Great

by kindle@abovethetreeline. com

  “Miss Naomi,” Jacinta said, “do you want to ride the Ferris wheel with me?” Jeff looked at her, startled, taking in the unusual get-up and those Cleopatra eyes.

  “I’m Jacinta,” she offered, opening her arms for a hug. “And you’re Jeffrey Byron. I’m such a fan of Byron Records. I’m so glad you could make it!” Jeff looked bewildered as Jacinta enfolded him in her arms. When she stepped back, he said, “You’re Jacinta Trimalchio?”

  “I am,” she said. “Are you enjoying yourself? Did you like the appetizers? If you’re still hungry, there’s lots of food in the backyard. The grilled lobster is really, really great. And how do you know Naomi?”

  “We just met yesterday,” I said. “We have a—friend, I guess, in common.”

  “Really?” Jacinta said, her eyes lighting up. “What friend?”

  “Delilah Fairweather,” Jeff said. “Do you know her?”

  Jacinta’s eyes widened, and she smiled so energetically I thought she might break her own face.

  “We were just talking about her upstairs,” she said. “She is my favorite up-and-coming model. I think she’s just absolutely amazing. Jeff, you’re friends with her boyfriend, Teddy Barrington, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Jeff said, looking a little surprised.

  “I see you together in photos on Facebook all the time,” Jacinta said by way of explanation. Then she let out another sweet laugh. “Oh God, that sounds a bit stalker-ish, doesn’t it? It’s just that I’ve got to go through all the party photos to pick the best ones for my blog.”

  “Trust me, I know,” Jeff said reassuringly. “All the girls at Trumbo are obsessed with The Wanted.”

  “I was hoping Delilah and Teddy would come tonight,” Jacinta said. “I was too shy to send them invitations, but I figured if their friends were here. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “I’m sure they were just busy,” I said. “Next time you should send them invitations.”

  “I’ve really been wanting to meet Delilah,” Jacinta said, looking out at the Ferris wheel. “I think she’s the next big supermodel. In a couple years, everyone will know her name.”

  “And her father may be president,” Jeff interjected.

  “Oh, but she’ll be famous on her own,” Jacinta said wistfully. “She’s too good to stay unknown.”

  She turned her big green eyes on me, and I watched her hesitate. Finally, she said, “Would you ever have her over to the house, and invite me over, too?”

  I was surprised by the timidity with which Jacinta issued the request. You’d think a girl who could summon two hundred strangers to a party wouldn’t be too worried about meeting a new person, especially not a person she’d already praised several times in public on the internet. I was beginning to think Jacinta was something of a Delilah Fairweather fangirl.

  “Of course I will,” I said. “Any time you want.”

  “Oh, Naomi!” Jacinta exclaimed, wrapping me up in another tight hug. “I would be soooo grateful! I’m so glad we’re friends!”

  “Me too,” I said, my voice muffled against her armpit. She was much taller than me.

  A horde of excited girls descended on Jacinta then, asking if they could take photos with her, and she graciously obliged them. As they jabbered at her like hyperactive geese, Jeff leaned over.

  “It’s the Jacinta Trimalchio?” he whispered without a trace of sarcasm. “I mean, it’s really, really her?”

  “It’s really, really her,” I whispered back.

  “Wow,” he said in wonder. “I can’t believe she’s real. Any Trumbo girl who missed this party is going to be seriously pissed off.”

  My stomach was starting to growl, which always happens when I’ve had too much alcohol. I had determined that several glasses of water and some food were in order, lest I wake up hungover the next day. I’m a real lightweight when it comes to alcohol, and Skags has taught me some tricks over the years to prevent the dreaded morning-after headache and stomach trouble. The funny thing is that Skags doesn’t drink at all, but she says she likes to watch out for her stupid friends. She’s sweet that way.

  “Let’s go down to the carnival,” I suggested. “I want to check out the food tents.”

  “Oh, you just want me to win you a stuffed animal,” Jeff said.

  “I’m a feminist, Jeffrey. I will win my own stuffed animal.”

  “Do feminists ever ride Ferris wheels with men they’ve just met?”

  “Feminists do whatever they want. That means I’ll see how I feel after I get some grilled lobster in me.”

