives next door, Jacinta. She’s this style blogger who thinks Delilah is the next big supermodel, and she threw this crazy party the other night with a Ferris wheel and carnival games and fireworks in the backyard.”
“Look at you, socializing,” Skags said. “Your mother must be delirious with excitement. Her little girl’s making plastic friends!”
“Ugh,” I said. “I don’t think Delilah’s going to be my friend after this. This girl Jacinta is acting crazy. It’s like she can’t even talk because she’s so starstruck.”
“Starstruck?” Skags snorted. “Over Delilah Fairweather?”
“They’re in the living room right now, and it’s just so awkward,” I said.
“You left them alone?” Skags laughed. “Yeah, you’re a really great hostess, Naomi.”
“Well, what else am I supposed to do?” I hissed. “Jacinta’s the one who made me have Delilah over, and I made lunch for us and everything, but I seriously don’t think I can suffer through another hour of this weirdness.”
“Dude, I don’t know what to tell you,” Skags said. “But I gotta go. I’ve got a tennis date at two.”
“With that hot girl we met at the courts that one time?”
“Nope.” Skags sounded very self-satisfied. “You’ll never guess who I’m playing tennis with.”
“Carter?” Carter was our extremely preppy gay guy friend. He was always trying to get us to play tennis or croquet or some other fancy activity.
“Jenny Carpenter.”
“What?” I gasped. “Just the other day she was buying a burrito from you, and now you’re tennis buddies?”
“Dude, I told you,” Skags said. “The girl freaking loves me.”
“No way. Absolutely no way. That girl is straight as an arrow.”
“She asked if I wanted to play tennis. It’s totally a date.”
“But—but—we’re talking about Jenny Carpenter. The Queen Beast!” I was thoroughly baffled. “I mean, she doesn’t even talk to girls who don’t have Louis Vuitton purses.”
“Well, she talks to me,” Skags said a little huffily. “I gotta go. Good luck with Barbie and her Web stalker.” She hung up abruptly, and I felt a little guilty for dismissing her Jenny Carpenter fantasy.
I groaned aloud. I knew I had to go back into that living room, but I really, really, really didn’t want to. I stalled in the kitchen for a few minutes, wiping down surfaces that didn’t need to be wiped down, before I resigned myself to reentering the living room.
When I returned to the living room, I was confronted by a sight that confused me even more than Jacinta’s earlier behavior had.
Jacinta and Delilah had both kicked off their shoes. Jacinta sat on the couch with her feet tucked under her, her head propped up in her hand, her elbow resting on the back of the couch. She was leaning toward Delilah, her eyes rapt with attention. For her part, Delilah had stretched out on the couch and draped her legs over Jacinta’s lap. When I walked in, Delilah was laughing gently at something Jacinta had said. The energy in the room couldn’t have changed more drastically. The two seemed like the absolute best of friends.
I stood in the doorway for what seemed like an eternity before Delilah looked up and noticed me.
“Oh, Naomi!” she exclaimed in her sweet girly voice. “We’re having the best time. I can’t believe I finally got to meet the girl behind The Wanted.” She shot Jacinta a look I couldn’t read, and Jacinta appeared to stifle a giggle.
“Oh, um, that’s great,” I said, waiting for Jacinta to look at me and say something. But she remained facing Delilah, her expression blissful.
“Did you guys want lunch?” I asked lamely.
At this, Jacinta turned and smiled at me. “I was just asking Delilah over to see my house, love,” she said. Then, almost as if an afterthought, she added, “And you’re welcome to come, too. But then, you’ve already seen it.”
“Not the whole place,” I said. “Like the non-blue bedrooms. Maybe after that we could come back and have lunch?”
“Of course,” Jacinta said, and she and Delilah rose to their feet.
We walked over to Jacinta’s mansion, the girls murmuring and giggling conspiratorially in front of me while I trailed after. It wasn’t hard to feel left out, though my feeling of exclusion was trumped by my absolute astonishment at the 180-degree turnaround in the girls’ attitudes. “I must see the pool first,” Delilah announced, and Jacinta obliged her by leading us out back to the river pool. Delilah squealed with delight at the waterslides, the footbridges, the whole setup.
“It looks like it’s got a current,” she said with wonder, looking at Jacinta.
“It does,” Jacinta said. “You should come over to swim. Or just to float.”
“I’ll come every day,” Delilah said, and she almost sounded as if she really meant it.
