I’m intimidated that two of Epstein’s best friends are dinner-party-throwing girls, but as soon as Ramona opens the door, I feel better. It’s superficial, but I’m happy that while Ramona has a very pretty face, she’s short and pear-shaped. Even though I’ve never seen any pictures of Epstein’s other girlfriends, I can tell that she’s not his type. I can’t take my eyes off Holden, though. I’ve never seen anyone quite like him. He’s very tall with shaggy hair, a prominent Adam’s apple, insanely tight velvety pants, and a “Free Pussy Riot!” T-shirt.
“Finally,” he says to Epstein as Ramona hangs up our coats. “We’ve been waiting to meet you. For. Like. Ever.” He smiles at me.
“Hi” is all I can think of to say, because even though there are LGBTQ students at Washington Lincoln, they mostly hang out with one another except on Coming Out Day, when they rainbow-sticker everything and hand out buttons. Except in movies with terrible gay stereotypes, I’ve never heard anyone actually talk like Holden. But there’s something about Holden—not just his swishy voice, but his entire style—that’s captivating.
Ramona smiles. “I’m Ramona. It’s nice to meet you, Amelia.” I notice that she looks me right in the eyes.
“Thanks for having me over,” I say, looking around. From what I can see Ramona’s apartment is twice the size of Epstein’s. My amazement must be obvious because Holden says, “Classic six,” as we follow Ramona down the hall.
“Huh?”
“A classic six is a living room, dining room, kitchen, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a maid’s room,” Epstein explains. “It’s a classic six apartment. Except this is a supernice classic six.”
“Mo’s loaded,” Holden tells me. “Because her daddy is the vice president of a soul-sucking bank with an ATM on every corner.”
“Shut up, Holden,” Ramona says. “It’s tacky to talk about money. Besides, the soul-sucking bank lets you hang out on Martha’s Vineyard every summer.”
“True that,” Holden says.
We follow Ramona into the kitchen, where Chloe is taking a pan out of the oven.
“Lo, this is Amelia,” Epstein says, grabbing a piece of bread off the tray.
“Hey,” Chloe says, fake-slapping Epstein’s hand. “I’m making bruschetta. It’s nice to meet you, Amelia.” Chloe is as tall as Epstein with long brown hair pulled over to one side. She’s thin and pale with dark brown hair and bangs that have a slight Zooey Deschanel in (500) Days of Summer vibe. She has a very angular face and largish feet and hands. Even though she’s wearing a black dress and pearl necklace, she doesn’t look that dressed up.
“I need a drink,” Holden says. “I’m pathologically depressed. Where’s the vino?”
Even though I just met Holden, I can tell he’s just being dramatic.
“Nothing good, Holden,” Ramona tells him as he opens a clear fridge that’s actually built into the wall.
“Remember that time we drank that, like, five-hundred-dollar bottle?” Chloe laughs.
Ramona shakes her head. “It wasn’t funny. I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“Is this okay?” Holden pulls out a bottle of wine. “It’s from the middle shelf.”
“Google it. If it’s more than fifty dollars, no way.”
Drinking wine on the Upper West Side with kids named Ramona, Holden, and Chloe makes me feel like I’m in a Wes Anderson movie.
I just wish I liked it. But the wine tastes like wine—bitter and kind of gross. The bruschetta is good, though, and I compliment Chloe.
“Chloe is an amazing cook,” Epstein tells me.
“I’m impressed,” I say. “Me and my friends never cook anything. Unless you count frozen pizza or nachos.”
“Your parents have an awesome restaurant, though,” Epstein says.
“Yeah, I guess.” Ginger’s just seems cute and country compared to wine-drinking in a classic six.
Holden puts his iPhone on the impeccable marble counter in dramatic disgust. “New York men are awful,” he says. “They’re so faggy.”
“Try dating.” Chloe sets the timer on her phone. “Instead of Grindr-ing your way through the boroughs, you slut.”
“I do not do Queens,” Holden says indignantly.
Everyone laughs, but since I feel like they’re speaking a different language I just smile. Epstein smiles at me and I remember that about an hour ago his penis was in my vagina. And he said he loves me and that I was his girlfriend!
“It’ll be different in San Francisco.” Holden gets up and twirls Chloe around. When he dips her, oven mitt still on her hand, we all clap and I really feel like I’m in a play.
“You’re going to San Francisco?” I ask.
“That’s their grand plan,” Epstein tells me.
“My parents made me apply to Berkeley,” Chloe says. “Because that’s where they met and fell in love blah blah. But I won’t get in. And if I do, I’m not going.”
“Chloe wants to be Alice Waters,” Ramona tells me.
“I don’t need to be her,” Chloe says. “I just want to learn from her. Or Dan Barber.”
I make a note to Google Alice Waters and Dan Barber.
“I’m going to royally disappoint my parents, who’ve spent a million dollars educating me, and take classes at the California College of Arts,” Holden tells me. “I can’t wait to sit around and make tie-dye and macramé all day. That and get to know lots of Cali boys.”
“You’re a junior, right, Amelia?” Ramona asks.
“Yeah.” I think about my brother. He’s the same age as Epstein and his friends, but he barely talks about college. Even Holden, who just wants to have sex and make tie-dye, seems to have a plan. Don’t stress about it, I tell myself. It’s typical Toby. He’ll probably kill it at community college and then transfer to Harvard or somewhere amazing.
