by R.S. Grey
She lights up at my encouragement and soon, she loosens up her footwork and moves with a newfound freedom. We glide around her parents’ kitchen until she’s smiling and laughing, all traces of her bad day left behind.
It’s hard for me to pull away once I see that she’s got the hang of it. My original intention was to help make her feel better, but the dancing has been good for me too. It’s been a while since I’ve let loose.
Her cheeks are flushed when we finish dancing and I drop her hand. She bows in an exaggerated curtsy. I offer a little bow.
“Feel better?” I ask with a gentle smile.
She nods enthusiastically. “Loads. Thank you.” Then her eyes catch mine. “Seriously.”
I shrug it off like it’s nothing, but really, it wasn’t.
She pours some water and hands it to me. I finish in a few short swallows and am about to leave when she speaks up.
“I was wondering…if you didn’t do cotillion and you didn’t have to go to dances like this, why did your mom think it was important for you to know how to waltz?”
“She just did. Manners, etiquette, dance—all that meant something to her, so she insisted on teaching me.”
I set my cup down in the sink and turn around to see her worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “My dad mentioned the other day that you—well, the Fortiers used to own the house across the street.”
I know what she’s hinting at.
“My family did, yes.”
“But not anymore?”
“No. My grandfather sold the house.”
She frowns. “That was silly of him. My parents say it’s really hard to buy property in this area. If he’d held on to it—”
“It wasn’t really by choice,” I say, my tone biting.
“Oh.”
I glance away, annoyed that I’m having to explain this to her, a girl born with a silver spoon in her mouth, all because her grandpa was better with money.
“Well it’s a good thing your mom taught you that stuff anyway. Even if you didn’t grow up in New Orleans society, my dad says the Fortier name still carries weight, and…well, he thinks you can build it back up again if you work hard enough.”
I’m having déjà vu, except not really, because even though I’ve heard those words before, they’ve never come from Lauren. That sentiment was hammered home throughout my childhood. My mother set the table in our double-wide trailer with cloth napkins and three types of forks. She taught me table manners, drilled them into me so much so that I could sit down to eat at Buckingham fucking Palace without breaking a sweat. I was enrolled in every honors class my high school offered, taught that education came before all else, but not education for the joy of learning. No, it was education for the sake of equipping myself with the tools needed for climbing social ladders.
It was the very definition of faking it until I made it, because even though she couldn’t keep up with the Joneses, she had dreams of raising me to be one. It probably sounds a bit brainwashy, but the fact is that I want that now too. Sometime between my childhood and now, her dreams became my dreams, except my plans are a little bigger.
IT’S NOT FAIR. Rose and I are the same age, so our bodies should look more or less similar, right? In reality, let’s just say that Rose could walk into a Victoria’s Secret and the sales girls would guide her to the lacey bras that lift and separate like magic. Me? They’d ask a security guard to guide the unaccompanied minor to the Disney store across the mall.
It’s ridiculous.
I might as well be a preteen boy with my flat chest and knobby knees. Just the other day, Julie Robichaux tried to compliment me for having long legs, “…like a model, or like a chicken.” Add that to the list of my insecurities.
Maybe it’d be better if I wasn’t friends with Rose anymore. At the moment, she’s standing in front of my full-length mirror, repositioning her bikini so it covers all the unmentionables while revealing just a hint of the very mentionables. Her dark hair is silky and smooth, pulled up in a sporty ponytail. I finger one of my curls and puff out a self-indulgent sigh.
“Stop,” she insists.
“What?”
“You’re feeling sorry for yourself, which is making me want to feel sorry for you—and frankly, that’s becoming a full-time job.”
“I’m not feeling sorry for myself! I’m just hosting a tasteful pity party in my head. All my neurons are invited.”
Her gaze finds mine in the mirror’s reflection. “You’re the one who wanted to throw this pool party.”
It’s true…well, sort of. My mom was the one to suggest it as a fun farewell-to-summer thing. The weather is about to turn colder and there won’t be another opportunity to swim for a while.
