“No.”
“Huh. I thought he told everybody. One time last winter, a whole bunch of us went to Park City to snowboard, and Amir met a group of tourists and told them every detail of our tortured relationship, even though we’d already broken up by that point. And then he pleaded with me all night to go into the sauna with him.”
Bree wrinkled her nose. That didn’t sound like Amir at all.
Crystal shook her head. “I know. Hello? Saunas are so germy. Nobody goes into them except old gay men.”
“Saunas are fine, Crystal,” Naomi contradicted from her closet. “Zane went in the sauna on that trip.”
Crystal blushed and drew in her bottom lip. “Anyway,” she whispered to Bree. “Where were we? Oh. Zane. So, what do you think?”
“Well, I guess...” Bree began. She sort of wanted to ask, Will me flirting with him freak Zane out? But maybe that was an Old Bree question. And he had touched New Bree’s back...
“What are you talking about?” Naomi demanded, stepping out of her closet.
“Nothing!” Bree and Crystal responded in unison.
“Cool,” Crystal continued, turning back to Bree. “It’ll be fun. Zane’s sweet. And it’ll all be over soon.”
Bree bit her lip. Not too soon, she hoped.
21
A few minutes later, after the rain cleared and the late-summer sky began to turn a faded orange, students walked in cliquish groups from their dorms to the dining hall, and Naomi strode down the stone path toward Bridgeport’s front office. A crisp wind suddenly lifted the edges of her sheer silk Hermès scarf, which made Naomi think of winter. Most kids hated winter at Bridgeport, because you were stuck indoors and there was nothing to do except watch old films at the library and go to class. But Naomi loved it. The dorm mistresses lit fires in the common rooms, and the teachers canceled classes on the first day of snow. By four it was already dark, and she and Crystal would drink spiked hot cocoa while they gossiped about their latest crushes. Naomi was pretty sure she wasn’t going to be drinking cocoa with Crystal this winter—they were barely talking—but maybe she’d have someone else to drink cocoa with. Naked.
As she sidestepped a couple of fat brown squirrels fighting over a Cheeto, Naomi’s cell phone beeped with a text message. Sorry we got cut off before, it said. Luv you, Sissy!
Naomi quickly called Noelle back and got her voicemail. “I’m about to go out to dinner with a Dalton,” she whispered delightedly into her phone. “Be jealous. Be very jealous.” Then she pressed end.
Naomi entered the front office, a giddy, sour feeling festering in the pit of her stomach. The lobby was empty, and The New Yorker, The Economist, and National Geographic were arranged neatly on the huge teak coffee table. A classical symphony was playing over the stereo. The old cherry floors squeaked under her three-inch black Jimmy Choo boots as Naomi approached the fiftyish front desk attendant, Mrs. Tullington.
“I need a pass for the night,” Naomi said casually. And, because you always needed an appropriate reason: “I’m accompanying my uncle to a silent auction of ancient Russian artifacts in Hudson.”
Naomi knew that a lie sounded more convincing when you threw in a whole bunch of ridiculous details.
Mrs. Tullington eyed Naomi over her tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. The wrinkles around her mouth puckered in disapproval. Naomi wore a black, slit-down-the-side Armani skirt. Her MAC-painted lips were bright red, her dark arms were bare, and the V in her black silk shell top was so low you could almost see her black lace bra.
Finally Mrs. T. wrote out the pass. “Enjoy the artifacts,” she said primly. “And your uncle. Nice that you girls stay close with family.”
The thing was, if Mrs. T had bothered to look out the building’s bay window, she would have seen Naomi get into a hunter green '57 Jaguar—a car that most definitely did not belong to Naomi’s uncle, a fortyish out-of-work-actor-slash-personal-trainer who worked out flabby new moms at the Body Electric gym in New Jersey. Eric wore dark blue pressed True Religion jeans and a crisp tucked-in white button-down. Naomi covered her knees with her skirt, feeling slightly overdressed.
“You look nice.” Eric grinned, gripping the gearshift sexily.
“Oh. Thanks.”
