Privileged

by Zoey Dean

  “What are you doing?” I asked. Of course, I knew exactly what he was doing, short of streaking the bullfrogs, but it seemed like the thing to say.

  He undid his belt buckle. “Come swimming with me.”

  The question before me was: Were the jeans and the boxers coming off? And if so, did he expect me to follow suit? As in, the birthday suit he’d already seen me wear? For the fiftieth time in the last three weeks, I lamented the quality and caloric quantity of Marco’s efforts in the kitchen.

  Just as I was dealing with this quandary, Hanan came whooping through the trees, shedding clothes as she went. Once she got down to a very utilitarian bra and panties, she leaped into the water.

  No birthday suit. I breathed a little easier. But still. Off came the jeans and the linen shirt. Then, clad in just the skinny white tank top and panties I’d bought at the Target in West Palm, I jumped into the water. It was cool against the heat of the day. If skin could sing, mine was humming “Stairway to Heaven.”

  Will surfaced and pushed on my shoulders. I went down with a sputter and came up with my flat ironed hair ruined, the nonwaterproof mascara I’d so carefully applied that morning tracking down my face.

  Palm Beach me should have screamed and scrambled out of the water. But God, I didn’t want to do that. For this second, screw the research. I just wanted to be myself.

  For the next half hour, we splashed like little kids. We played Marco Polo. We had a water fight. We did cannonballs off the embankment. We stopped only when my cell phone rang. It was the twins, telling me they’d finished their essays. When was I going to be home? I looked at Will.

  “An hour and a half,” he said. “If we leave now.”

  Hanan said she’d run back to the house to get us towels. Will and I sat on the muddy bank. I was filthy, I was wet, and I was the happiest I’d been since I arrived for this crazy experiment.

  “There’s something I don’t get.” He dug a pebble out of the dirt and threw it into the lake.

  “Which is?”

  He turned to me. “One minute you’re this typical, boring rich chick. The next you’re . . . not.”

  “Oh, really, Mr. I Majored in Partying?”

  He laughed. “That wasn’t a lie, trust me.”

  I pushed my wet hair off my forehead. “Now I get to ask you one. Why did you invite me here?”

  “When I first met you—that crazy night when the twins were so awful to you—I thought I saw something . . . Then you came to see me at the gallery, and she was gone.” He threw another pebble into the water. Plunk. “But then Rose went on and on about how much she’d learned from you, that you were the first person who ever made her feel like she had a brain. So I invited you today because I was curious to see which girl would show up.”

  “And?”

  “Easy. Both. But not in a bad way.” He stared down at me, then lifted his free hand to my cheek and rubbed his thumb gently across it. “Mud.”

  I shivered a little. Something shifted inside of me. The real me. “Thanks for bringing me here, Farmer Will,” I said.

  His eyes were on my lips. Was he about to kiss me?

  “You’re welcome. Can I bring you someplace else?”

  “Sure. Where’s that?”

  “The Christmas Eve ball at the Norton Museum of Art. I know it isn’t much notice, but I really would like—”

  “I’d love to.”

  A cell-phone company charges 3 cents per minute for a long-distance call. What algebraic expression shows how much a 20-minute call from Florida to New York City would cost, if 5 of those minutes are nighttime freebies?

  (a)y = 3 + 20 ÷ 5

  (b)5z = 20x

  (c)x = 3 (20 – 5)

  (d)c = 20 + 5 + 3

  (e)x = 3 x 20 x 5

  Chapter Twenty-one

  That night I read quickly over the twins’ essays from the afternoon, ignored the question in Rose’s eyes about how my time with Will had gone, and then retreated to the privacy of my bathroom for the longest, hottest bath in the history of long, hot baths. As the water ran, I poured in Heavenly Holly bubble bath, part of Laurel’s new spa collection. It smelled like the woods in autumn and turned the water into an Emerald City sea under a blanket of white bubbles.

  I’d like to call a time-out here to say one thing: Fantasizing isn’t cheating. Okay. So long as we’re in agreement.

