Cool for the Summer

by Dahlia Adler

  “I hear that,” I say, even though it’s generally the opposite of my philosophy. “Did you know that about each other when you started dating? And how did you two start dating, anyway?”

  It’s not the smoothest transition, but it’s not hard to get Jamie to talk about Taylor. I’ve asked her about her weekend most Monday mornings, and for most of the last six months, Taylor’s factored somewhere into her answer. “They took someone’s spot in our weekly DnD game, and after a couple of weeks of crushing on them, I just … gave them a set of nonbinary dice I saw online and that was it. Probably the gutsiest dating move I’ve ever made, honestly.”

  It is, but that’s not the part I’m focused on. “But there was no, like … question of whether…” I trail off, unsure how to phrase the rest.

  “I was already out as bi, and they were out as pan and nonbinary, if that’s what you mean. Not that it has to mean they were attracted to me, but I knew I wasn’t ruled out or anything.”

  “Yeah, that,” I say, grateful she knew what I was going for, even as her answer makes my cheeks feel hot. “So, you’ve been out for a long time?” She’s been out the whole time I’ve known her, but she only moved to Stratford from Connecticut two years ago.

  “Oh, yeah. Since, like, fifth grade. And even then, it’s not like I really needed to come out. My room was a shrine to Wonder Woman and I don’t even read comics.” She grins. “Wasn’t tough for my mom and stepdad to read between the lines.”

  “And Taylor?”

  “Pretty much the same. They introduced themselves with their pronouns the instant we met, so I’ve never known them to ID as anything else.”

  Well, that was lovely for the two of them, but not particularly helpful for me.

  Or maybe it is. Maybe this is making clear that I’m blowing things way out of proportion. If being bi means always knowing, well, that isn’t me. The only girls on my bedroom walls are my friends, and I’m certainly not into any of them that way.

  That settles it. I’m straight. Just like I always thought.

  I wait for the feeling of a weight lifting from my shoulders, but it never comes.

  Chapter Seventeen

  NOW

  “Who has the highlighter?”

  I pass the compact to Gia and get back to focusing on my eyebrows, which, despite having been waxed the day before, look like they could use another pluck or twelve. Or maybe they’re overplucked. I can’t keep up with eyebrow fashion.

  “The liquid, not the powder,” Gia says impatiently, and I shrug. Homecoming has arrived way too fast, and despite having a great dress with an awesomely poufy tulle skirt and enough sequins in the bodice to put the night sky to shame, I’m having an impossible time getting excited for the primping portion of the evening.

  “Here, here.” Kiki hands her the bottle and shoves me gently out of the way so she can examine her earring options in the mirror. “Which ones do you guys like better?”

  I scrutinize her lobes. Kiki almost never swaps out the pearl studs her parents gave her for her seventeenth birthday, so it takes a second to adjust to anything sparkly in them. “The dangly ones are definitely more interesting, but the diamond studs are classy.”

  “Okay, so do I wanna be interesting or classy?” she asks, turning her head from side to side.

  “You’re always interesting,” Shannon says sweetly. “Maybe try classy for once.”

  The rest of us crack up at her burn, including Kiki. “Better not mess with what’s already working for me,” she says, taking out the diamond and handing it to Shannon. “Classy is boring.”

  Shannon puts the studs back in her jewelry box, this massive antique thing her parents bought her for getting a five on the AP U.S. History exam. Half her room is filled with little trophies like that—a Kate Spade bag for her first all-A report card, a fancy ballerina painting for landing the principal role in her fifth-grade recital, a pair of Louboutins from when her team came in first in Model UN. To her credit, Shannon always shares—diamond studs, pricey makeup, and even the fancy barrette I’m wearing to hold my curls off my face.

  “I bet your date will look classy,” Shannon says, sweeping a minuscule clump of mascara from her otherwise perfect lashes.

  I snort. “By date do you mean the podcast app on her phone?”

  The other three girls exchange glances. “Pretty sure she means her actual date,” says Gia, carefully rubbing the liquid highlighter onto her browbones.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I cross my arms over my chest, the pink sequins that cover the strapless bodice digging into my skin. “Since when do you, Akiko Takayama, have a date? And how am I only hearing this five seconds before we get into the limo?”