Now, though, I regret the whole thing altogether. I stare down at my body, lying supine on the bed. There are no seductive valleys and peaks like there should be. If Rose was a state, she’d be Wyoming, what with her Grand Tetons and all. As for me? I’d be Kansas—flat, featureless, and generally the color of pale wheat. In the pool, I’ll be the floating plank of wood from Titanic that couldn’t even fit two people.
I try to add a second layer of padded inserts into my bikini, but they won’t fit. Rose stifles a laugh.
“Be glad you’re skinny,” she says, turning to inspect her butt in the mirror. “I have to worry about cellulite.”
Rose is clueless. It’s like a rich person complaining that they have to figure out where to put all their money.
Last week, yet again, she had boys fighting over her during cotillion practice. Meanwhile, I was forced to dance with Mrs. Geller since Todd Kelley was sick, leaving an odd number of students. I think I’ll save that special experience for the deepest recesses of my psyche. The only silver lining was that Mrs. Geller thought I was an exceptional dancer thanks to my practice with Beau, i.e. the best moment of my life. I still flush thinking about it.
“Are you ready to go down?” Rose asks. “Julie said she’s on her way, and the boys should be here soon.”
That’s right—boys are coming to my pool party. That was part of the impetus for throwing it in the first place, so I could spend more time with Preston and convince him that I am funny and cool and worth his time.
Earlier in the week I worked up the courage to invite him over instant messenger.
XO_LoULoU_XO: Hi Preston!
AFBaseballGuy05: sup
XO_LoULoU_XO: Haha nm. You?
AFBaseballGuy05: same
His lack of conversation skills only intrigued me more.
XO_LoULoU_XO: Cool! Well…Rose and I are throwing a pool party this Saturday at my house and I was wondering if you wanted to come?
AFBaseballGuy05: hmm…bball practice in the morning
XO_LoULoU_XO: It wouldn’t be until the afternoon!
AFBaseballGuy05: k cu there
There was a delay in our conversation here as I screamed so loudly my mom and dad rushed upstairs to make sure I hadn’t accidentally injured myself in some kind of horrific hair straightener accident. (I have a track record.) By the time I got back to my computer and replied, it was too late.
XO_LoULoU_XO: Cool!! It starts around 2:00 PM. See you then!
AFBaseballGuy05’s AWAY MESSAGE: **~~N I dont want tha world to c me, cuz I dont th!nk that theyd understand~~**
He never messaged me back after that. Technically, I have no clue if he’s actually coming, but Rose insists that he is. Apparently, she talked to Julie, who talked to Lincoln, who talked to Preston, and the party is officially happening.
“Girls!” my mom calls from downstairs. “Julie’s here!”
Rose and I leap into action, grabbing our matching sunglasses and monogrammed beach towels off my bed and dashing down the stairs.
An hour later, the party is in full swing. There are a couple girls from McGehee and some of the St. Thomas boys all gathered around my pool. My parents are being surprisingly chill and keeping their distance, though I know it’s killing my mom. I’ve se
en her peek through the window three times already. She hasn’t cleaned the windows herself in a decade, but all of a sudden, she’s dug out a bottle of Windex to really make that poolside glass shine.
She prepped all these little finger foods, but she’s totally delusional. All the girls are way too nervous to eat, which is probably for the best because I don’t really want everyone to get poisoned by my mom’s snacks.
Even though it’s sweltering out, none of the girls are swimming. Julie, Rose, and I sit on the side of the pool with our toes dipped into the cool water. Rose and Julie don’t want to swim because they carefully applied their makeup beforehand. I don’t want to swim because I’m too nervous watching the gate and waiting for Preston to arrive.
The boys are enjoying the pool though, jumping off the side and trying to do cannonballs big enough to splash us.
“Hey watch it, will ya!?” Rose shouts in a fake Jersey accent after one of them almost succeeds.