  I lay there with my eyes closed, the hot water dribbling in, feeling all warm and . . . um . . . wet, playing the afternoon with Will over in my mind and wondering what it would have been like if Will had done what I thought he was about to do by the side of the pond. That is, kiss me. Just as I began heading for an underwater expedition, I heard my cell phone faintly.

  It was him. I knew it was him.

  I jumped from the tub and slid across the bathroom floor, leaving wet footprints on the bedroom hardwood, then I dove wet and naked over my bed. I managed to get my purse open and yank out my phone in time to answer on the fourth ring.

  “Hello?” I asked breathlessly.

  “Hey, babe. Wow, you sound . . . winded.”

  Him. The wrong him.

  “Oh, hi! James!” I wrapped my soaked self in my bedspread, knowing that if I needed another, it would be delivered from the main mansion, no questions asked. “I was taking a bath. I had to run to the phone. I’m so glad it’s you!”

  Okay, so fantasizing is kind of cheating. What kind of person is thinking about the wrong guy when her boyfriend—the boyfriend she barely gets to see, much less get horizontal with—calls? The boyfriend whom she’d be seeing on Christmas morning? As in, under thirty-six hours.

  “Great news. I just spent twelve hours editing that asshole’s short story. Songwriters who think they can write fiction—it’s painful. Then the wanker has the nerve to call and ask for approval on any changes.”

  “That’s the great news?”

  He laughed. “No, that’s the buildup. My boss took pity on me. He’s letting me split at noon tomorrow. I’ll be in Gulf Stream in time for dinner. Great, huh?”

  Guiltier and guiltier.

  “That sounds fantastic.”

  “I can’t wait to see you.”

  “Me, too.”

  “So, listen,” James went on. “My mom called a little bit ago. Some friend gave her two tickets to this Christmas Eve ball at the Norton Museum. You know about it?”

  Uh, yeah. Actually, I said yes to this other guy. “I think the twins are going,” I hedged.

  “Oh, sweet!” he crowed. “Because I was thinking that you and I should, too. I know the whole thing about you pretending to be single, which is totally cool. We’ll act like we’re strangers. It’ll be hot.”

  Not good, not good, not good. Why had I said yes to Will? I obviously knew the answer, but what was I supposed to do now that my actual boyfriend was asking me?

  “You could write about it in your article,” James went on. “It’s hilarious, like something Hunter Thompson would have done. Plus, I’ll get to meet the twins without them knowing I’m your boyfriend. It’s perfect.”

  I pulled the bedspread closer and tried to match James’s enthusiasm. “That does sound like fun! But you know, I think I’m coming down with something. I just . . . should probably stay in bed and get better for Christmas.”

  “Oh, no. Well, then, forget the ball. I’ll come to Les Anges, and we can play doctor.”

  “That’s so sweet of you. But I think I’m going to stay in bed tomorrow and beat this thing—whatever it is.”

  “If you’re sure.” He sounded disappointed. Or maybe the shame I was feeling magnified my sensitivity.

  “Yeah, you can hang out with your parents tomorrow night; they’ll like that. What time do you want me to come over on Christmas Day?”

  This was the guilt asking.

  “Eleven. And I’ll call you when I get in tomorrow.” I heard someone say good night to him. Poor guy—he was still at the office at midnight, two days before Christmas. “Megan?”


  “Yeah?” I asked as I stood up from the bed and walked to the window. The dark spilled out in front of me.

  “I love you.”

  I swallowed. “I love you, too.”

  We said our goodbyes and hung up. What had I just done? I’d lied to my boyfriend so that I could go to a ball with someone else. It was terrible. I knew it was terrible.

  And it had been so easy to do.

  In a novel, a “turning point” represents a moment in which a character:

  (a)has a change of heart.

  (b)sees something in a new light.

  (c)is surprised by an unexpected development.

  (d)experiences emotional growth or change.

