“Are you watching me?” J.J. mumbled, his eyes still closed.
“So conceited,” I said, dipping my head onto his chest, not really even embarrassed at having been caught.
He opened one eye. “I like the idea of you watching over me while I sleep.”
“Are you a little lamb lost in the wood?”
He smiled at my Gershwin reference and nodded. “I know I could always be good to someone who’ll watch over me.”
“Oh, you could, huh?”
So about thirty minutes later. …
Morning sun brightly lit the room, and we were both frantically dressing while trying to figure out how J.J. was going to explain his disappearance to Kimberly. (I’d also been worried how he was going to explain not coming home to his parents, but he said he’d just tell them he’d slept over here, and they weren’t likely to pry further.)
“Would it be too lame to act like I sent her a text?” he asked as he slipped on a shoe.
“Well, since you’ve never been able to text me, I wouldn’t know if that would be believable. And stop putting on your shoes. Carry them until we get to the front door.”
“Right. Quieter.” He took off the shoe and stood. “And, actually, hackers are why you and I can’t text, so maybe I can blame them for her not getting hers?”
“Why wouldn’t you have just told her through the bathroom door? Or at least written a note?”
“Does Kimberly even have paper in her room?”
“Good point. Okay, but why’d you have to leave in such a rush?”
“Family emergency? She’ll think I mean mine, but it was kind of an emergency that I get up that wall to you.”
As he said this, he leaned over the bed, his puckered lips offered, and I, of course, had no choice but to meet him for a kiss. “Yes, it was definitely a four-alarm fire,” I agreed as I stood back up.
And then the LOUDEST ALARM IN THE WORLD WENT OFF!
Okay, so it was just my regular morning alarm, but at that blissful-but-jittery-from-fear-of-getting-caught moment, J.J. and I both jumped high enough to give LeBron James a run for his money.
After I’d lunged to turn it off and J.J. had checked to make sure that his heart was still beating, we knew that if we didn’t want to push our luck any further, we’d better get him out of the house. In stockinged feet, we tiptoed down the two flights of stairs, not too worried but still cautious since no one else would likely be up for hours, but we did take some time to survey the areas across the street where photographers tended to hang out. Luckily, since I was the only one who was ever up early in the morning, and pictures of me sold for practically nothing at that point, we were pretty sure the coast was clear. Which didn’t mean we weren’t careful to kiss goodbye with the front door still closed, or that I didn’t make sure that no part of me showed when the door briefly opened for J.J. to slip out.
I only momentarily panicked over how we’d explain a picture of J.J. slipping out of our house early in the morning showing up in any gossip sites or newspapers, because then that panic was replaced by the one I felt when I realized I needed to hurry or I’d be late for school. Even as adrenaline pumped through me as I rushed on my way, I worried about the sleep deprivation crash that was no doubt going to hit soon after I sat down, and Mr. McGully started droning on about cusps and ellipsoids. It was going to be a long day.
But my two most pressing worries of that morning never came to be. If anyone photographed J.J. leaving, they never posted the pictures, and somehow, although I’d hardly gotten any sleep, I was pretty much a beacon of glowing energy and clarity all day. So much so that I began to worry that people might notice that something was up with me and then begin to speculate on why. I don’t think it’s uncommon to wonder if you look or act differently when you’re in love for the first time, or after you’ve finally had sex for the first time, or even, since it had happened on the same day, wondering if I looked older now that I was eighteen and legally an adult. But, for good or for bad, no one seemed to notice a thing all day. Not a one.
That is, of course, until that night, when I opened the front door for Duane and, with Kimberly, Iris, Buck, and J.J. waiting in the living room mere feet away, his eyes first looking confused and then growing huge, said, “What’s going on with you? Something’s changed. Don’t try to deny it. Gasp! You’ve finally had sex!”