A Sade song played on the CD player. The windows were down, and a cool late-summer breeze wafted in. As they swept down Bridgeport’s front hill past the practice fields, Naomi felt a sudden, disorienting thrill. Maybe they were leaving the school for good—and never coming back. Suckers. She thought about everyone else sitting down to dinner right now at the dining hall. On Thursdays it was pasta with watery tomato sauce and nasty fried chicken.
She snuck a peek at Eric’s profile—his slightly upturned nose and perfect, just-stubbly-enough jaw—and then stared down at the platinum-engraved gate-link bracelet he wore on his right wrist. It seemed like something a girl might have given him.
“It’s my great-great grandfather’s,” he explained, noticing her stare. He jiggled the bracelet around his wrist. “Like it?”
“Yes,” she answered breathlessly. The bracelet was practically an American treasure. “It’s beautiful.”
They drove out of Bridgeport territory and into town, essentially one main street with quaint little wrought-iron street lamps, an art store, a florist, a barbershop with the swirly pole, and a few brick Federal-style houses. Naomi figured they were going to Le Petit Coq. It was the place that your family always dragged you to during Parents’ Weekend because it was haughty and French and the only place for miles that served foie gras. But the Jag breezed right by without slowing down. It sped by the strip mall just outside of town, past McDonald’s and the cineplex, too.
“I guess I should’ve asked.” Eric turned to Naomi. “How late did you sign out for?”
“Midnight,” Naomi said. It was six o’clock now.
Eric smiled. “That gives us six hours.”
He pulled into a spacious parking lot, drove through an alley, and then swung around a large, concrete squat building. It was the Bridgeport airport, the place she’d flown into on her parents’ small plane a couple of days ago. On the runway sat a perky little helicopter. A man in a green bomber jacket and a Boston Red Sox ball cap stood chewing on an unlit cigar on the runway beside it. He waved and Eric waved back.
“Where are we going?” Naomi demanded. Her heart beat quickly. She didn’t know what to expect, but she knew enough to be excited. If this outing involved an airplane—she couldn’t imagine where they might go. Holy fucking shit!
Eric shut off the car’s engine. “I was thinking maybe we could get something better than the dinner special at Le Petit Coq.”
“Going to Lindisfarne?” the guy in the bomber called.
“That’s right,” Eric called back.
Of course. They were going to his family’s estate in Newport. Naomi could hardly contain herself. This was like that cheesy movie, The Princess Diaries. Except she was way cooler than that mousy Anne Hathaway, and he was a Dalton!
Naomi had only seen Lindisfarne on the E! True Hollywood special, so when the Piper Cub touched down on the property’s runway, a glittery, unreal feeling washed over her. The oceanfront mansion was an ivy-covered stone castle, with towers and a moat and everything. She even remembered from the E! special that rare swans swam in the moat surrounding the mansion instead of alligators, although Naomi didn’t see swans now. Maybe they were sleeping. And as she stepped off the plane onto the spongy, perfectly manicured lawn, even the salty ocean air felt regal. It took Naomi and Eric nearly ten minutes to walk from the landing strip to the manor. They were greeted by the groundskeeper’s friendly yellow lab, Mouse, before he was called off by his owner in the distance, who waved at Eric.
First Eric showed her around the property, taking her into the house through one of the heavy dark oak front doors and into the French room, which was round, with a high ceiling and white scalloped detailing. Naomi could barely breathe. Everything in her life that might come after th
is moment—say, getting into any Ivy League school or moving into a Tribeca loft or meeting the president of France—would pale in comparison to standing in the stately blue French room, admiring the large, blurry Monets on the walls.
Naomi was so overwhelmed, she could barely focus as he led her from room to room. Then he guided her back outside to the guest house, a weathered green cottage with a huge back deck and wooden stairs to the ocean. Most guest houses consisted of a bedroom and a small living space. The Lindsfarne guest house was nearly the size of Naomi’s parents’ not-at-all-small house. Inside, Naomi sat in an oversized chintz sofa, gazing at the white walls as Eric fussed around in the kitchen. If the Daltons had staff—and she was sure they had many—they certainly knew when to leave the members of the family alone.
Eric expertly poured wine into both of their oversized glasses. He didn’t seem to care that Naomi was blatantly underage. “This is where I live, mostly, when I’m here,” he explained, swirling the wine in his glass as they stepped outside onto the wraparound wooden deck.
