It was now abundantly clear that in the event of a real emergency, rather than being that person who springs heroically to action, Rachel would be one of the dopes on the sidelines paralyzed by hysteria. But why should she open it? She wasn’t expecting any 5 AM visitors! Who the hell came over a share house at 5 AM anyway? And—as she turned her body frantically from left to right—where on earth were the dozens of other people she knew were staying here?
But her soliloquy was cut short by the sound of the doorknob jiggling, succeeded by that ear-piercing squeak—not unlike that of sneakers against a gym floor—of the door cracking open.
It was the longest moment of her twenty-four years so far, and Rachel never had again such a near-death sensation. For, from the top of the banister, she silently watched as the interloper traipsed in: not a twentysomething kid, as she’d until now been expecting, but rather a man. A ruggedly clothed, wild-haired bear of a man who, stepping inside and glaring around bewilderedly, pinned his gaze on her like a hunter registering his target.
But Rachel breathed a sigh of relief when the man extended his right arm, his right hand, revealing two (of four) chubby fingers.
“Chuck!” she exclaimed, sauntering fearlessly down to greet him. She’d made it about halfway when she regretted letting her guard down.
Flailing his unintended peace sign in the air haphazardly, he was nothing (short of a finger loss) at all reminiscent of their beloved cabdriver. His words did little to better his case.
“I need two boys!” he wailed, like a monster needing to be fed.
Maintaining her distance, Rachel fearfully studied his inflamed face and roaming eyes. Though, rather than thinking him possessed, or the victim of a raging werewolf, Rachel’s first impulse was gratitude—that she wasn’t a boy.
“Two boys!” he bellowed again, roaming the room. He dragged out the endings of his syllables the way a megaphone might. “I need two boooys for Quooogue!”
Rachel imagined that, even if there had been two boys in this house with the intention of going to Quogue, hearing this frightening call would most certainly dissuade them.
But as he locked his gaze on her again and wiped his perpetually wet forehead, Rachel felt compelled to respond. “Uh, okay...two boys for Quogue?” she repeated.
Chuck nodded in creepy slow motion.
“Well, um, I don’t think anyone called for a cab here. But I can go check.” Not waiting to hear his response, she darted back upstairs as if she almost expected him to chase after her.
He didn’t, but that didn’t stop her from bolting frantically down the hall anyway. “Anyone order a cab?” she cried to no one in particular. Her words rang out unanswered.
Shuffling through the dining room (scattered with sleeping people), Rachel stomped her feet conspicuously in the hope she might rouse someone. Approaching the row of bedrooms, she searched for any signs of life.
Fortunately, she discerned the sounds of people behind one. Tapping the door gently, she grabbed the doorknob. For better or worse, it wasn’t locked.
“Ohmigod!” Rachel shrieked, and slammed it right shut again. Without a doubt, it was the wrong door. Clearly neither of the two naked couples (one positioned on one bed, the second on the other)—who were simultaneously and unselfconsciously engaged in intercourse—were in need of a cab at that particular moment. And clearly Rachel had been unaware that this dark dank double, devoid of windows or its assigned occupants, functioned as the unofficial f...ooling around...room.
She would be sure to keep that in mind for future reference.
Continuing on down the hallway in less a frenzy than a daze, Rachel debated waking Mark—whose own door was always locked from the mysteriously early hour he’d disappear from the clubs—when she saw the light. Seeping through the cracks of a doorway, it was something she’d moments ago have considered a good sign...back before she was inclined to presume the worst. So she gave a hard knock, and (having learned her lesson) waited.
“Come in,” someone yelled. (Good sign number two?)
Nevertheless envisioning naked debauchery as she opened it, an inch at a time, Rachel was relieved to find just four people, hanging out—rather than copulating.
“Oh good!” Taking a bold step forward, Rachel examined the four familiar faces: two girls with too much color to whom she’d never formally been introduced, and two frat guys who often idled away the day playing the horseshoe game Mark set up by the pool for money. “Do you guys know if anyone ordered a cab to Quogue? Chuck is downstairs...only he’s acting really crazy, like he’s on crack or something!”