  (e)all of the above

  Chapter Twenty-two

  According to the College Board, which created the test, the SAT assesses how well you analyze and solve problems. Colleges use it as a rough predictor of how well the test taker might do at any given school. I’d told the twins this many times. And then I’d added that in my humble opinion, what the SAT really measures is a person’s ability to prepare for and take the SAT.

  There was no way I could make up for their twelve years of academic neglect in eight short weeks. But I knew from seeing the intricacy of their beauty database that they had the raw intelligence to succeed. My bet was that if I could get them accustomed to how this system operated—to think the way the testers thought—they might be able to squeak by.

  The twins had trouble with abstract concepts. But when I made the learning relevant to them, that also made it memorable. I resorted to first-grade tactics. My best weapons were flash cards.

  For example, rather than displaying a trapezoid and asking for a description of the area and perimeter, my flash card outlined the dimensions of the ladies’ room at the Everglades Club. Instead of working out theoretical proportions, I’d sketch a picture of a mirror, give its length, and ask how many girls, each using ten inches of mirror space, could repair their Stila lip gloss at the same time. For vocabulary building, I used pertinent examples. Purgatory was described not only as a place between heaven and hell, but also as being stuck in coach next to a screaming baby on a transatlantic flight from New York to Paris.

  There was academic progress being made. Not enough, but enough to keep me from losing all hope. And enough to keep them going, too. The biggest problem was effort. No matter what I did, I couldn’t impress on them how studying was a cumulative process, and how extra hours put in on day one paid huge dividends on day seven or day eight. It was hard to undo seventeen years of relative sloth. Basically, when you can call room service, cooking for yourself becomes a massive challenge, even if you stand in front of the stove for four hours a day.

  Since we had decided to take off Christmas Day, the twins and I started work on Christmas Eve day at an absurdly early hour—nine A.M. This schedule would leave them—and me—free in the afternoon to prepare for the ball that night.

  We ordered coffee and croissants to eat poolside and started our work on vocabulary. I held up a homemade card for Sage.

  Suzanne used _______________ to steal her rival’s boyfriend.

  (A) chary

  (B) coeval

  (C) duality

  (D) chicanery

  “D,” Sage pronounced. “Definitely D.”

  I praised her, since she was the queen of misusing words. Next card.

  White pants after Labor Day is no longer considered an __________ wrong.

  (A) aggravating

  (B) egregious

  (C) ergonomic

  (D) astute

  “B,” she said. “Egregious.”

  Damn. Two in row. It was followed by three wrong answers, but two in a row felt like a milestone. Rose took over and doubled her sister’s feat. We moved on to sentence structure, and between the two of them, they successfully identified topic sentences, compound sentences, subjects, predicates, though the concept of conditional clauses still eluded them. Yes, this is stuff most of us learn in middle school, but the twins had missed it along the way.

  To make it all relevant, and to hone their writing skills, I asked them each to write a five-paragraph essay comparing and contrasting their looks for tonight’s Christmas Eve ball with what they wore to last month’s Red and White ball, and then identify the topic sentences, subjects, predicates, etc. I heard the requisite bitching and moaning, but they did settle down with pens and paper. As for me, I retired to a chaise while they worked, enjoying the morning sun on my face, thinking of what I would tell James when he called that afternoon. Forty-eight-hour flu? Something like that.

  I must have dozed off, because I was jarred awake by Sage nudging my ankle.

  “Megan? You fucked up yesterday.”

  I opened my eyes. She was on the chaise next to me. “You finished your essay?”

  “No, I stopped midway with an overwhelming urge to enjoy your scintillating company,” she droned. “Of course I finished.”

  I looked over at Rose, who was still writing, and then closed my eyes again and smiled. “Good.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me that you’re crushing on Will?”

  That comment got me not just to open my eyes but also to sit up. “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw him at the Breakers last night. He told me everything.”

  “What’s everything?” I asked cautiously.

  “How you spent the day together, how he boned you in a pond—”

  “He did not bone me in a—anywhere!” I sputtered, feeling that familiar heat creep up my face.

  “Kidding. Don’t go all tomato on me. He did say you hung out and that he likes you. Happy?”

  Actually, yes. But I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything.

