He pulled the covers completely off them, so Brian’s footage would capture more of the action.
Panicked by this whole outrageous scenario, Allison immediately rolled over and squeezed her eyes shut. She could barely believe what Brian was doing. And even as she tried to make sense of it, Allison could feel the moment happening. The moment when you knew—in the pit of your stomach, you just knew—things were going to end.
Brian would probably try to explain himself. How, in the context of share house world, he was only trying to be funny. But in Allison’s world—in the real world—this kind of humor just wasn’t acceptable.
Perhaps it was naive to think a relationship with someone so wrong for her could have remained sunny and bright forever. Perhaps the rain was necessary to finally see the light. But it was now obvious beyond all doubt that she was trapped in this tiny box of a room, with rats.
Her little experiment with Brian was now officially over.
Chapter Twenty
In English heraldry, white...signified brightness, purity, virtue, and innocence. (The American Girls Handy Book, 1887, page 369)
One cardinal rule governs every Labor Day White Party.
Yet somehow, within the first five minutes, Rachel Burstein was already contemplating breaking it.
Not that she’d ever been one to break the rules. Especially where social etiquette was concerned. But to someone who wore black about as religiously as other people wore...shoes, say, wearing head-to-toe white felt no less preposterous than wearing head-to-toe polka dots. White wasn’t just a departure from her preferred wardrobe palette, it was a departure from her comfort zone. And upon the very first opportunity she was afforded, she had every intention of slipping away and changing out of it.
“Well, why not?” she’d challenged her friends after stepping onto the pool patio like a disoriented sophomore stepping into her first high school prom. Though, rather than having swapped street garb for fancy evening attire, they’d tonight exchanged swimsuits and cover-ups for any combination of the following: flouncy white skirts (the BCBG sequined model a perennial fave), tight white tank tops, solid white dresses, or calf-length white capris—with differentiation attempted through various belt and jewelry accents (all courtesy of the same West Village street vendors).
Aside from surrendering her routine going-out color, what made Rachel even more uncomfortable was that wearing all-white outfits necessitated wearing absolutely no underwear. No exceptions. It was the kind of thing Rachel couldn’t stop thinking about for even a minute, creating a state of constant paranoia that her practically knee-length skirt left far too little to the imagination. She knew remaining in this clothing for the next few hours just wouldn’t feel right.
Jamie was hardly sympathetic.
“Are you serious? You can’t change yet! You’re supposed to wear white for the entire White Party!” protested the girl who rarely wore black—or for that matter, underwear—out at night, anyway. Rachel should have anticipated this; they always had found themselves at odds about practically everything. “Besides,” Jamie continued, “we haven’t even taken pictures yet! If you change, you’ll have to spend the whole rest of the party avoiding everyone—or having everyone else avoid you, because you’ll ruin their white pictures. Is it really worth it?”
“I guess not,” Rachel had agreed, and—picturing her sister’s framed photographs of tanned, glowing girls sporting goddess-like white ensembles for this annual occasion, which was known to be the “affair of the summer” and actually the invention of shareholders her sister’s year—she was temporarily convinced. Convinced, and commando.
“And anyway,” Jamie added, prompting them all to walk down the pool steps (the attention-summoning equivalent of a model walking down a runway), “white is like, the symbol of purity. Virginity. If there ever was someone I’d think would feel comfortable in the color, it’d be you.”
“Not funny,” Rachel said, pulling down her skirt like it made a difference and instantly growing self-conscious again. Though, catching sight of Aaron stationed opposite them on the deck in what was practically the male uniform—white polo shirt and white pants (khakis were prohibited)—the thoughts she proceeded to entertain were anything but pure.
And her reaction to them was anything but characteristic. Aaron was standing around talking to Steve—the two seeming as approachable as any two guys in blaring white outfits possibly could seem. However, as if alongside her black clothes she’d shed her confidence (or as if she’d suddenly morphed back into a twelve-year-old who froze in the face of her crush), Rachel couldn’t seem to approach them.