When Chloe announces that dinner is ready, we follow her into a huge dining room with incredibly high ceilings, where a long black table is set with black square plates on top of green place mats. The whole thing looks like something out of a cooking magazine, and the rest of the night passes in a delicious food-eating, Holden-making-me-laugh blur. After dinner, when Ramona and Chloe go to prepare some kind of chocolate soufflé, Holden announces to Epstein that he’s stealing me.
“Come, darling,” he says, touching me by my elbow.
I get up and follow him. “You should be in the movies,” I tell him. “You’re so funny.”
“I know,” he says seriously as we walk into the living room, where there’s a big liquor cabinet. “I’ll be the next Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson in a summer action flick coming to theaters near you.”
“You’d be a good documentary,” I say randomly. “I’d just follow you around all day.” I think about Abdi filming Toast and the emo kids at Smoker’s Gate.
“It’ll be the next March of the Penguins,” he says dryly.
“The second-highest-grossing documentary of all time.”
Holden stares at me. “Epstein did say you knew a lot about movies.”
“A lot of stupid trivia about them.”
“What do people drink with soufflé? Port? Brandy?”
“Sounds good to me,” I say, even though I have no idea. I’m starting to feel warm so I take my sweater off and throw it onto the white couch. “In my house, a white couch would be trashed in seconds.”
“You’re telling me, Easter Bunny. On the Vineyard, Mo’s parents had a white party and everything they served was white. You couldn’t get a decent glass of red for a million bucks.”
“How long have you been friends with my boyfriend?” I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving saying “boyfriend.”
“Since we were wee threes,” Holden says in a British accent.
“Really? Three?”
“We were best buds in the Rodeph Sholom School Threes class.”
“Epstein must have been so cute at three.”
“Adorbs. We had a good thing with the blocks and trains, but Isaac Steinberg arrived in pre-K and there was a bit of a setback with the Holden-Epstein world domination agenda.”
“Wow. Isaac Steinberg, who would’ve thunk it?”
“It was all resolved by first grade. FYI, Isaac Steinberg moved to Westchester and, according to Fakebook, he’s a BMW-driving douche who goes to Solomon Schechter.”
“Thank goodness for you.”
“Despite his embarrassing passion for jam bands, he’s a good guy,” Holden says seriously. “A great guy. He was the first person I came out to. Even before my parents. Not that the world didn’t see the neon ‘faggot’ sign radiating on my forehead.” He picks up a dark bottle of liquor. “Epstein said all the right things, of course. Equal rights, use a condom, blah blah blah. But then he went and did all this research about the history of gay men. Stonewall. Harvey Milk. Barney Frank. Tim Cook. Anderson Cooper. The whole shebang. The kid went to an actual library!”
“Wow.”
“It was sweet for a straight thirteen-year-old. To this day he knows more gay men than I do. I mean he knows the names of famous, historical gay men. A bunch of those Greek philosophers. He doesn’t actually know gay men, Toots.”
“I knew what you meant.”
Holden takes two big bottles and some tiny glasses, tells me he’ll go mix us up something delish, and disappears.
I sink into the white couch.
“Here you are,” Epstein says, entering the living room. “You okay? You didn’t reappear with Holden.”
“Yeah.” I smile. “I’m great.”
“My friends really like you.”
“I really like your friends. Holden is a movie star. But they’re all great. You’re great. Everyone is great.”
We start kissing on the couch. It’s nice but all I can think about is the white party and how sperm is white and I wonder if it would blend into the couch. But we don’t get that far.
“We shouldn’t do this,” Epstein says.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s rude.”
“I think I know somewhere a little more private.” Epstein stands up and I follow him down the hall to a small room at the far end.
I shouldn’t advocate this, but ditching out on the party makes sex more fun. The only awkwardness is when Epstein tries to get me to move left and I roll right and his penis slides out. But then we put it back in and it feels pretty good except for a little bit of soreness.
The next thing I know I hear Holden sing from outside the door, “Le soufflé est né, Lapins de Pâques.”
“What is he saying?” I ask Epstein.
He smiles. “I think he’s saying: ‘The soufflé is born, Easter Bunnies.’”
I thought I might feel embarrassed seeing Epstein’s friends after disappearing to have sex, but they treat me like I’ve been sitting there all night. And, right in the grand dining room, they’re smoking a joint! So I guess city and country, some things are the same after all.
By the time we get back to Epstein’s at 3:00 AM, I’m exhausted. Without bothering to brush our teeth or discuss it, we tiptoe into the guest room, take off our clothes, and fall asleep in a completely entwined, movie-version way.
At 6:00 AM my phone buzzes. I open one eye, then close it and fall back asleep. At 6:15 it buzzes again. I look at Epstein, whose mouth is slightly ajar. My body aches and my head hurts.
At 7:00, there’s a knock on the door.
“Amelia,” Isabelle says, softly.
“Yeah?” My voice sounds thick and gravelly.
“Amelia. The phone is for you.” She sounds tired and worried.
I get out of bed, put on my jeans without any underwear and Epstein’s Brooklyn sweatshirt, and open the door.
If Isabelle notices Epstein she doesn’t say anything. She hands me the phone. “It’s your grandmother.”
Grandma? Calling Epstein’s apartment? I take the phone. “Hello?”
“Amelia,” my grandmother says quickly, “I’m sorry to bother you, honey. I left messages on your cell, but . . . Can you come home?”
“Of course, Grandma. What’s wrong? What happened?” My heart is racing and I’m having trouble taking deep enough breaths.
“It’s your brother. It’s Toby. He’s in the hospital. Something happened, honey. You should probably get home.”