Great

by kindle@abovethetreeline. com

  “My dad owns a record label,” he replied casually. “He’s into all kinds of music, but he loves 1920s and 1930s jazz the best of all.”

  “My dad coaches a public high school basketball team,” I said, taking another swig of champagne. Already, I felt less awkward than I usually did at these East Hampton parties.

  “Your dad sounds like more fun than my dad.”

  “Your dad sounds richer than my dad.” I was kind of tipsy.

  “Maybe, but he’s kind of an asshole,” Jeff said with a hint of bitterness. “You’ll never meet anyone more obsessed with the size of his house or the price of his car. Everything is like a trophy to him. You wouldn’t believe how superficial the guy is.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” I said, swallowing more champagne and thinking for a moment about how cute Jeff’s floppy brown hair was.

  “So what kind of record label does your dad own?” I finished my champagne and reached out for another as a waiter passed.

  “Hip-hop,” Jeff said.

  “Naturally,” I replied. “It’s clear that you lead a thug life.”

  “Absolutely. See these pants? Ralph Lauren. My mom bought them for me. Hard. Core.”

  “I assume you’re in a gang—I hear Trumbo is full of them.”

  “Oh, it’s a dangerous place. Our school motto is ‘Ride or die.’”

  “Let’s go outside,” I said suddenly, grabbing his hand without thinking. I downed more champagne.

  Jeff looked at our hands in amusement. “Whatever you say, Madame.” I led him back down the staircase and through a palatial living room and an epic dining room—no, a dining hall—both of which were a blur of red and white flowers and table runners and tablecloths and cushions and vases and also, of course, shiny gorgeous people. The rear wall of the dining room was made of floor-to-ceiling panels of glass, one of which was an open sliding door. We walked out onto the crowded two-level deck, where another band was playing more of that jazzy, bubbly music (“‘Doin’ the Raccoon,’” Jeff said. “Late twenties.”), and gazed at the extravaganza unfolding in the backyard.

  “So this Jacinta girl—do you know her or what?” I asked, taking another generous sip of bubbly.

  “Not at all,” Jeff replied. “I didn’t even think she was real, and then when we were done with tennis today, I got this handwritten note back at my house.”

  “With the most incredible handwriting, right?”

  “Yeah, it was like John Hancock or somebody had written me the Declaration of Invitation.” It wasn’t that funny, but I found myself giggling inanely. Champagne and a cute boy will do that to anyone, I guess, even a smartass girl from Chicago who knows better.

  “For a while, people thought she was one of the girls at Trumbo, but I guess she’s not. All of the girls and some of the gays—like the stereotypical gays—are obsessed with being her Facebook friend. But even her Facebook doesn’t show her face, or where she really lives.” I could hear an irritated Skags inside my head going, “And what exactly is a ‘stereotypical gay,’ you heteronormative fascist?” but I knew what Jeff meant.

  “Then right at the end of the school year, she tweeted that she was going to spend the summer in East Hampton. Everybody went nuts. But I don’t even know if she’s here. It’s kind of impossible to tell, you know?”

  “I don’t get why she singled me out,” I said, grabbing another glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

  “You aren’t kidding around, are you?” Jeff said, chuckling. He patted me on the head, a gesture that for some reason infuriated me.

  I was about to say something bitchy, but I saw a plate of fried oysters floating past me and realized I was incredibly hungry.

  “Wait!” I fairly shouted at the passing waitress, who obediently paused and walked toward me. I realized too late that it was Misti. She recognized me, too, and looked momentarily terrified.

  “Um,” I said. “Hi.” Her eyes wide with nervousness, she simply nodded at me. Gingerly, I took a fried oyster, and Misti darted off in another direction.

  Behind me, I heard one girl say to another, “You know, that’s the girl who. . .” She lowered her voice at that point, but I caught a few words—“Teddy” and “Fairweather” and “disgusting.” Then both girls giggled merrily and walked past us into the house.

  “Teddy’s behavior is gonna bite somebody in the ass one of these days,” Jeff remarked drily. “Not him, of course. Never him. But somebody.”