Then it was time for the tour of the indoors, which took quite a while because the place was so huge. Turns out I’d only seen part of the house. On the first floor, I was familiar with the bathroom, main kitchen, dining room, living room, foyer, slightly smaller second living room, cigar room, billiards room, and library. But I hadn’t seen the home theater or the greenhouse attached to the far side of the house, the side not facing my mother’s place.
That greenhouse was really something. When we walked in, I heard Delilah gasp. The whole place was blooming with red and white rosebushes. She looked at Jacinta in wonder.
“It was empty when I got here,” Jacinta said by way of explanation. “I put in a big order at the nursery.”
“It’s beautiful,” Delilah whispered reverently.
“Better than the snickerdoodles?” Jacinta asked. I cast a curious glance at her. One thing didn’t seem to have much to do with the other.
“I don’t know . . . the snickerdoodles were pretty great,” Delilah said.
“Would you call them ‘scrumptious’?” Jacinta inquired. This cracked Delilah up for some reason. I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was a truly unnecessary addition to this little social gathering—a real third wheel.
“Oh, but you haven’t seen the upstairs yet, love!” Jacinta suddenly cried, and Delilah clapped excitedly. Delilah held her hand out to Jacinta, and Jacinta’s eyes widened. When she took the proffered hand, you could fairly see the electricity crackle up her rail-thin arm. Together, she and Delilah floated in some invisible cloud out of the green room, down the long hall and into the foyer, where they ascended the stairs as if by magic. I couldn’t have been less a part of their world if I’d actually left the house and gone home—something I was strongly considering.
Upstairs, we went through the rainbow of rooms and bathrooms in reverse order—indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, and finally red.
“This is my favorite part of the entire house,” Jacinta said proudly, pointing to what looked like a closet door.
“Is it a walk-in?” I asked, trying to reinsert myself into the conversation. Both girls looked at me with surprise, as if they’d completely forgotten I was there.
In response, Jacinta flung open the door to reveal a set of display shelves, dramatically lit from above. On the shelves was a series of similar-looking handbags in a rainbow of colors. They didn’t look too impressive to me, but Delilah seemed bowled over. She stared at the bags, her blue eyes filling with tears.
“They’re—they’re so beautiful,” she said softly, her voice catching a little. “They’re all Birkins, aren’t they?”
Jacinta nodded.
This was unprecedented. I’d never seen Delilah cry, ever. I’d never even seen her get teary-eyed. And suddenly it occurred to me that I was an intruder in a private moment I hadn’t been meant to see, and though I couldn’t imagine why or how it had all come to this—Delilah Fairweather crying over handbags in the bedroom of some blogger—it was time for me to go.
“I’m going to go put the macaroni and cheese back in the oven,” I said. “If you get hungry for lunch, come over.” I turned around and left them there, not waiting for a reaction, since I was pretty certain one wasn’t forthcoming anyway.
I walked back across the lawn in the shining afternoon sun and cleared the table on the deck. I stored the mac and cheese and salad in the fridge and grabbed my cell phone, intending to call Skags. Instead, I found myself dialing Jeff Byron.
“How’s it going?” he asked cheerfully.
“Too weird to explain,” I said honestly. “Want to come over and watch a movie?”
“Screw the sunshine,” he said.
He was over in fifteen minutes.
Jeff stayed through dinner, and I served him the meal I’d intended to give my original guests. While he scarfed down two bowls of mac and cheese, I told him all about Jacinta and Delilah.
“That’s so bizarre,” he said. “And by the way, adding bacon to this was a genius move.”
“Thanks,” I said. “So what do you think? I mean, does Delilah usually cry at handbags?”
He laughed. “Delilah doesn’t usually cry at anything. That girl’s life is perfect.”
“It was so weird,” I said with a sigh, spearing a piece of watermelon with my fork.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said through a mouthful of mac and cheese.
“Yeah?”
“Those chicks are totally making out right now,” he said, cracking himself up.
“Gross!” I said, throwing a balled-up napkin at him. He laughed harder and tossed it back at me. I threw some watermelon at him, and he returned with a volley of arugula. We were about to launch into a full-scale food fight when my mother swept into the room.
“Hello, darlings,” Mom said brightly in the super-fake voice she only uses in front of important strangers. “Jeffrey, lovely to see you again.”
“Hi, Mrs. Rye,” he said.
“Hi, Mom,” I giggled.
She looked at the small mess we’d made and opened her mouth to say something, then shut it and smiled tightly.
“I’ve had a very long day,” she said. “Naomi, take care that all the lights get turned off, yes? I’m going to bed.”
She disappeared upstairs, and pretty soon Jeff and I were back in the home theater in the basement. We stayed down there long after the movie ended.