I stare up at the life-size oil painting of John that presides over the room. As I move, his deep-set eyes seem to follow me. It’s unnerving.
He does personify power. I’ll give him that. And I guess to certain women, money and power are more attractive than a taut jawline and shared cultural references. But John is older than Summer’s dad, or Three––or any of her stepdads, for that matter. How do you get around that? I mean, five, ten, fifteen years’ difference, no big deal. Even twenty, especially as people get older. But thirty-six years? Maybe it’s true love, but let’s face it: it’s an arrangement you only ever see between very rich men and very beautiful women.
Shut up, Belle. She’s clearly made her choice. Everybody has different needs, and God only knows what kind of complexes having Rhonda as a mother and a string of crappy stepdads has given Summer.
Anyway, regardless of our divergent taste in men, my issues with Summer go way beyond her relationship with John. If only it were that simple.
Julie picks up a remote control and hits a button. Blackout shades silently lower over the three walls of windows, obstructing the gorgeous views of the water, darkening the room until it’s almost pitch black. “If you want to watch a movie during day,” she says.
“Or you have a hangover,” Brittani pipes up.
Julie raises the shades. “Luc teach you the remote later.” She descends two steps into the circular sunken dining room with curved walls of glass that slide open at the touch of another button, bringing the indoors outdoors. “All the doors on the back of the boat open, so you have comfort of the inside with the beauty of the outside.”
A large deck with built-in lounge areas extends beyond the dining table into the sun. Julie hits another button and a sunshade stretches out over the deck. “If you have too much sun.”
She heads up a stairway that curves around the outside of the boat, and we all follow. Amythest grips my arm, looking down at the sea below us as we ascend. “You okay?” I ask.
She nods. “I just—all this water kinda freaks me out,” she admits.
“You’re safe.” I pat her hand. “See all these rails? They’re here to keep you on board.”
She laughs nervously but doesn’t release my arm.
A blast of bright sun and a gust of warm, salty air greets us as we file onto the top of the boat, squinting at the miles of blue around us. “This is the sundeck,” Julie says. “Hot tub.” She gestures to a big round hot tub at one end of the deck and then to a deck-wide built-in circular padded lounge area. “And for tanning. Also refrigerator with drinks and snacks.” She opens a small refrigerator built into the wall of the bar.
“This’ll do,” Wendy deadpans.
“Now I show you to your rooms,” says Julie.
We thread our way down the outdoor staircase, through the upper deck, and down the spiral staircase, past the main deck, where Summer departs for her room, to the lower deck. It’s considerably darker and smaller down here, but still very well appointed, with a thick cream shag rug that makes it feel like a cradle. There are two doors on each side of the short hallway and a door at the end marked CREW.
Julie consults a clipboard as she opens the first door to the right. “Wendy and Claire.”
The room is just big enough to accommodate two twin beds with a table between them, a small closet, and a door to a minuscule bathroom. A small round window looks out over the sea. Wendy and Claire spill into the room. “Dibs on first shower,” Wendy says.
“Drinks on the upper deck at seven,” Julie says, closing their door behind them, then opening the door to an identical room across the hallway. “Brittani and Rhonda.”
Brittani bounds into the room, followed by her mother. “See you at seven,” Julie reminds them.
Julie opens the door on the same side of the hallway as Brittani and Rhonda’s room. “Isabelle and Amy…thest,” she says, butchering the pronunciation of Amythest’s name.
“It’s Amythest, like the stone,” Amythest corrects her. “Who’s in that room?” She indicates the room across the hall from ours.
Julie references her notebook. “Bernard and Vinny.”
Foxes in the henhouse.
“See you at seven.” Julie shuts us in our room.
Amythest opens the door. “Wait.” Julie turns, her eyebrow arched. “What’s the Wi-Fi?”
“No guest Wi-Fi. If you wish use computer, you find two on upper deck.”
Oh wow. No Wi-Fi. My brain takes a second to adjust to the news. “No Wi-Fi?” Amythest gasps, looking like she’s just been slapped. She waves her purple bejeweled phone. “But we don’t have any service out here. How are we supposed to, like, do anything?”
“You have service in port. Or use the computer.”
Damn. Okay. Though as controlling as John is, I can’t say I’m all that shocked. I nod our thanks and close the door firmly as Julie heads up the stairs.
“Weird,” Amythest says. “How am I supposed to brag on social media about the awesome time I’m having if I can’t post anything?”
She’s looking to me to be as upset as she is, but I shrug. “Think of it as a nice break from constant connection. Plus, you can use your phone in port.”
She plops down on the bed under the small round window. “Can I have this one?”
“Sure.”
I open the closet to find our dresses hanging, her black ones on the right, my colorful ones on the left, our shoes displayed on the shelf between. Hmmm…Nice not to have to unpack, but I can’t help feeling a little violated. Are the superrich so accustomed to everything being done for them that someone going through their belongings is routine, or was this John’s way of checking our bags? Good thing I didn’t bring my vibrator.
I step into the bathroom and rummage in my toiletries bag for my Dramamine. I’m already starting to feel woozy. I should’ve taken it before I set foot on the boat, but we never got to lay hands on our luggage.
I down the pill with an entire bottle of water.
“You okay?” Amythest asks.
I nod. “I get motion sick. As you know. But I should be fine in an hour.”
“Awesome. You’re seasick and I’m scared of water. So a week on a boat should be fun.”