  “Excuse me,” I said haughtily, remembering his condescending attitude about my drinking. “I am going to find the bathroom.” Without waiting for his reaction, I turned around, wobbled for a moment, and then set off on my quest. I did really have to pee.

  I wandered around the first floor through the dining room, living room, foyer, slightly smaller second living room (people were already making out on couches), incredible kitchen (my mother would die), cigar room (it smelled nice), billiards room (it was stuffed with drunk guys smoking cigars and playing pool), and two-story, Beauty and the Beast–style library (perfection) before I found the bathroom. I opened it without knocking and swiftly walked right in, shutting the door behind me. Against the white marble countertop, right beside the canyon-size white marble sink, leaned two lithe brunettes snorting white powder off an oversize white marble-backed hand mirror.

  “Oh,” I said, suddenly really uncomfortable. “Oh. I’m—I’m sorry.”

  “You want some?” one of the girls asked cheerfully. Her companion giggled.

  “N-no thank you,” I replied, backing up. “I just have to pee.”

  “Go ahead,” said the first girl. “I don’t mind.”

  “Just make sure it’s just pee,” her companion tittered, and they both burst into high-pitched laughter.

  “Right,” I said. “I’m gonna go.” And I did, getting the hell out of there.

  The bathroom was located next to the kitchen, beside an unobtrusive back staircase. I hurried up the steps, passing a couple in the midst of a heated argument (“I told you Daddy doesn’t want us to take the boat out on our own!”), and bypassed the second floor in favor of the third, where I practically ran directly into a tall, stunning rail-thin girl with long red curls and dramatic cat’s-eye makeup.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just looking for the bathroom. Do you know where it is?”

  “No worries, love,” she said lightly. “There’s one in each of the bedrooms.”

  “How many of them are there?” I asked curiously.

  “Six. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and indigo, just like the rainbow,” she said. “Only thing the owners missed is violet.”

  I drunkenly thought for a moment and then declared, “I would like to pee in the blue bedroom.”

  She laughed as if I were the cleverest and funniest person in the world. It was a pretty, gentle sound. “The blue bathroom, love,” she reminded me with a grin. “I don’t think the blue bedroom is the right place for that.”

  I considered this. “True,” I said. “I’m not that drunk.” Laughing again, she linked her arm through mine and led me through a magnificent blue bedroom to a pretty blue bathroom. It was far larger and more impressive than even the white marble masterpiece of a downstairs powder room I’d previously visited. There was a claw-foot blue bathtub that rivaled the size of the shark tank at the Shedd Aquarium back home in Chicago. There was a blue-tiled shower that could have easily fit six people. There was even a wall-mounted flat-screen TV set facing the throne-like blue toilet. I resisted the urge to switch it on.

  I emerged to find the redhead sitting on the four-poster bed. Drunkenly, I plopped down next to her.

  “This is some crazy party, huh?” I said.

  “Crazy in a good way or crazy in a bad way?” she asked anxiously.

  “Oh, in a good way. Everything is so beautiful and red and shiny,” I slurred. “I got invited today. I live next door. I mean, I don’t live next door, I just stay there for the summer with my mother, who is a
crazy person.” The girl laughed her lovely laugh again. “I’m serious. She is nuuuuuuts. But anyway, this girl, Jacinta—I never heard of her, but I guess she’s famous? Like she writes this famous blog?”

  The girl looked at me and smiled kindly. “That’s me, love. I’m Jacinta.” I squinted at her and realized this was indeed the beautiful alien girl from the other night, clad in a wig and a boatload of makeup. Those big green eyes—how had I missed them, just because they were encircled by loads of smoky liner and shadow? They seemed unmistakable now, as did her ultra-thin form.

  I blushed. “Oh my God,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Jacinta looked worried for a moment. “Why would you be sorry?” She put her arm around me and smiled, her big eyes sparkling with friendliness. “I’m actually wearing a wig,” she said, tugging at a red curl. “I love dressing up and playing pretend. Don’t you?”