Only a few feet away, waves crashed against the rocks. Naomi took a big gulp of wine. What a life.
“So,” Eric began. “Naomi Peterson. What are you all about?”
He looked at her not in that way adults do when they think you’re a silly teenager who may grow up and be somebody serious. Instead, he looked at her intensely, as if she really mattered. Naomi took a sip of wine, desperately trying to think of a brilliant but brief answer. Who was Naomi Peterson?
“Well, I like poetry,” she replied, and then wanted to smack herself for sounding like a stupid, lame, immature student.
“Really?” he asked, biting his lip as if to say, That really wasn’t what I wanted to know. “What else? Tell me something about your family.”
“My family?” she gulped, the words seizing up in her throat. It was probably the worst question Eric could ask. She felt her cheeks turning hot. “I don’t really like to talk about them.”
“Why?” He took a sip of wine. “Can I venture a guess?”
She shrugged. “Go for it.” She hoped she seemed unruffled, even though she was freaking out inside.
“Your parents treat you like a princess. You’re spoiled rotten.”
Naomi took another big sip of wine. “I suppose,” she said warily. “Aren’t you?”
Eric smiled. “I suppose.”
“But to answer your question, yes, I was spoiled,” Naomi began. Her fake family story about living on an organic farm in East Hampton and throwing benefits for endangered birds sat on tip of her tongue, ready, but she stopped. Something about the way Eric was looking at her made her feel like maybe she could tell him the truth, as embarrassing as it was. She was filled with a sense of calm. “My parents’ house...my mother modeled it after the Versace mansion,” she began slowly. “Except it’s in...well, Rumson, New Jersey.”
“I know Rumson,” Eric cut in. “I sailed by there a couple of times. It looks like a nice place to grow up.”
Naomi eyed him carefully. He didn’t seem to be making fun of her. She took another sip of wine and then a big breath.
“You’ve probably seen my parents’ house, then,” she went on. “It’s the biggest one on the shore. My parents are kind of like the Sopranos. You know how they’re all dripping with money but just use it in really stupid ways? That’s them. Except they’re legal. And have less taste, if that’s possible.”
“So your mother’s favorite pattern is leopard print?” Eric goaded.
“Oh, much worse. Zebra. On everything. Stretch pants. Socks. Bar stools. It’s gross. My sister—she’s a fashion editor— has threatened many times to split from our family.”
Eric chuckled. “My mother likes paisleys. They look like little sperms.”
“Ew!” Naomi squealed.
She felt dizzy, although she’d had less than a glass of wine. Talking about her parents with Eric didn’t feel weird at all. She wondered why she’d thought, all these years, that things would be better if she had a normal-size grey-shingled house and a couple of Toyotas instead of twin gold Hummers with matching zebra-print leather interiors and big gold P’s (for Peterson) embroidered on the headrests. Opening up this much was infectious. She wanted to keep going.
“My mother wears pink diamonds and eats only chocolate and Zoloft, and has seven teensy, tiny Teacup Chihuahuas with matching zebra collars. She carries them everywhere. And my dad, he’s a plastic surgeon.” It all came rushing out of Naomi. She couldn’t believe the things she was telling Eric.
“Really.” Eric rested his chin on the heel of his hand. “Tell me more.”
“Okay,” she continued eagerly. “Sometimes at dinner Dad has these famous clients over, and they talk about really disgusting things. Like what their boobs looked like before the surgery. And what happens to all of the fat that they suck out of people.” She felt liberated. It was like skinny-dipping.
Eric leaned forward. “So what do they do with it?”
“They use cells from it,” she whispered. “You know, for research.”
“From fat?” he whispered back, sounding sort of appalled.
She nodded. “Well, um, yeah, but sometimes they just throw it away.”
He leaned back and looked at her carefully with a bemused grin on his face. “God, that’s refreshing.”
“Refreshing?”
He shifted in his seat and stared out at the water. A small, graceful white sailboat bobbed out in front of the guest house, maybe 500 feet from the shore. “Everyone’s always trying to talk themselves up—even the kids at Bridgeport, who are a lot more privileged than most. I mean, nobody is just honest about who they are and who their family is. Who cares if your dad won the Nobel Prize or if he sucked fat out of some Jersey woman’s ass? What does that have to do with you?”