I throw my head back in laughter, and a small snort escapes. Preston chooses that exact moment to arrive with Lincoln and a few of the other boys from the baseball team. My heart flutters. My hand finds Rose’s arm and I pinch her hard.
“He’s here!” I hiss.
“Ow! Jesus, I see that.”
Music plays through the outdoor speakers—Rose and I spent all morning painstakingly curating songs to burn to a mix CD—and I swear Preston walks to the beat of the song. Slow motion, cool, effortless. He and his friends are joking around with one another, jostling shoulders and laughing, wholly unaware of the fact that everyone at the party has stopped what they’re doing so they can watch them approach. Preston stops at a lounge chair farthest from where we’re sitting and dumps his baseball cap and towel. His friends follow suit and I sit there, humming with nervous energy, waiting for him to look up, meet my eye, and nod…or wave…or somehow acknowledge that he’s at my party.
I guess those etiquette classes aren’t really working for him though, because in lieu of a greeting, he opts to yank his t-shirt off over his head, toss it aside, and run full speed for the pool. It doesn’t take a genius to realize what’s coming. We all throw our hands up to block the water, but it’s no use. Preston’s cannonball drenches us all, sending Rose into a full-on fury.
“Preston, you freaking asshole!” she shouts, jumping to her feet and flinging water off her arms.
He surfaces and smirks, whipping his hair off his face like he’s a surfer in a PacSun commercial. “It’s a pool party, Rose—why’d you come if you didn’t want me to make you wet?”
The boys behind him chuckle at his double entendre.
Rose huffs and storms off with Julie, leaving me alone on the side of the pool.
Finally, Preston turns to me. “Blanc-O, you coming in or what?”
My eyes widen in shock. “Oh! Umm…” I glance back over my shoulder for Rose, but she’s disappeared inside. When I glance back toward the water, Preston is swimming closer. I scramble, fidget, toss my hair over my shoulder, sit up straighter, and then when I notice that that posture makes my boobs somehow look even smaller, I hunch back over. Yes, better.
He reaches me and props his forearms up on the stone beside me, treading water. I glance down and smile, dragging my feet back and forth across the surface of the pool. I hope I look like a dreamy mermaid.
“I think I really pissed her off this time,” he says, throwing a glance to where all the girls are huddling around the food table. It’s decorated like we’re at a Hawaiian luau and I loved it earlier, but now I wonder if Preston thinks it’s childish. “Think any of the girls are going to swim?”
I turn back to him, inhaling a shallow breath when I catch sight of his face. We’ve never been this close. All of our interactions—the ones I can count on one hand—have taken place through a computer screen. Honestly, a part of me wasn’t sure he could even construct full sentences. I’m pleased to know I’m wrong.
“I’m sure they’ll swim,” I say with a shy smile. “They just don’t want to ruin their makeup and stuff. Give it an hour or two and no one will care anymore.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re not wearing makeup.”
I don’t know what to make of his statement. I don’t really need makeup, and it seems like it’s more trouble than it’s worth. I’m sure some mascara would help with…something. I don’t know—what is mascara supposed to help with?
I shrug. “Yeah, I’m not very good at it.”
Which is honestly the truth. I tried to apply a smoky eye a few weeks ago and when I came down for dinner, my mom did a spit-take of her cocktail all over the kitchen island. Apparently, I looked rather raccoonish.
He leans forward and grins. “Yeah, I’m not very good at it either.”
I chuckle and shake my head. That was flirting! I’m caught off guard. I’ve never seen this side of him, and it makes me wonder if he does the whole asshole thing just for show.
“So without the makeup excuse, are you gonna swim or what?” he asks, pushing off the wall and splaying out on his back.
I bite my lip in an effort to contain my smile and then glance up when I hear the gate open once again. Everyone I invited for the party has already arrived, unless maybe Preston invited some more of his friends.