  “You could have just told me yourself.” She sniffed.

  “I was trying to be professional.”

  She yawned. “Bullshit. Rose knew. Like I give a fuck. He also said you’re going to the ball with him.”

  Rose came padding over to me with her essay, which had taken her approximately twice as long as it should have to write, and sat down next to her sister. “So you like him, Megan?” she asked eagerly.

  Maybe it was because I never really got to do the cute-girl-crazy-for-the-cute-boy thing in high school. Maybe it was because I had gone to my senior prom with Bruce Peterson, he of the formidable IQ and dubious skin, with whom I had about as much chemistry as a Rich Text file. Or maybe it was because my sister, Lily, got all the pretty-girl moments and I could never hope to compete. Whatever the reason, some dormant girly-girl thing rose up and forced out my one-word answer.

  “Yes.”

  Let me admit something here: It’s very hard to convince yourself that you’re going to a ball with a guy for research purposes after you admit to your students that you’re into him.

  “So what are you wearing?” Sage pressed.

  “The same thing I wore to the Red and White ball, I guess,” I replied, hoping I could still squeeze my Marco-fed ass into it.

  I’m sure you’re familiar with Edvard Munch’s most famous painting, The Scream. Give yourself double vision, substitute the twins’ faces for the terrified guy on the bridge, and you’ll have a reasonable approximation of Rose and Sage’s reaction to my statement.

  Sage was, as usual, the first to manage words. “Is that how they do it in Philadelphia?”

  “Like, you’re so rich, you don’t care if people see you in the same thing twice?” Rose clarified.

  Of course. Main Line Philly Megan would already know not to wear the same gown. She’d be as horrified as the twins at the thought. Backpedaling furiously, I explained that I’d brought only one formal with me to Palm Beach and had no time to shop. I figured I could use that excuse tonight, too, if it came up.

  Sage nodded. “We understand.”

  “We do?” Rose yelped.

  “Yes,” Sage insisted. “Let’s order lunch. Although it will probably suck, with Marco on vacation.”
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  “Where’d he go?” I asked. Marco was on vacation? This was news to me.

  “To New Jersey with Keith,” Rose explained while Sage called in the food order. “They go every year to see his family. He’ll be back for the New Year’s Eve ball, don’t worry. Grandma puts him in the charge of the caterers.” She got up and took off her jeans and T-shirt; she was wearing a green tartan-plaid bikini underneath. “I’m going to swim till the food gets here. Want to come?”

  I shook my head, feeling the blood drain from my face. No Marco and no Keith for tonight? And I was supposed to be ball-ready in only a few hours? I couldn’t even zip myself into my own damn dress without Marco’s help. Cinderella was going to end up looking like Cinder-hella this time around.

  “What’s up with you?” Sage asked me as she stepped out of her jeans and left them in a pile at her feet. “You’re reverse-blushing.”

  “At home . . . well, I always think of makeup as art. And—don’t tell anyone—I’m a terrible artist. Stick figures give me trouble. So I never, ever do my own makeup.” That wasn’t a lie. Exactly.

  “And you don’t have Marco to help you tonight.” Rose dove into the pool, her wet hair fanning out behind her as she resurfaced. “He told us Keith knows your stylist back in Philadelphia.”

  “He did?” Bless him for covering my ass in more ways than one.

  “Sure.” Sage stepped into the shallow end. “But you’re still kind of fucked for tonight, huh?”

  Rose giggled. Sage giggled. Nice of them to enjoy the schadenfreude even if they didn’t know what it was.

  “Come,” Sage barked to her sister, if giving an order to a well-trained dog. She stepped out of the pool and slipped her flip-flops back on. “We’ll call the main house and tell them to bring the food inside.”

  She headed toward her manse while I waited for Rose to climb out and towel off. Then we found Sage in her den, in front of her computer monitor. She clicked once, and a close-up of my face appeared on the monitor.

  “How did you do that?” I marveled. My face had on makeup I’d never worn.

  “That’s one more feature we built in to our system,” Rose said proudly.