Instead, assuming a more mature approach (pretending not to notice his presence), she stayed tight in the huddle of her friends, mimicking their steps through the crowd on the patio. Which, she had to admit, was transportingly beautiful.
The White Party (initially modeled after Diddy’s annual event) was a longtime Labor Day tradition in Mark’s house and nothing short of a share-house-wide effort: from the moment they woke up until the three-hour mark when, naturally, they needed to start getting ready, they’d decorated the place with streamers and balloons and special-order white roses (the majority of which wound up in all the girls’ hair). Even more impressively, they’d set up a bar station (Craig revealed himself to be a skillful mixologist), hired a DJ (some guy with his own equipment who’d been a shareholder years back), and invited every single person in the Hamptons any of them knew. Still, while everyone indeed expected this built-up party to be great, nothing could prepare Rachel for the sight of a hundred people cloaking the pool area in a blanket of white, the setting sun casting a postcard-like pink gleam in the background.
Lost in a sea of monochromatic fusing fabric, Rachel looked around for people she recognized, and succeeded in spotting a few (those girls from the Midwest, that lawyer Dan who’d at one point seemed promising). But something about being dressed in spanking white costume-like attire made them feel like strangers all over again. Maybe it was because, at six in the evening, they all still felt the burden of sobriety. Maybe it was because there actually were so many strangers here. Or maybe she had merely forgotten what it was like to go out in Manhattan—as three girls alone in a sea of strangers—back before they’d grown accustomed to traveling in a pack of forty housemates. Maybe this was all just an unwelcome foreshadowing of how things would shortly be again.
Thinking about it, Rachel felt the pang in her stomach that far too often preceded tears. Everyone knew Labor Day was synonymous with the end, like the last day of camp or school, when you honestly believe you’ll see each other again but sometimes never do. What’s more, she wondered where everyone would be next weekend—when the weather was virtually the same, though someone somewhere had appointed summer officially over. Well, next weekend she’d be at Dana’s wedding, but would they all still hang out a week from now? A month from now? Would there be a reason for e-mails other than soliciting rides or swapping photo albums? Or (and this was the part she hated thinking about most) was their only common ground their shared roof and collective interest in summertime debauchery? If so, she’d discover this soon enough.
“Wow, where did the summer go?” Allison said, reading Rachel’s mind (yet peering around as if she’d meant to ask, Where did Brian go?).
“I know!” Jamie sang, probably feeling her tan fading already. “Doesn’t it feel like forever ago that we met everyone at DIP?”
Rachel nodded, but then decided it did and it didn’t. A lot had transpired since that night in May when their now tight-knit group came together awkwardly for the very first time. In fact, she felt like she’d done more and made more memories in three short months than she’d done and made in the entire last year! Now spotting Rob and Dave over by the bar, trying to rile up Craig as usual, Rachel smiled. In this way an outsider could never fully understand, doing a summer share is like pledging a fraternity—subjecting yourself to the epitome of randomness, revelry, intimacy, and fear, learn
ing more about yourself, and sharing with others a secret life. It’s both nothing and yet everything you expect it to be, for it’s those things you think you’ll hate that wind up winning you over most. Also like pledging, seeing your companions at all times of day, reacting to all types of situations, wearing all types of clothing (and sometimes, inevitably, none at all) is like pressing the fast-forward button on a relationship. Although catching Aaron’s eye and then glancing away purely as a reflex, Rachel was reminded of one relationship she hadn’t forwarded fast enough.
But she wasn’t going to dwell on it. She’d even (sort of) come to terms with it, like any goal she’d happened to mistakenly overshoot (scoring the perfect wedding date, dropping a full bridesmaid’s dress size). Summer shares might serve as an additional social avenue, but they certainly weren’t magic! You couldn’t expect to walk into a share house and walk out with a boyfriend any more than you could expect to walk into a bar and walk out with one. Well, maybe you could, maybe some people could, but the alternative wasn’t necessarily walking away empty-handed. And boyfriend status aside, Rachel was actually walking away with plenty: new friends, new experiences, new exposure (or—given her present lack of underwear—decidedly more exposure). In fact, with everything she had to show for the summer, who could possibly care about a stupid label like...