  He took my hand and led me down the stairs, past the lower level of the deck, and into the backyard wonderland of lights and music and delicious food smells.

  We ate grilled lobster, grilled corn on the cob, funnel cake (we split one), homemade gelato (I got salted caramel; he got mint chocolate chip), and cotton candy. At the bar tent, we ordered a ginger ale for me and a beer for Jeff, who high-fived Giovanni as if they were old friends.

  “How you doing, man?” Jeff asked.

  “All right, man, all right,” Giovanni said, pouring our drinks with an easy grin.

  “Working hard as usual, right, my man?” Jeff said.

  “You know it,” Giovanni responded, handing us our beverages.

  “You’re doing a great job,” Jeff said.

  Maybe I was just still drunk, but I thought he had the peculiar feigned ease of a rich person talking to a less-than. It’s the way my mother talks to her housekeeper. It’s not condescension, exactly. It’s like there’s this knowledge hanging in the air that one person has more power than the other, and we’re supposed to pretend everything is nice and normal and equal, but in reality, luck or chance has showered benefits on one person that the other person couldn’t dream of. I didn’t like it, but I brushed the feeling aside, reminding myself that Jeff was actually fun and smart and, as far as I could tell, not all caught up in the social-climbing game.

  He was also the best shot I had at getting a beach boyfriend, something I’d always secretly wanted—not that I’d ever, ever, ever admit it to anyone, especially not Skags. All the boys in East Hampton had always seemed so douchey, but Jeff was actually intelligent. Another thing that separated him from the pack was that he displayed an interest in me, something no East Hampton boy had done before. To be fair to them, I wasn’t exactly warm and inviting—but neither were they! Oh, it’s a chicken and egg thing, I guess.

  Jeff and I walked over to the Ferris wheel and got on board. While I buckled myself in, he murmured something to the attendant. I didn’t catch it.

  The wheel moved slowly and kept creaking and groaning. What looked from afar like a sparkling new carnival ride was actually pretty worn-out.

  “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?” Jeff asked when we were almost at the top.

  “You ask me that now!” I laughed at him. “Wouldn’t the ground have been the place to make that inquiry?”

  “Probably. But you’re not, right? Afraid of heights?”

  “Nope,” I said. We were almost, almost at the top. Georgica Pond spread out before us, a wide patch of darkness punctuated by occasional twinkling lights on the shore. The party noise had faded somewhat, and I could see Jacinta’s red wig sparkling like a ruby under the lights on the deck. She was still mobbed by people.

  “So this isn’t going to bother you,” Jeff said.

  “What isn’t going to bother me?”

  We reached the top, and the Ferris wheel shuddered to a halt.

  “How did you know it was going to—”

  “I told the guy to stop us up here.”

  “What?” I was utterly confused. For a second I thought about this rich kid in Chicago, this guy who grew up in a penthouse on Lakeshore Drive, who got super-wasted at a party and was all pissed off at his girlfriend, so he pushed her off a balcony. I know it seems weird that my first thought would be that Jeff might murder me, but I was still a little drunk, and it’s not like I had much experience with
guys. “I just wanted to do this,” Jeff said, and he leaned over to kiss me.

  I had never been kissed before—I know, I know, I was seventeen and that’s old, but whatever, it just hadn’t happened, unless you count the time Alan Scott pecked me on the lips during Spin the Bottle in seventh grade— so you’d think I would freeze up, but actually, I seemed to know exactly what to do. I just leaned over and kissed him back. It was kind of odd, because if you think about it, having your lips on someone else’s lips is just inherently weird—there’s no, like, evolutionary need for it, as far as I know. It doesn’t aid in reproduction, although apparently foreplay is important to the sexual act, according to this sex book my mother sent me when I was fifteen in lieu of having an actual discussion with me about sex. Getting that book in the mail and opening it in front of my dad was one of the single most embarrassing experiences of my life. He grunted, “Oh. Um,” and promptly left the room. But I did read it.

  Anyway, we kissed and it was nice, and I had this strange feeling of triumph, like I’d checked off a box on the grand list of Things You Must Do While You Are a Teenager. Then I immediately wanted to text somebody and tell them, but who was I going to tell? Certainly not my mother, and definitely not my dad. Skags would just say that straight make-outs were gross. I wished I had a girly girlfriend I could tell. It’s fun being BFFs with the butch future first lesbian president of the United States, but sometimes I do want to have the kind of stereotypical girl friendship where you paint each other’s nails and talk about boys.