  “It’s no big deal, drama queen,” she says with a snort. “I’m going with Jasmine.”

  Hmm, I thought my hearing was OK, but it’s clear something is malfunctioning, because there’s no way that I was just informed on the night of the dance that Jasmine Killary is going to be in my limo as one of my best friends’ dates. “I’m sorry, you’re going with who?”

  There’s a collective whoosh of air intake as both Shannon and Gia suck in their breath. “Wow, Lar,” says Gia, flicking an imaginary piece of dust from her silver cocktail dress, “it’s the twenty-first century. This is really not a big deal.”

  It takes me a few seconds to realize that Gia fucking Peretti is giving me a lecture on homophobia, and this is all so twisted and ridiculous that I could die. Next to her, Shannon is shaking her head in similar disbelief and it takes everything in me not to scream.

  How is this my life?

  I exhale sharply and clap my hands together. “Okay, let’s try this again. Kiki! I am very happy for you that you have a date! And it’s cool that it’s a girl! I just don’t understand how the fact that you have a date—of any gender—somehow did not come up before now. With me, at least.”

  She shrugs. “It was kind of last minute, but she wasn’t going with anyone, and I was gonna be seventh-wheeling with you guys anyway, so.”

  “Great,” I manage through gritted teeth.

  Mercifully, the doorbell cuts through the tension filling the room and Gia squeals, effectively ending any conversation. We each take one last look at ourselves—and do one last lip gloss application—before heading out to the staircase to let our dates fully appreciate our glamorous descent.

  “We’re going as friends,” Kiki murmurs just loud enough for me to hear, and I catch the flash of her smirk as she passes me so she can be the first to walk down.

  Her words slash sharp and hot at my insides as the layers of her statement hit me.

  Layer one: Kiki absolutely knows about my feelings for Jasmine, and maybe even knows about our history.

  Layer two: Kiki put herself out there as queer to test the waters and wanted me to see that Shannon and Gia passed with flying colors.

  But Kiki doesn’t know about the party, the song, how Jasmine basically told me to fuck off in front of an entire room. She doesn’t know how much deeper I got in with Chase. She’s clearly more of a romantic than I thought, or at least a better friend, but even Stratford’s greatest detective is missing some pretty important pieces to this case, and there’s no filling them in now.

  Especially when I reach the top of the stairs and see Jasmine standing at the bottom.

  She looks … radiant. There’s no other word for it. She’s wearing a two-piece dress that’s all glittering gold on top and matte on the bottom, short enough to show off long legs that glimmer with a little bit of that lotion I love. She’s wearing a fancier set of gold bangles than usual and they match the earrings that march up her lobes. Even her eyes look like liquid gold, lined with kohl. It feels like someone has reached into my chest and squeezed the shit out of my heart and I have to stop staring at her, but I can’t.

  Not until I hear “There’s my girl!” in Chase’s affectionate voice and it’s like someone’s dumped a bucket of Gatorade over my head and drawn latte art with my internal
organs.

  Does that even make sense? I don’t know. Nothing does.

  I force myself down the stairs in my silver platform heels and take the hands he extends, accepting the kiss he drops delicately on my cheek so as not to mess up my makeup. With every move he makes you can tell he’s done this before—been the handsome guy picking up his beautiful date who’s told him not to muss anything before pictures. But that knowledge doesn’t affect me and I don’t know if it’s because I’m aware of who he’s dated in the past, or because I feel strangely numb as everything moves around me.

  We pose for pictures—in a group of eight, in our quartet, in couples. I make a point not to watch Kiki and Jasmine take their photos, but when I sneak glances, it’s clear that Kiki was telling the truth. Jasmine doesn’t put her arms around Kiki the way Chase does to me, and they don’t take classic shots of one of them gazing into the other’s eyes, though maybe that’s because they’re the same height.