She stared at him. “Yeah,” she agreed. “It’s so true.”
He stared back at her. “You’re different,” he concluded.
Naomi met his gaze, and everything inside her felt like it was about to explode. “Will you excuse me?” She cleared her throat. “I have to make a phone call.”
“Sure.” Eric tipped his chair back and, as she stood, he ever so lightly touched her left hip. She paused for a second as her hair dipped into her eyes. His hand lingered there. Then a grandfather clock from some far-off room sounded and he pulled away.
She stepped out onto the dewy grass, lit a cigarette, and teetered up the steps of a wooden gazebo surrounded by lilacs. She breathed in the sweet scent, willing herself not to lose her nerve. She dialed, and after a single ring, Corey’s voicemail picked up. “Yo, I’m not hee-ah. Leave a message!” Beep.
“It’s Naomi,” she blurted hoarsely, seething at the sound of his thuggish recording. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore. So, um, don’t stay around for the Black Saturday party after the game. I can’t explain right now, but it’s what I want. I’m, um, really sorry. Bye.”
Naomi stepped back onto the grass. Eric had wandered out of the house and was absentmindedly swirling cognac in a glass, his dark jeans rolled up to his knees. The vast sky was dark and purple, and tiny lights twinkled out on the water. She could hear waves lapping on the shore and the gentle groan of a far-off foghorn.
“Everything all right?” he asked, grabbing her cigarette to take a drag.
She nodded. Then, wordlessly, he pointed out to the green twinkly light in the middle of the sound.
“That’s my boat. I don’t have class on Fridays, so I was thinking of sailing it up to Bridgeport.”
“I like the little green light,” Naomi mused. “It reminds me of The Great Gatsby—you know, when Gatsby would look out to Daisy’s dock for the light to be on?”
“Sure,” he said. “Maybe I’ll have to leave the light on sometimes when I dock at school.”
Naomi tried not to smile. “Who do you think will be looking for it?” she asked. But from the look on his face, Naomi suspected he meant it for one very special
girl from Rumson, New Jersey.
22
Portraiture class met only twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays, and Bree had been eagerly anticipating the first class of the year. Bridgeport had a stellar art program and a glass-walled riverfront gallery with student-curated public shows. Often student pieces even sold for surprising sums. Normally you had to submit work to be accepted to portraiture class, but since Bree had been admitted to Bridgeport on the strength of her art portfolio, she’d been allowed into the class her first semester. Art was her favorite subject and she couldn’t wait to smell the paint and lose herself in the process of making something new.
And yes, seeing Zane Taylor would be pretty exciting too. Especially now that she had permission to flirt with him!
The class was in a building called Jameson House, a rambling country cottage with blue clapboard siding, a stone chimney, and a clothesline outside made of tie-dyed American flags from one of last year’s fabric-making projects. Inside, the unfinished floors creaked, and all sorts of random drawings and half-finished color studies were pinned up to the whitewashed wall. The four giant rooms smelled like turpentine, aerosol fixative, and wet clay. Bree stood inside, breathing it in.
“Welcome, welcome,” called Mrs. Silver, her art teacher. She was doughy and huggable, with gray hair piled on the top of her head in an enormous messy bun. She wore a whole bunch of bangle bracelets on her left wrist, giant oversized green and yellow striped overalls, and an extra-large tie-dyed T-shirt she’d definitely made herself.
The room had sloping ceilings, slanted art desks, and a wall of cathedral-size windows pouring in light. Mrs. Silver’s desk was a mess of paintbrushes, old leaded glass bottles, little aromatherapy vials, thick art books, yoga flash cards, and a two-liter jug of Mountain Dew. Mrs. Silver was messier than Bree’s father. She bet the two of them would really hit it off.
“Oh, Zane!” Mrs. Silver called. “I’m so happy to see you! Did you have a lovely summer?”
Bree turned. Zane Taylor strode up to Mrs. Silver and kissed her tenderly on her cheek. Today his Bridgeport jacket was slung over his arm, and he wore a mustard-yellow T-shirt with frayed edges and Levi’s that fit his long legs perfectly. His curly hair was all over the place, and Bree noticed that a little yellow maple leaf was tucked behind his right ear.
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