  “Thanks, bro!” Jeff yelled down to the ride operator. “You can let us down now!” The guy obliged him, and soon we were slowly lowering toward the ground.

  “You want to go up again?” Jeff asked, raising an eyebrow impishly.

  “Just don’t touch me,” I said. “That was guh-ross.”

  “Yeah, it was pretty disgusting,” he agreed. “Never again!”

  “Never again!” I repeated.

  We made out for, like, the next three revolutions of the wheel.

  Eventually, other people started boarding the ride, which was annoying because the Ferris wheel would squeak to a stop and then jerk to a halt every minute. We decided to get off and head back to the bar tent. Jeff held my hand on the way, and I looked down and blushed when he greeted a couple of guys he knew from Trumbo.

  I was about to order another ginger ale when Jacinta appeared, trailed by a gaggle of admiring girls. She was holding her camera—not a crappy little thing, but a real-deal, professional-style digital camera with a big round lens and a light that she held in one hand.

  “Naomi!” she exclaimed, hugging me like I was her best friend in the world. “Let me photograph you for tomorrow’s blog post!” This girl gave out hugs like it was her job.

  “Is it for a Spotlight?” one of the girls asked tremulously. I recognized her as Ainsley Devereaux, a tobacco heiress who I’d never seen express any feeling other than cool boredom.

  “It is,” Jacinta said, and the assembled fangirls collectively gasped.

  “What’s a ‘Spotlight’?” Jeff asked, amused.

  “It’s a special feature I do once in a while when I think someone looks particularly fabulous,” Jacinta explained. “Usually it’s once a month. During Fashion Week I’ll do six or seven.”

  “It is a huge deal,” Ainsley said urgently, grabbing Jeff’s arm for emphasis and shaking it. I looked at her hand on his bicep and instantly hated her.

  Jeff laughed and freed his arm from the rich girl’s tight grasp. “Yeah, you don’t need to resort to violence to convince me, Ainsley.”

  “That was not violence, Jeffrey,” Ainsley said, rolling her eyes. “It’s a big, big deal. All the other fashion blogs and some of the gossip blogs pick it up. Sometimes it’s even on Page Six.” I knew about Page Six because my mother was on it sometimes—it was the New York Post’s legendary gossip page, and it was stupid and bitchy but apparently very influential.

  “Delilah holds the record for Spotlights,” Jacinta said as she quickly redid my ponytail. “Five times. I’ll have to talk to her about that when we have our little get-together at your house.” She bent down by my feet.

  “Little get-together? Oh, right.” I felt slightly awkward that Jacinta was straightening my hemline and brushing bits of grass off my sandals.

  Jacinta stood up, switching from stylist mode to photographer mode, and pursed her lips, looking at me with an artist’s critical eye.

  “I want you to put your hands on your hips,” she said. “No, not like you’re angry. Like, naturally.”

  “I don’t naturally put my hands on my hips,” I said. At this, Ainsley got involved, repositioning my fingers and pushing my hands higher on my waist.

  “Now put one foot in front of the other, like this, love,” Jacinta said, demonstrating. “And lean forward just a little bit.”

  “Hinge at the waist!” Ainsley said.

  “Hinge at the waist!” Jeff shouted.

  “I’m hinging!” I shrieked. “I’m hinging!” He and I dissolved into laughter. Jacinta smiled good-naturedly.

  “This is serious,” Ainsley said. “What’s your name again? Natalie?”

  “Naomi,” I said. “We’ve met every summer since we were eleven.” It couldn’t have been the champagne any longer, but something sure had me feeling saucy.

  “Okay, I’m bad with names. Naomi. This is a big deal. A. Big. Deal. You want this photo to look amazing. So hinge at the waist.” Obligingly, I hinged at the waist. Jacinta began snapping away from different angles, encouraging me to grin, then to smile slightly, then to look serious, and to open my eyes wider. Eventually, she was satisfied and lowered her camera.

  “Perfection, love,” she said.