  I don’t know if Jasmine tells Kiki she looks beautiful the way Chase tells me I do, though Kiki definitely does look beautiful in her gothic gown with its corset bodice, and I’m jealous even though it’s stupid. But there are a thousand pictures of me and Jasmine together from this past summer—selfies on the beach and pictures taken by Keisha at parties and portraits forced by Declan and Mom before events where our presences were requested. It feels like we should take one for them, at least. Except, of course, no one knows how closely our parents work together.

  “Everything OK?” Chase murmurs, his hand warm through my thin dress, and I assure him that it is without even having to think about it.

  It’s Homecoming. I’m Chase Harding’s date. How could it not be?

  Everyone piles into the limo, and Chase immediately pulls me close. Part of me is happy to let him, and part of me wants to claw my way out and end this night before it even begins. I hate that I feel this way on a night that should be one of the best of my life, especially since I have a weirdly good chance of being named Homecoming Queen, but I hate so many things about how I feel lately. This is just one more on the pile.

  “Time to open that champagne!” Lucas whoops, and suddenly there’s foam everywhere and everyone’s laughing and a bottle is being passed around. I don’t want any, but that doesn’t stop me from drinking when it comes my way, and it’s so nice to have something occupying me that I take an extra sip. And then another. And another.

  “Save some for the rest of us, Mrs. Harding!” Shannon yells, and everyone cracks up, even Chase. I try to smile, but the name makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Even Jasmine’s laughing. How is Jasmine laughing?

  I pass the bottle along and now I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I take one of Chase’s and twine my fingers with his. I know in my heart that he’s warm and safe, but it’s not translating, no matter how much I squeeze. Even when he kisses the top of my head.

  “You excited to watch your boyfriend win Homecoming King?” Jasmine asks, and everyone else cheers while Chase hangs his head modestly.

  “Are you kidding?” Apparently, Gia’s had some champagne too. “This is literally Lara’s dream come true. Like, literally.”

  I shoot daggers at her with my eyes, but she’s completely oblivious, as is everyone else.

  “Who knew so many years fangirling on the sidelines would pay off?” Shannon says innocently, and then giggles like she’s had too much to drink, even though the bottle hasn’t reached her yet. Gia and Jasmine join her, even though I know—I know—I never talked to Jasmine about that, which means Shannon has. How much time have they spent laughing at me behind my back? What kinds of friends do that?

  Chase squeezes my hand and tells them to shut up and pass the champagne. He’s trying to be kind, but I don’t want it. I don’t want any of this. I just want to climb through the sunroof and run home to my mom, leaving my stupid heels in the dirt.

  Every glimpse I catch of Jasmine hurts my heart and feels like the worst betrayal, worse than Shannon, even, because she knew me in a way Shan never has, and because for everything I love about Shannon, I never expect more from her than this. She’s there when I’m in need, when shit hits the fan. That’s not nothing, but it isn’t what I got from Jasmine. She doesn’t open my eyes to different ways of looking at things. She doesn’t make me feel like the best version of myself. She doesn’t make me feel like I can do anything, like I don’t just matter, but am in fact significant.

  How did the girl who was once my biggest cheerleader become … this?

  Chapter Eighteen

  THEN

  The seafood boil on the beach was such a success that Brea decided to have a smaller one for her birthday a couple of weeks later. I’m about to reply to our group text with a “Can’t wait!” when Jasmine beats me to answering. So sorry, Brea—going to my mom’s that wknd.

  Immediately the chain floods with boooo and we’ll miss you! But my fingers stay still. I’d never spent an evening out with everyone minus Jasmine. I’m not afraid I can’t handle it—I’d definitely become friends with everyone in my own right—but … everything sounds like less fun without her there.

  I open our private text thread, which is mostly full of be there in 5 and do you have my blue nail polish? and start to tap out a message, but what do I even say? I’ll miss you feels silly; I can say that on the group text like everyone else. I didn’t know you were going away for the weekend is way too clingy.

  While I’m thinking it over, a message pops up. For a second I panic that I’d written something without even realizing it, but no, this message from Jasmine is completely unprompted.

  Jasmine: Hey, I know this is really random, but if you’re up for it, I could use a friend when I go see my mom this weekend.