But no sooner had she said this than out of the corner of her eye she spotted a rolled-up five-dollar bill on the floor. Her first instinct was to pick it up, until she realized it was tightly, deliberately rolled. Rachel was rather naive about drugs, having never even smoked anything other than a cigarette or two, so this was about as scary as spotting a revolver on the floor. Then as she noted the powder-tinged glass mirror on the nightstand five feet from them, she had an all-too-delayed epiphany.
“Want some?” one of the guys asked her, as if a bribe to keep his secret.
“I’m okay, thanks,” Rachel said, making her way out (and sounding nowhere near as casual as she had intended). While she knew certain share houses were notorious for their open-door drug policy, Rachel had never suspected people did them in this house. Ashamed at her ignorance, she supposed that, like in college dorms, Mark simply couldn’t control what people did behind closed doors. But for tonight, she was through trying to find out.
Emboldened by having made one too many unsavory discoveries (what had she expected to find at 5 AM anyway?), Rachel hung herself over the stairwell.
“I’m sorry, there aren’t...two boys for Quogue here,” she called down to Chuck, whose eerie voice she still heard in her head. “You must have the wrong house,” she concluded before turning her back to him and starting away. Afraid he wasn’t going to leave, when she peeked around again she was pleased (and genuinely surprised) to find him doing just that.
Though, returning to her room, her pulse still racing, she discovered Dave sprawled out on her bed.
“Get out!” she shrieked, pounding the mattress with her arm (and wondering where—or in whose bed—Dave had until this point been hiding).
As she locked the door behind him, Rachel assumed this to be the last of the bed-hopper’s mischief—the last of the night’s mischief. But as soon as she settled down again beneath her sheet, the silence was punctuated by a resounding howl. And it wasn’t until the next morning that Rachel (and everyone else) learned why.
Determined not to admit defeat, Dave apparently stumbled down the hall, testing out several doorknobs before discovering an unlocked one.
Undetected, he slipped inside the room belonging to the Turtle Girl’s Clan, aware that Melissa, the only attractive one, slept in the bed closest to the window.
Every night but tonight.
Dave tiptoed over and lifted the covers, preparing to climb into bed beside her. He was astonished at what he found.
Not Melissa (who was hooking up with Movado Boy down-stairs), nor her other two roommates (sleeping in their correct beds), but instead Aaron. Aaron, who’d moved over to Melissa’s bed so the friend of the girl Steve was hooking up with could have her own bed.
Aaron, whom Rachel once again saw in a good light.
It was the last door opened by the bed-hopper, that night. But on nights henceforth, both male and female shareholders took to locking their doors more diligently. Well, shareholders other than Rachel, who began to wonder if hers had been locked too tightly.
For, true, picking the wrong door is a scary prospect—especially when you have no idea what lies behind it. But rather than close a door, Rachel was ready to open a new one.
Chapter Seventeen
In the self-contained ecosystem that is a Hamptons share house, the need seldom exists to venture past a few basic locations: the bagel store, the twenty
-four-hour diner, the stand where you can buy cigarettes for only three dollars a pack, and the handful of popular nightclubs (which themselves serve as each town’s most pivotal landmark).
These reference points any shareholder could navigate blindfolded; these reference points any shareholder was expected to know. But everything else, everything unfamiliar, fell into a gray area.
Thus, come the first weekend in August (when Jamie realized their weekend excursions to “the beach” had yet to include an actual trip to one), she set about redefining life beyond 1088 Montauk.
“Does anyone know where there’s a beach around here?” she asked one Sunday morning, to the sea of motionless bodies draped lazily around the pool.
As if she’d just proposed Who wants to run a lap around the town? nobody budged. They were too busy offering their skin to the sun, or rehydrating with gargantuan bottles of Poland Spring or VitaminWater, and speaking proved entirely too taxing.