Although I’d shushed him with adamant disavowals, Duane kept glaring at me accusingly the entire limo ride to the restaurant J.J. had picked to surprise me with for my one-day-late birthday dinner. I knew Duane didn’t care in a judgmental way if I’d had sex, but for me to not tell every juicy detail was highly, highly offensive to him. But since I was afraid of slipping and saying too much, I rolled my eyes and shrugged my shoulders, continuing to play innocent.
Iris tried to cover her disappointment when J.J. said the limo ride would be a relatively short one, but when Duane exclaimed, “Shut up!” as the limo stopped in front of Douglas on E. 64th Street, she tried to act casual. “Oh, yes, I’ve been meaning to try this restaurant.”
“You and everyone else since it got three stars from Michelin, honey,” Duane said. Then he cut his eyes at J.J. “Are we going Dutch?”
J.J. laughed. “It’s on me. Order whatever you want.”
Duane pointed at Iris. “You’re getting the wine pairings and sharing.”
“Good luck with that,” Buck mumbled. Kimberly covered a giggle, explaining to Iris that she was just so happy we were all together to celebrate my birthday.
Once we had been solicitously seated and were looking over menus, Duane’s eyes grew big at the prices, then he leaned over to J.J. and whispered, “When you say you’re treating, you really mean your very rich parents are treating, right?”
J.J. smiled and repeated, “Order whatever you want.”
“Mm-mm, I should have worn looser pants,” Duane said as he disappeared behind his menu.
As everyone read through the selections, J.J. and I kept stealing glances at each other, and as much as I tried, I just couldn’t keep what I knew was a shamefully stupid smile off my face. I don’t know that I’d ever been as happy. Here I was in an exclusive, highly regarded restaurant with my family, flawed though they may be, a good friend, and the man with whom I was in love. Does it really get much better than that?
And that’s when I felt a sharp kick on the side of my calf. Duane, who was seated beside me, leaned over, very unsubtly holding his menu in front of us as if that didn’t broadcast to the rest of the world that he was saying something “private” to me, and hissed, “You told him, and you won’t tell me?”
Realizing that my effervescent giddiness was making me careless, my stomach clenched, but luckily I managed to bluster through faux annoyance convincingly enough to shut Duane up. “Would you stop it? I don’t know what it is you’re imagining you see, but if I can’t be grateful to the person who is about to buy you a very expensive dinner, well, then something is really messed up in your world.”
Only looking half-chagrined, Duane slit his eyes and pursed his lips. “Hm.” But he sat back and returned his attention to the decision at hand.
“Mr. Kennerly, we’re so pleased you’ve honored us with a visit,” the restaurant’s chef and owner said as he arrived at the table. I’d seen the guy on one of those cooking shows on TV, and at that time I wouldn’t have thought “obsequious” was a word that could have ever been used to describe him, but standing in front of J.J., it was definitely what I was seeing.
“Thank you so much for accommodating me at short notice. It was my friend’s birthday yesterday, and I wanted to do something special since my schedule forced the delay in celebrating.” J.J. shot me a quick smile intended to be loaded with secret meaning, but I tried to warn him away from any such displays by darting my eyes to Duane with a distressed look. Then realizing how that must have looked to the chef, I tried my best for an appreciative smile directed at him. (Duane, by the way, stared slightly drop-jawed at our
celebrity host, so I need not have worried about him seeing J.J.’s look that time.)
“Happy birthday,” the chef said to me, somehow implying with the two words how lucky I was to know someone like J.J. Kennerly or I never would have been allowed to even eat out of the trash cans in his restaurant. This was much more like what’d I expected from the personality I’d seen on TV.
But then he turned to Kimberly and told her she was even lovelier in person than in the many beautiful pictures he’d seen of her. I guess as the second most famous person at the table, she got the second-best treatment.
“Do you all know what you want, or do you need more time?” he asked J.J., back to his most gracious.
J.J. looked expectantly to me. “You’re the guest of honor. Do you know what you want?”