  A follow-up: no pressure, followed by a nonsensical string of emojis.

  The rush of certainty that yes, I do want to go with Jasmine to see her mom, hits like frappuccino-induced brain freeze. Sure, sounds fun, I write back.

  Jasmine: Just a warning

  Jasmine: She’s very into Shabbat dinner.

  Jasmine: Hope you like lentil soup and tamarind in everything.

  Lara: I have no idea what tamarind is, but if it’s anything like crawfish, I can handle it. I tack on a strong-arm emoji.

  She sends back a laugh-cry one. It’s not. But you can handle it.

  * * *

  I probably can handle tamarind, but meeting Sylvia Halabi is … a lot. In the very best way.

  “Come in, come in,” she ushers us, her voice as low and melodious as Jasmine’s imitation of it. She gives Jasmine a big, dramatic kiss on each cheek, turns and does the same to me. “It’s so nice to meet the famous Larissa!”

  Famous, huh? The idea that Jasmine’s mentioned me to her mom—more than once—makes me a little light-headed, even though obviously she had to in order to bring me. But maybe that feeling is from the Chanel that envelops Ms. Halabi like a summer breeze, softened only by my face being mashed into her silk blouse too tightly to smell much. “It’s nice to meet the famous Jasmine’s Mom,” I manage, and she laughs, deep and throaty like her daughter.

  “Such a pretty girl,” she says affectionately, tugging one of my curls.

  She’s one to talk. Jasmine’s mom is stunning, with the same thick, glossy black hair and liquid gold eyes as her daughter, which are even more striking against her deeper bronze skin. She’s meticulously made up, and I worry we’ve interrupted her on her way out to something.

  “No,” Jasmine says, reading my mind. “She looks like that all the time.” Sylvia looks puzzled, and Jasmine says, “She’s not used to someone wearing a full face of makeup to have dinner with her daughter.”

  Embarrassed, I mumble, “You look great,” and she laughs. She’s much easier to make laugh than her daughter, but it’s still hard not to be anxious against the backdrop of her neat, expensive perfection. The house is all marble and gold and glass, stunning and lavish in a very different way from Declan’s. I could see how they’
d been confused into thinking they were a match before realizing they were actually polar opposites.

  “Let’s go to the kitchen,” she says, an arm around each of us, and we enter a white marble palace that smells so good I have to wipe my mouth to keep the drool at bay. There’s a woman standing at the stove, stirring a pot, a long dyed-red braid skimming her waist. “This is Camella. I need a helper while my daughter’s too busy swimming and tanning to help me stuff eggplant.” Her voice is teasing, and she gives Jasmine a peck on the cheek.

  Jasmine says hi and I introduce myself, and Camella gives us a quick smile and goes back to stirring.

  Sylvia steers us back out. “Jasmine, why don’t we give Larissa a tour of the house?” She doesn’t even wait before leading me through each room, explaining every photograph, telling me the story behind each piece of artwork, and describing the purpose of every piece of Judaica. I’m proud to come in knowing a few, like mezuzahs and menorahs—my mom and I are technically Jewish too, though we’re not remotely affiliated—and Sylvia seems similarly pleased about it.

  We end with Jasmine’s room, and Sylvia declares she’s going to check on the food, leaving us standing in Jasmine’s doorway. There are definitely some personal items in Jasmine’s room at the beach house, but it’s clear that this is where she lives. I sweep into the room to examine every inch of it.

  “This vanity is amazing,” I declare, walking over to the glass-and-mirror table immediately. It’s covered in makeup and gorgeous perfume bottles, none of which I’ve ever known Jasmine to wear. In the Outer Banks, she smells like sunscreen and peach lotion and honeysuckle shampoo and chlorine and salt water. In Asheville, apparently, she smells like Dolce & Gabbana. “Since when do you wear perfume?”

  “Since never.” She cracks a smile as she collapses onto her huge, fluffy bed. “My mom doesn’t think an outfit is complete without Chanel, so she keeps buying me fragrances in hopes I’ll find my equivalent, but eh. It makes me feel old.”