  Ainsley nodded authoritatively. “I agree,” she announced with an imperious air, as if anyone cared. Jacinta ignored her and wrapped me in yet another hug. “Don’t forget about Delilah, okay?” she murmured into my ear.

  “I won’t,” I whispered back.

  “Jacinta,” Ainsley said eagerly, “I’m going to get something to drink. Would you like something?” Jeez. Ainsley Devereaux wasn’t the type of person to care about anyone’s needs other than her own. She must really be starstruck by Jacinta Trimalchio.

  “I would, Ainsley,” Jacinta said. “And so would Jeff and Naomi, I’m sure, wouldn’t they?” Ainsley looked briefly horrified by the prospect of being a cocktail waitress, but she quickly hid her distaste for the task by smiling insincerely.

  “I’d like a ginger ale, Ainsley,” I said sweetly. “Thank you so much. You know what? Have him put some vodka in there for me. Why not?” Jeff patted me on the back approvingly.

  “Fetch me a Stella, won’t you, Ainsley?” he said with his usual charming smile. Ainsley rolled her eyes at him.

  “And I’ll have a lemonade, love,” Jacinta said, lightly resting her hand on Ainsley’s shoulder. Ainsley immediately brightened up at her touch.

  Ainsley caught sight of Misti passing by, and immediately reached out and thumped her on the shoulder. It struck me as quite rude, but that seemed to be Ainsley’s style.

  “Hey, can you get us a Stella, a lemonade, a gimlet, and a vodka ginger ale?” she said. It was more of an order than a question.

  “Sure,” Misti said automatically, with a forced smile.

  “Thanks,” Ainsley said, her voice dripping with fake honey. “You know, I heard you were very. . . accommodating. Really giving. And now I see it’s true!” She smiled brightly, and a few of the other girls fought back snickers. Misti ignored them and went off to get the drinks.

  “Ainsley,” one of the girls whispered with delight. “You are so bad!”

  Ainsley laughed. “What? I was just being friendly.”

  “You’re friendly like a snake is friendly,” Jeff said. Ainsley stuck her tongue out at him.

  Jacinta led Jeff, Ainsley, and I back to a table near the house. She flagged down one of the fangirls, who brought us caramel popcorn at Jacint
a’s request.

  “Popcorn for the big show,” Jacinta said.

  “What big show?” Jeff and I asked in unison.

  As if in response, the sky above us exploded in sparkling red and white peonies and chrysanthemums and starbursts. On top of everything else, Jacinta had arranged for a fireworks display. An obsequious Misti brought us our drinks and hurried away quickly.

  “How’d you get a permit for this?” Jeff asked as everyone in the house poured out onto the back lawn to watch the fireworks.

  “Oh, I didn’t worry about a permit,” Jacinta said, laughing lightly. Ainsley copied her, laughing too.

  “You’ve got chutzpah, Jacinta Trimalchio,” Jeff said admiringly, clinking his beer bottle against her glass of lemonade.

  “What is a ‘chutzpah’?” Ainsley asked.

  “It means guts in Yiddish,” Jeff said as another round of white stars blasted the sky above us and a cheer went up from the crowd. “Kind of like courage. At least, in the modern sense, that’s how it’s used.”

  “I always forget that you’re Jewish,” Ainsley said. “That’s so cute.”

  “Yes,” said Jeff. “We’re just adorable.” He grabbed my knee under the table and squeezed, and I did the same to him. Suddenly the two girls I had seen getting high in the bathroom rushed past us, squealing and giggling.

  “Pool party!” one of them shrieked, stripping down to her underthings and jumping in the river pool, which was illuminated from below by lights. Then the Fitzwilliams sisters, seemingly even drunker than before, took off everything and splashed down, followed by the delighted Stetler brothers. The crowd roared its approval, clapping and hooting and whistling, while the fireworks concluded overhead and the band on the deck struck up another jaunty tune. More girls and guys followed suit, some jumping in fully clothed, some in their underclothes, and a few more girls completely naked. I hate girls who do stuff like that just for attention. They reminded me of a couple of the Beasts back home, Melissa Donnelly and Madison Delaney, who were famous at school for getting drunk and making out for the football team’s benefit at every single Homecoming dance. Skags calls them fauxbians.