  “I haven’t done it in years. I used to go through my mother’s closet and pretend to be a princess, but then one time I was wearing this super-dark lipstick and I stained one of her favorite dresses, so I got banned from dress-up for life. I’m Naomi, by the way. Naomi Rye. Thank you for inviting me; it was really nice of you. Like, really nice. I don’t usually get invited places. I mean, here. I just—why did you invite me, by the way? Is that rude to ask? I don’t mean to be rude.” I had a full-on case of the Nervous Naomi Babbles.

  Jacinta smiled warmly. “I invited you because we’re neighbors, and because I’m interested in you and what you do,” she said.

  “Oh, I don’t do anything, really,” I said, wondering for a horrible moment if she just wanted to get to my mother. Once in a while somebody will suck up to me because of who my mom is, but usually it’s some fawning housewife type, not a skinny teenage alien fashion priestess.

  “Sure you do,” Jacinta said brightly. “You were in a bunch of photos on Facebook last summer from different charity events. There was the Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume Institute Subcommittee Tea, and the after-party honoring Robert Caro for the East Hampton Library Authors Night, and the Friends of the Central Park Turtle Pond tapas fiesta.” The casual way she rattled off the different names startled me.

  “Man,” I said. “I barely remember the reasons for those parties. You must have a great memory.”

  “Well, they were all at Senator and Mrs. Fairweather’s house,” she replied, as if that explained everything.

  “Oh. Right.”

  “It seems as if your family and the Fairweathers are quite close,” she said with a studied casualness.

  “I guess my mom is friends with Mrs. Fairweather,” I said.

  “And you must be friends with Delilah Fairweather, then?” she said with a hint of eagerness that slightly confused me.

  “Um,” I said. “I guess. I mean, she’s a really nice girl. I usually see her a handful of times each summer. She asked me to play tennis today, but I couldn’t. Maybe I’ll play another time soon.” At this, Jacinta smiled and looked pleased.

  “Usually my mother just makes me go to things with her, and it’s so awkward because I know I don’t fit in,” I continued. “But this party, your party, is such a fun party.”

  “Well, that’s the whole point, love,” Jacinta said. “Fun. I want everyone to have the most fun they’ve ever had in their entire lives. I want it to just be the most perfect party, the most perfect summer. For everyone.”

  “I’ve never had that much fun here,” I confessed. “My mother can be—difficult.”

  “Well, we’re going to change that,” Jacinta assured me. “Not your mother—we can’t do anything about her. But you’re going to have a wonderful summer. I’m going to throw the best parties, and you’re coming to each and every one. You have guest-of-honor status. I was thinking of doing a pirate-themed one, with lots of rum drinks and live parrots and a ship-shaped sandcastle in the backyard—my party planner says she knows an artist who will do one for me.”

  I didn’t know how on earth I’d achieved guest-of-honor status simply by peeing in this girl’s blue bathroom, but she was so genuinely friendly that I figured I’d just go with it. It was possible that, behind her gorgeous otherworldly façade, she was actually a completely normal human. Like back home in Chicago, it’s not considered wild or out of the ordinary for a person to be nice. People say hello and when they ask how you’re doing, it seems like a lot of them actually care about your answer. It’s hard to find someone like that in East Hampton—someone who is nice to you just for the sake of being nice, not because they want something from you.

  “The jazz bands are so different from anything I’ve seen at a party before,” I said.

  Jacinta looked worried again. “You don’t think they’re too much, do you?” she asked. “I could’ve hired a DJ, or I could’ve just put my iPod on shuffle, but I wanted to do something that people would really remember. Something really different from all the other parties. But maybe I went overboard with the music.”

  “You’ve got a Ferris wheel in the backyard, and you’re worried the jazz is overboard?”

  Jacinta’s brow furrowed for a moment, and then she smiled. “I guess you’re right,” she said ruefully. “I just wanted to make a big splash.”

  “It’s awesome, Jacinta,” I said honestly. “The whole thing. The roses, the music, the carnival in the backyard, everything. People are having a great time.”

  Suddenly she happily wrapped me in a big hug, the way a little kid might. She released me quickly, looking nervously at me, and I could tell it had been an impulsive move. I smiled at her to show her that it was okay. She visibly relaxed.