“Patrón?” Brian said, coming up from behind clenching two shot glasses and a bottle of his favorite tequila.
Instinctively Rachel shook her head, glancing away for a moment as (she imagined) he was going to pour. But turning back, she was surprised to discover Brian, Jamie, and Allison staring at her conspiratorially.
“No!” she said.
“Come on! It’s the last weekend. Just do one!” Jamie pleaded.
“It’s not as bad as you think,” added Allison.
“Do it for ol’ Ten Eighty-eight Montauk!” chimed in Brian.
Rachel paused. It must have been because she’d just been so emotional before that she was even considering this. But no—what was she thinking? She’d never done a shot. Shots were for sloppy drunk girls! And besides, she’d gone this far in her life without ever trying it—just like not smoking pot or not pumping her own gas—what reason was there to start now? “You don’t even have another glass,” she protested, realizing it was a lame excuse as Brian tilted back the bottle.
Seeing the fright in her friend’s eyes, Jamie quickly offered her own glass, but Rachel pushed away her hand. Her mind was already made up.
“If I throw up all night, you’re holding back my hair!” Rachel warned, bending her neck and opening her mouth into an O. At this, Jamie’s eyes lit up.
“To a great summer!” she chanted, prompting Brian to tip the bottle.
The Patrón burned as it hit the back of her throat. But Rachel realized that sometimes getting burned was just part of the game.
“Want to go over to the bar?” Jamie suggested after Allison and Brian began arguing over something or other. Rachel nodded emphatically, perhaps more emphatically because of the Patrón, but just before they started away she snuck a peek in Aaron’s direction. He was still in the same spot, chatting with Steve, more like they were at home on someone’s couch than out in public at a party—and Rachel couldn’t help but wonder when there’d be an occasion to see him again. After tomorrow—the final night—would they just wave and say good-bye? Would he dare attempt to call her, when she’d gone and spurned his initial text? Or would she just have to wait for some overlapping birthday party months down the line, where everyone in their scene just happened to be? What if by then it was too late?
Directing her focus back toward Jamie, Rachel stayed close on her heels as she shoved her way through the crowd. Funny, as much as she always criticized Jamie for her boldness, her friend would never be caught in such a left-to-chance situation. For better or worse (or for only one night), she just wasn’t the type to leave it up to the guy to call, to ask her out, to initiate the first move. Jamie went for what she wanted—whatever it was she wanted—and would never wait around to be rescued by some white knight.
“What can I get ya?” Craig joked as she approached him—the joke being that they were serving only one thing. In special honor of the White Party, they’d created a mysterious vodka-pineapple mixture—cleverly light in color, so that if anyone spilled, they wouldn’t have to worry about staining. Diligently, Craig had spent the last few hours on the deck mass-producing the stuff in a gigantic tub, and (as if he’d chosen rather than been assigned to the task) was now proudly doling it up.
“Uh...surprise us,” Jamie said, before turning around to interrupt Jeff, who was standing in the center of a huddle enclosed by Ilana and ten white clones, hardly looking like he wanted to be interrupted.
Watching as Craig scooped two plastic cups into the tub, Rachel leaned over the bar. “So how does this White Party compare with past ones?” she asked him, trying to picture her sister here.
“No comparison. There are way too many people tonight,” he barked, putting down the cups and wiping the sweat from his forehead.
As she’d often found herself doing with him, Rachel tried to point out the positive side. “Well, next summer you’ll know to cut the guest list.”
He looked her straight in the eye then, as if she should have been able to read his mind. “I’m not going to be here next summer,” he said.
“What?” Rachel said. “Whh—why?”
“I’m running my own house,” he declared, presumably trying it out on his tongue. “Actually just squared it away today. In Ocean Beach, Fire Island, in case you know anyone who’s interested.”