I couldn’t exactly answer, “You,” even though that’s what I was thinking, but since I hadn’t understood half the foods and preparations listed on the menu, I asked him if he would order for me. Almost in unison, Kimberly, Iris, and Buck asked if he’d order for them too. Duane held up a finger, “I’ll order for myself, thank you.”
Per Duane’s instructions in the limo, Iris did request the wine pairings, but then she also ordered a separate bottle of a favorite wine she hadn’t had in ages. (Maybe because it cost $700.) And then she actually acted surprised when it arrived and she “realized” she was the only one at the table of drinking age. “Oh, how silly of me. And I’d been thinking we could all enjoy it together.”
“I guess you’ll just have to enjoy it all for us, Mom,” Buck said with a tone that could have been called supportive … or patronizing, depending on which side you fall on the question of Buck’s I.Q. Then he added, “Although I am going to be twenty-one soon.”
“Soon,” Iris said, patting his hand. “But not yet. We don’t want to get anyone in trouble with the paparazzi lurking around every corner.”
And as if by divine design, at that exact moment, a news van could be seen pulling up outside, and a photographer began yelling that he’d gotten there first.
“Someone must have tipped them off,” J.J. said, resigned.
“A wolf in chef’s clothing?” I suggested. J.J. nodded.
“Photographers?” Duane said, looking almost overwhelmed with anxiety.
“Yeah, so?” I said. “You love having your picture taken.”
“But I just ordered enough food for three people. If I eat all of it—which I am entirely capable of doing—I’ll look fat in the pictures. Oh my God, I suddenly understand Sophie’s Choice in an entirely new way.”
J.J. burst out laughing, but then when he realized from Duane’s look that he’d been serious, he tried to cover it by coughing.
“Who’s Sophie?” Buck asked.
As Duane began to explain the plot of Sophie’s Choice to him, I surveyed the table and realized that although she sat smiling next to J.J., Kimberly had said almost nothing all evening. I caught her attention and mouthed, “Are you okay?” She nodded, then leaned over the table and whispered, “I’m just so happy.” Her eyes moved from Iris, to Buck, to Duane, to J.J., and then back to me. “Isn’t this great?”
Although I did at first have a pang of guilt that she didn’t know the entire story, as I looked around the table I found myself flirting with optimism. Nothing about it was what would classically be called “perfect,” but it was as close to happy as I’d ever been.
The meal was every bit as delicious as anyone could dream, we all had a great time, and somehow Buck’s saying, “Don’t make me choose,” over every little decision stayed funny throughout the entire meal. Even when Duane hand fed him samples of each of the desserts he’d ordered and asked which one was the best. I guess Iris really believed that Duane and I were dating, because I don’t think the wine would have been enough on its own for her not to notice the black guy trying to seduce her beefy, blond son. Instead, she just laughed at everything. Which was actually nice to see, because Iris laughing had been a pretty rare sight since my father died.
Incidentally, the paparazzi photo I mentioned at the very beginning of this story was taken that night as we were leaving the restaurant. And if you happen to remember that I didn’t mention Duane in the picture, it’s because he’d been Photoshopped out. He made such a fool of himself trying to get in the center of every frame as the throng of photographers swarmed us, that they all either only used pictures taken from angles he wasn’t able to throw himself into, or with digital magic they made him disappear. We all got a good laugh over that the next day. Well, except for Duane, of course.
There was a lot of laughter in my life at that time. In fact, the next seven or so weeks were some of the best of my life. But happiness seems to always be a ticking clock, and time ran out soon enough.
CHAPTER 14
A BIG DEAL
The holiday season started out pretty great. Since the night of my birthday dinner had been the first night with some bite to the cold, it was the first night I’d worn my too-small winter jacket since the previous year. And although even Iris had commented we needed a new coat for me when she saw the picture in the paper, before we could do it, the next time J.J. came to take Kimberly out, he had a present for me. He acted like it was an old jacket of his that he never wore and was going to get rid of anyway, but even though it wasn’t wrapped, I could tell it was new. For starters, I was a few sizes smaller than J.J., and even someone as fashion illiterate as myself could tell that the cut was very much current. But also, tucked deep in a pocket, he had included a gift receipt so that I could return it for something else if I didn’t like it.