My thought cuts off as soon as I see Beau. He’s home! He’s been gone all day—something I tried to ignore—but now he’s back and he’s not alone. He holds the gate open for a pretty brunette, and she thanks him with a flirtatious smile. I can’t hear their conversation as they curve around the side of the house and approach the pool, but I can tell she’s hanging on his every word.
“Damn, who’s that?” Preston asks, eyeing the brunette.
His reaction tells me all I need to know.
She’s hot—adult-woman hot. She has hips that sway and fully formed breasts.
As they walk by, my head slowly swivels atop my motionless body with the cold precision of a hunting owl. I’m fairly certain I don’t even blink. Beau’s dressed casual in jeans and a black t-shirt, and his friend is in a short sundress that splashes around her curves. He sees me staring and tips his head in greeting as they pass. I want him to stop and introduce me to his friend, but I don’t know why he would. They skirt politely around the party and head straight for his apartment, closing the door behind them once they’re tucked away inside. My fingers are gripping the side of the pool so tightly I’m about to break off a piece of concrete. I’m seething, angry for no good reason.
“Who are they, Lauren?” asks one of the girls nearby.
I shake my head, worried my voice will betray my true feelings about the situation. “He’s just a Tulane student renting the apartment from my parents.”
I suffer for the next 30 minutes as the girls gossip about Beau and the boys gossip about his female friend. The only solace I find is that both of them were wearing backpacks and carrying heavy books. I might be inexperienced, but I don’t think many hookups start with Philosophical Foundations of Legal Ethics.
I want to forget about the fact that he brought a girl home with him. He’s never done it before and it’s likely nothing more than a study date, but I can’t stop thinking about what they’re doing behind that closed door. Even after Preston convinces me to jump in the pool and swim, I still have one eye trained on Beau’s apartment, just in case something happens.
I play a round of chicken perched on top of Preston’s toned shoulders and it should be the highlight of my entire tiny life, but I’m only halfway focused, and Julie barely has to push before I’m knocked swiftly into the pool. I go under and accidentally inhale water up my nose. It burns and my eyes sting, and once I break the surface, I cough and gulp in air like I’m dying.
“Wow, Lauren!” Julie taunts. “Let’s hope you’re not as easy in the bedroom as you are in the pool!”
Everyone laughs, but Preston swims over to check if I’m okay.
“Water up the nose?”
“Just a little.” I’m pretty su
re snot is running down my face, so I wipe it away as fast as I can and then apologize, “Sorry about that. Julie’s like the Incredible Hulk or something.”
He laughs, treading water beside me. “Yeah, you’re kind of the runt, huh?”
I should be mortified by his nickname, but he says it in a way that makes it sound endearing rather than embarrassing.
“Yo! Preston, you playing or what?!” Lincoln shouts from where they’re prepping for another round.
Preston glances back and shakes his head. “I can’t play without my teammate. Y’all go ahead.”
His sincerity snaps the divided portions of my attention back into unity.
Maybe this party won’t be a total disaster after all.
I’M SUPPOSED TO be elbow-deep in lecture notes. Midterms are next week so it’s officially crunch time, and my friend Brittany came back to the apartment with me so we could tackle some of the more confusing material together. Usually, her boyfriend Max is with us, but he’s busy writing a paper and won’t be able to head over until later. I don’t really mind. Max is usually the one in the study group who knows the least yet talks the most. I only bother with him because Brittany takes the most detailed notes I’ve ever seen, and Professor Bancroft pulls a lot of questions straight from lecture.
“Have you started to look over the last half of chapter 14?” Brittany asks, hurriedly flipping pages in her textbook on my coffee table.
“Uh, yeah.” I riffle through my notes, annoyed that they’ve somehow slipped out of order. “Hold on, I think they’re in my backpack.”
I push off the couch and head to where I stowed my stuff by my front door.
Another squeal from the pool carries into my apartment and I clench my jaw.
“Find them yet?” Brittany asks.
“I haven’t even started looking. Chill.”
She laughs. “Where’s your head today? You’re as bad as Max.”
We both know that’s not true.
I find the notes she’s asking for and straighten up.