“Wow...I think that’s great,” she said, genuinely proud. She couldn’t believe that after years of being Mark’s assistant, Craig was finally taking this initiative, and secretly wondered how Mark would ever manage without him.
But that’s when it happened. Turning around to pass a cup back to Jamie, she noticed that Aaron and Steve had wandered over to join their group.
Had she known, she might have prevented it. But now catching his eye from only a few short feet away, she had no choice but to go over.
“Hey,” she said, overcome by a nervousness she’d never felt in speaking to him before. It was actually quite alarming, for she’d always been a pro at icebreakers and could conduct marathon conversations with everyone from doctors to lawyers to cabdrivers (of whom, this summer, she’d learned to grow wary).
Oddly, Aaron seemed just as uncomfortable. “You look great,” he said, and his compliment encouraged her (though she hoped it wasn’t merely what he’d been saying to girls all night).
“Thanks,” she answered, now fearing the transparency of her nerves alongside her attire. The features of her face felt unnaturally loose, making it difficult to smile. “Actually, I borrowed this skirt from Dana,” she said, stammering for conversation. “She wore it to her White Party, a few years back...”
But noting the weird expression he’d made at the mention of her sister, Rachel stopped herself. Perhaps old flames died hard. “Sorry if she wasn’t all that friendly last weekend,” she added, feeling the need to excuse her sister’s overtly snobbish behavior. “She was just—”
“She was just being a bitch. As usual,” he said boldly. And, judging from his alarmed expression, perhaps more boldly than he’d even intended.
All Rachel could do was stare.
“You think my sister’s...a bitch?” she finally got out, thoroughly stunned.
“Well, sometimes,” he said, this time more timidly, as if he were insulting her favorite band rather than her only sibling. But he suddenly looked overwhelmingly relieved. “We worked together for two whole years, and—I have to be honest with you—I never got along with her. She could be pretty selfish and condescending, and was whining all the time.”
Rachel remained frozen in shock, but Aaron continued speaking.
“I actually thought you’d be the same way when I met you at the meet-and-greet party,” h
e added bashfully, color rushing to his face. “But then I saw how nice you were when everyone bombarded you with questions about her. And, well, fortunately you’re nothing like her.”
Neither of them spoke for a minute, the resultant silence long and awkward. Throughout it, Aaron’s gaze shifted frenziedly all about the room, while his face remained flushed, almost regretful. To alleviate this apparent discomfort, he finally excused himself.
“Anyway, I’m going to go change out of this ridiculous stuff,” he said, gesturing to his clothing. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
Rachel watched his white back assimilate quickly into the crowd. As if her feet were nailed to the ground, she lingered there, floored—mostly at the prospect that there existed even one guy on the planet who was impervious to her sister’s spell. A guy she’d assumed the exact opposite of, no less! She imagined her face hadn’t yet relinquished its expression of disbelief when Ilana and crew engulfed her.
“You guys, this is the girl I was telling you about!” she squealed, approaching Rachel with white counterparts flailing in all directions like tentacles. “This is Dana Burstein’s sister! Can you believe it, they’re all going to be at the wedding next week!”
Simultaneously, the girls began shrieking, as if Ilana had introduced them to the sibling of some celebrity.
“You’re Dana’s sister?” Initial pause of surprise. “I’ve heard so much about you!”
“You have to tell us everything—the guest list, the flowers, the dress?”
“Wait, wasn’t it here that the two of them first met?”
Overwhelmed, Rachel merely looked from the white-clad vultures to Aaron’s fleeing figure disappearing up the steps. And she realized she had to act fast.
“Yeah...but you should probably just ask Dana,” she said, whipping around. “Sorry!” she called insincerely over her shoulder as she darted away.
Throwing back the remainder of her drink, and pounding the empty cup down a bit harder than she intended, she followed Aaron. She followed him through the glass patio divider, into the house, up the steps...and managed to catch up with him right as he’d entered his bedroom. And then what she threw was all rules out the window.
How the Other Half Hamptons Page 25