  “Let’s go outside,” she said. “I want to see if—I want to see which guests have arrived. I actually haven’t even been downstairs yet.”

  As we walked downstairs, I really took a look at her outfit for the first time. Unlike most of the guests, who looked as if they’d stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad, Jacinta’s ensemble was quirky and funky. She wore a long, translucent vintage-looking pink camisole over what looked like a vintage Victorian black corset (like me, she had nonexistent boobs, so the effect was pretty and elegant rather than va-va-va-voom sexy) and a black lace slip. Her black kitten-heel sandals matched her black-painted toes and nails, which also sported a constellation of tiny rhinestones. I could just imagine my mother’s face if I showed up with black fingernails with rhinestones. One arm was loaded with black plastic jelly bracelets, while the other was bare. And except for her white-blond eyebrows, you’d never know she wasn’t a natural redhead. Really, she was one of the most interesting-looking people I’d ever seen.

  The white marble butterfly staircase was loaded with revelers, but the crowd parted as Jacinta regally descended. I followed, a little shyly, because suddenly all eyes were trained on us. Chatter fell to a hush, and the jaunty music would’ve had the spotlight if it hadn’t so obviously been occupied by Jacinta.

  I felt someone grab my arm. Startled, I turned to face Audrey Fitzwilliams. She and Katharine, clearly wasted, stared at my new friend, open-mouthed.

  “Is that Jacinta Trimalchio?” Audrey asked loudly. Her voice echoed in the quiet. Jacinta, halfway down the staircase, turned and smiled sweetly.

  “It is, love,” she answered. “And you two are wearing the most gorgeous shoes I’ve seen since I got out to East Hampton. I adore espadrilles for summer.” I watched as the girls nearly fainted into the arms of their respective Stetler brothers.

  “You look amazing,” Katharine told Jacinta reverently, and I watched as several of the assembled girls nodded in agreement. Jacinta walked back up the steps toward them.

  “Katharine and Audrey, yes?” she asked. They bounced up and down like eager puppies and nodded.

  “You looked divine at Alexandra Fox’s birthday party earlier this year,” she said. “I reposted a few snapshots of you two on the blog.”

  “Oh, we saw,” they said in unison.

  “It was the coolest thing,” Katharine said. “The cool
est thing ever.”

  “We took a screenshot and printed it out and hung it up!” Audrey nearly shouted. She was one of those people who gets louder and louder as she gets drunker and drunker.

  “I’m so glad you two are here,” Jacinta said sincerely, wrapping them both in a spontaneous hug. Their eyes nearly popped out of their heads as they hugged her back. You would’ve thought God himself had descended from Heaven to embrace them.

  We continued on our way down the staircase, with people falling all over themselves to say hello to Jacinta. Those who tried to shake her hand invariably got a hug. She paused and asked about a dozen people how they were doing, and if the food was all right, and did they need something else to drink, and had they tried the Ferris wheel yet? Word rapidly spread through all the rooms in the house that Jacinta Trimalchio herself had made an appearance, and an ever-growing crowd followed us through the house as if Jacinta were the Pied Piper of Hamelin. As we slowly made our way to the back deck, I caught snatches of chatter.

  “I heard she’s a distant cousin of Prince William,” one girl said to her friend.

  “She’s definitely not American—you can tell she’s trying to hide an accent,” a boy in a peach bow tie said to his date (a boy with whom he was holding hands).

  “She’s soooooo thin,” a tiny girl in pink ballet flats said to her friend. “I mean, like thinner than L.A. thin.”

  “Her parents are dead,” a drunk guy announced to no one in particular. “She’s this orphan heiress.”

  If Jacinta heard any of the comments, she didn’t let on. She was too busy sweetly greeting strangers and telling them how honored and delighted she was that they’d made time in their schedule to come to her little party. I’d never seen someone so obviously rich display so much genuine gratitude. Even in her wig and layers of makeup, Jacinta was the most authentic person at the party.

  On the deck, Jeff Byron immediately came over to me.

  “I didn’t know where you went,” he said, and something in his voice pleased me. He wasn’t whining, exactly, but he hadn’t been happy about my exit. I liked that.