The lie about the gift was just to avoid having to come up with an explanation for my family as to why he was giving it to me, of course, but J.J. had actually conceived a one-two punch of distraction for them, just in case. Because just as Iris reached out to touch the fabric, he sprang a whopper on them. His parents were inviting us to their home for Thanksgiving.
I think Iris’s reaction might best be summed up by what Buck mumbled dryly to Kimberly, who sat next to him on the couch. “Who knew a dinner invitation could hit someone’s G-spot.”
Kimberly turned slowly to him with a look of disgust. “Gross. That’s our mother you’re talking about.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true.”
Surprisingly, I don’t have any good stories from the actual event. Other than china and silver expensive enough to send an Ethiopian village to Harvard, Thanksgiving dinner at the Kennerlys’ wasn’t really much different than Thanksgiving anywhere else. Sure, there was a table long enough for forty people, almost all part of their extended clan, but Buck behaved, Iris didn’t drink (although I’m not sure how many Xanax Kimberly slipped her in the days and hours leading up to that Thursday—even Calculus has its limits), and Duane considered it all “disappointingly boring” when I gave him my full report over Skype when I got home.
And, since their entire extended family was expected at Livia Kennerly’s compound in the Berkshires for the Christmas holiday, Christmas wasn’t any more eventful. J.J. did manage to make contact by calling Kimberly and having her pass the phone around to all of the members of my family so that he could wish me Merry Christmas (and tell me he loved me). For those keeping score, the other two volumes of the Jane Austen set he’d given me for my birthday were just the start of the gifts he slipped me before he left town. (I don’t mean that as dirty as it sounds. Although, thanks to Kimberly having bragged about my proofing and editing skills, he had managed to get me over to his house alone a number of times, and while somehow neither of our grades suffered, there were lots and lots of “study breaks.”)
Like I said, the weeks following my birthday, with a few momentary exceptions, were pretty much one long miracle of bliss. It wasn’t until the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve that it all began to fall apart.
The Kennerlys’ annual New Year’s Eve party was the most important unofficial event of the New York society calendar. Since there was no char
ity to fundraise for, or sponsor to help coordinate, or anything but Jennifer and Jonas deciding with whom they wanted to ring in the New Year, it was the most desperately whispered—and schemed—about invitation imaginable. It was also an unspoken law among those who had a legitimate chance to even aspire to attend that if you didn’t get an invitation, the last thing you would ever want to do would be to mention it to Jennifer Kennerly, let alone plead for one. That would not only get you blacklisted from the event for life, it would most likely increase what you would have to donate for the “privilege” of attending even lesser events in the subsequent years. High society works that way.
What I’m saying is, it was a BIG DEAL. And because it was such a BIG DEAL, Iris hadn’t felt secure enough of Kimberly’s status in J.J.’s life, even after being included for Thanksgiving, to actually allow herself to hope she might receive an invitation. (Full disclosure: on one of my visits to J.J.’s house to “help him with his homework,” Mrs. Kennerly had asked if our family had plans for the night, but I’d chosen not to tell Iris. Partially I enjoyed the secret, but also self-preservation helped me keep it, because I wouldn’t have wanted to be the focus of Iris’s ire if the invitation had failed to arrive.)
I had just gotten home from school, and luckily Buck was at the gym when the thick-papered envelope with embossed printing arrived, because if he’d thought Iris was excited when we’d gotten invited to Thanksgiving dinner, I don’t even want to imagine what he would have said about the pleasure she took in opening that envelope. Although, as pure as the look of almost religious redemption on Iris’s face was as she read the invitation, it was curiously short lived. Within a minute, her breaths began to shorten, and her face and chest burned flush.
“What’s wrong?” Kimberly asked, concerned.
“We’re running out of time,” Iris told her, grabbing her arm urgently.
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