Throwing her head back in frustration, Jamie looked to her friends, who’d by now joined her on the patio. Allison crept over to Brian, who was sprawled out facedown on one of the lounge chairs. “Want to come with us to the beach?” she said sweetly, massaging his shoulders with her hands.
But, as if unable to move any other part of his body, he slowly shook his head from right to left. Would no one help them?
Shifting the weight of her beach bag, Jamie surveyed the idleness a share house was only capable of in the AM. This was harder than rousing the attention of a guy during a sporting event! “No one knows where there’s a beach in the Hamptons?” she called out again, louder.
“Shh! What do you need to go to a beach for?” Rob finally responded, pushing his cap to the brim of his head.
“Because I’m sick of looking at your navy-blue bathing suit every single weekend,” she joked. Noticing she was standing dangerously close to the edge of the pool to be making such a comment, Jamie hurried to qualify it. “It’s just, we always lie out by the pool.”
Rob merely yawned, repositioning his hat to cover his face. “Oh, stop complaining,” came his muffled voice through the fabric.
Jamie seethed, because really, she hadn’t been. Complaining would have been pointing out how it was beyond hot, or how there was virtually no breeze, or how this musty, fly-ridden pool area reeked of dirty, sweaty bodies and a weekend’s worth of tequila. (Again, that was only if she were complaining.)
But just as she was about to...comment...on how preposterous it was that not a single person could so much as point them in the right direction...
“You’re looking for a beach?” Dave called out from a lounge chair a few rows away. When she nodded eagerly, he waved her over.
This unfortunately involved circumventing Ilana and the Tara/Jocelyns, whose iPod earphones (with lowered volume) did little to disguise their insatiable hunger for gossip. But it was just as well, for Jamie’s feigned indifference did little to disguise her raging hatred.
When she negotiated her way through the maze, Dave made this big show of raising himself upright and shifting his legs so she could squeeze on the end of his lounge chair.
“Okay, ready?” Opening his eyes wide, he engaged hers intently, as if he was about to tell her a secret. “First, when you come out of the driveway, make a right.”
“Wait!” Jamie turned to her friends, lingering in limbo behind her. “You guys, come here. I’m not going to remember this.”
Once Dave had commanded all three girls’ attention, he continued. “So, you make that first right, then continue all the way down Montauk Highway to the 7-Eleven.”
7-Eleven, 7-Eleven, Jamie tried to remember.
“Then make a left, cross the train tracks, then another left.” He paused and looked up at them. “Did you get all that?”
They nodded simultaneously.
“Well, actually”—he gazed off into the distance, as if suddenly recalling a better route—“actually...I’m just messing around.” His serious face broke into a devilish smile (one no one else cared to reciprocate).
Smacking him on the shoulder, Jamie rose to her feet. “Does anyone here really know how to get to a beach?” She flashed him a reproachful look.
“Aaask Maaark,” Brian droned in a nasally voice.
Upon this suggestion, Jamie scanned the twenty or so people. “Where is Mark?”
“Oh, I heard him leave the house at like nine this morning to run errands,” said Rachel, who slept less than anyone Jamie knew.
Jamie raised an eyebrow. “And by running errands, you mean driving home his girl from last night?”
“I have no idea. I think Craig was with him, though.” Rachel shrugged.
“Shady!” Jamie exclaimed. It was the word they most often used to describe Mark.
But just as she was debating which local store would be able to give the best directions, one of the Tenants (the girls who scarcely made an effort to interact with the rest of the house) glanced up from her Life&Style Weekly.
“You know, I think there’s a beach on Dune Road,” she said, as if just now registering Jamie’s request.
Jamie pounced. “Wait, where?”
Scurrying over, for the first time all summer Jamie was afforded a close-up of her face (which, perhaps due to her slightly older age or dauntingly even tan or flashy designer sunglasses, carried an innate credibility). Though as she spoke, Jamie was conscious of little other than the ostentatious double C’s staring back at her (which she supposed, was the whole point of wearing Chanel). “Do you know where the Saks is?” she began.
“There’s a Saks here?” Jamie shrieked. This was more exciting a prospect than the beach!
“Yeah, right by the movie theater.” Movie theater? “Haven’t you ever driven to town?” the girl asked, noting Jamie’s bewildered expression.
Jamie shook her head. She was happy when they made it to the share house without a problem.
“Well, don’t quote me because I’ve never been there,” the Tenant said, gathering her honey-blond curls into a ponytail only to shake them out again, “but I’m pretty sure if you follow Montauk Highway east and turn right on First Neck Lane, there’s a beach on the end of that road. Dune Road. At least, I always see the signs.”
“Okay, cool. Thanks.” Satisfied, Jamie turned toward her friends with new conviction. “So we should probably bring a blanket. And let’s stop at Goldberg’s for food...”
“Wait, are you seriously going?” Rob called, flipping up his hat again.
Seeing she’d piqued his interest, Jamie couldn’t resist a smirk. “I thought you liked the pool?”
But from the chair next to him, Brian rose slowly, dismissing his whole “languid” act like a kid caught pretending to be sick who instantly snaps to. “Fine, I’ll go.”
“Well, if you’re going, I’m going,” Rob joked, jumping to his feet. He began to collect his things.
Observing this mass exodus from their horseshoe game a few yards away, a trio of frat-type guys clonked down some metal pieces and headed toward them. “Yo, where are you going?” they yelled as they approached, presumably fearful of missing a food run.
Rob yanked a T-shirt over his head. “Beach.”
Confused expressions all around. “What beach?”
And from the inquisitive girls lying next to them: “Where is there a beach?”
And from a pack across the pool: “Who’s going to the beach?”
And one by one, the dominoes fell. When one person in a share house had an idea, it spread through the group faster than cold germs. Until—by virtue of no one wanting to be left behind—it gained enough momentum to qualify as a field trip.
This being the case, Jamie hurried inside to wake Jeff (whose bed she’d left not even an hour ago). But when she discovered only his crumpled sheets, she wandered back out again.
It always impressed her how, no matter what the time of day, no matter what he was wearing (which was usually either a white or gray T-shirt), Jeff always seemed to b
e the model of male attractiveness. The one who would easily (though not unknowingly) outshine every other guy unfortunate enough to be in a room beside him. And it wasn’t just his clear blue eyes or straight white teeth; it was the overall flawlessness of his package that made it impossible not to stare at him. It was as if you’d spotted a movie star in person, searched for imperfections, and realized in awe that the camera wasn’t hiding anything.
But what didn’t impress Jamie was that she found him standing with none other than her least favorite person. Jeff had stopped talking to Ilana for, like, a second following the hot tub incident—but now held her in even higher esteem because of it, since to the males in the house he’d become a celebrity.
Jamie, on the other hand, continued to ignore her—what earned a guy the reputation of pimp made a girl come across as a slut. “Guess what. We’re all going to the beach,” she informed him, smiling as she crossed the evacuated patio.
Furrowing his brow, he stared at her as if she’d just presented him with some complicated math problem. “Where is there a beach?”
Glancing over at the Tenant, Jamie found her positioning unaltered. “Well, we’re not exactly sure. But she”—Jamie gestured to the girl whose name she still didn’t know and realistically probably never would—“said there’s one on Dune Road, not that far from here.”
“I think,” the girl called out.
“She thinks,” Jamie corrected.
“Who’s going?” He fixated his gaze on her in a way that suddenly made her conscious of it. She hoped he couldn’t notice this.
“Everyone,” she said, secretly wondering why the fact that she was wasn’t enough. “It started out like three of us, now it’s more like thirty.”
“Cool.” Jeff turned to Ilana and company, to whom Jamie expected he would promptly excuse himself. “Beach?”
Looking about as stunned as Jamie felt, Ilana wound down her (already low) iPod volume. “Where are you going?” she asked, even though someone would’ve had to be deaf to have missed the commotion before.
How the Other Half Hamptons Page 21