I laugh, casting a glance around at our tiny room. “I’m claustrophobic, too.”
“Wow. What are you doing here?”
I shrug. “Too good to pass up, right? So how do you and Brittani know each other?”
“She was fucking a guy in my acting class.”
“You’re in acting class?” I shouldn’t be surprised. Every other girl in Los Angeles is an actress.
“Yeah. Check this out.”
She rolls onto her side and lifts her shirt, displaying a comedy-tragedy mask tattoo on the side of her rib cage.
“Cool,” I say. “What have you been working on?”
I usually avoid asking this question due to my own demons, but I can’t help myself. I’m genuinely interested.
“Horror stuff, mostly. I usually play the slutty girl that gets killed. It’s hella fun. I’ve done a bunch of movies.” She counts off on her fingers. “Slasher Hotel 5, Revenge of the Teenage Sluts, Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater, Vampire Girls of Cell Block Six…”
I get the picture. “You’ve been busy. How long have you been in LA?”
“Oh, I moved down from Oakland as soon as I turned eighteen, like, two years ago? And I’ve just been working as much as I can ever since.” Two years ago––that would make her only twenty. Wow. She pops up to standing, stripping off her clothes. She’s not wearing anything underneath. “I’m gonna hop in the shower.”
She traipses into the bathroom and plops down on the toilet without closing the door behind her—a level of intimacy I’m not sure we’ve quite reached.
I lie down on my bed. It’s much softer than it looks. My limbs feel like they weigh a million pounds and my brain is cotton candy, the cocktail of jet lag and champagne too strong to resist. I close my eyes.
Dre greets us at the landing with a gilded tray of pink champagne. The crew has changed into black for the evening, the women in cocktail dresses and the men in tuxedos, and he looks even better in a tuxedo. He meets my eye with a sexy smile as I take a glass. I would much rather get to know him than one of John’s friends.
Stop it, Belle. Bad idea.
But really, how would anyone know?
I focus on the camera staring at me from behind Dre’s head. Right. No hanky-panky with the crew.
Amythest and I join the other girls in the lounge, where golden rays of the setting sun mingle with the chandelier to splinter into a thousand shards of light around us. Everyone looks refreshed. Claire and Wendy have on maxi dresses similar to mine, Brittani wears a surprisingly stylish sundress that I’m guessing was selected by her sister, and Rhonda is in some kind of (also surprisingly stylish) sparkly silver top and white pants. The goons are in suits, their backs to us, looking out over the water in deep conversation, and Summer has not yet appeared.
“I feel like we’re inside a disco ball,” I say to Wendy as we air-kiss.
She laughs. “I like your dress.”
“Thanks.” I see no reason to mention I got it for twenty-nine dollars at Target. “Yours is pretty, too.”
She tilts her head and assesses me, then unclasps one of her many layered gold necklaces and fastens it around my neck. “There,” she says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Perfect.”
“Thank you.” I finger the necklace, convincing myself to be grateful for her generosity instead of nettled by her need to fix me.
“You girls aren’t the only ones who are gonna find boyfriends on this trip,” Rhonda announces to all of us with a wink.
“Mom, that’s gross. You’re, like, a million years old,” Brittani protests.
“She is not!” Wendy says. “And anyway, she looks amazing for her age.”
“Thank you, honey,” Rhonda says. She leans in and whispers, “I’m actually ten years younger than John. So is Summer’s dad.”
“Yeah, but these guys date girls that are, like, our age, obviously.” Brittani rolls her eyes. “And even Summer’s dad’s wife is, like, ten years younger than he is. And he’s not even rich.”
“Who do you think taught Summer everything she knows?” Rhonda retorts.
I cringe.
“I’m not saying I have to date someone John’s age,” she goes on slyly. “I’m gonna find me a ninety-nine-year-old in a wheelchair!”
Everyone titters. “Rhonda, you’re so funny,” Amythest says.
But Rhonda continues, proud of her logic. “I’m serious! Guys that old can’t get it up anymore anyway, and girls your age need too much. The oldest men just want someone to cut up their steak and laugh at their jokes till they die. And then you get their estate.”
“Or a tenth of it, once you split it with their ex-wives and children,” I chime in.
But Rhonda is dead serious. “At ninety-nine, it’s a small time you have to work to get the reward.” Clearly she has given this some thought.
Amythest nods. “Smart.”
I can almost see my sister rolling her eyes. But I have to laugh. Every one of Rhonda’s marriages has been shorter and more profitable than the last, and finally her daughter has catapulted her into a world of wealth she never dreamed of. Summer has grown up to become exactly who Rhonda hoped she would be. Which, I guess, makes Rhonda a terribly successful mother.
At that moment, Summer herself appears at the top of the stairs, looking appropriately like a shiny trophy in a tight gold Hervé Leger dress that pushes her boobs nearly to her chin. John is close behind her in a navy linen button-down and slacks, his hand on the small of her back, the combination of her jeweled flat sandals and the doubtless lifts in his polished Italian leather conspiring to make them the same height.
Emmanuelle dings a glass, and a hush falls as we turn to face them, like some kind of bridal couple. Summer beams as John raises his glass, and we all do the same. “A toast to Summer. Thank you all for joining us for her birthday voyage.”
We all drink to Summer; then Emmanuelle dings her glass again. “We invite you downstairs. Jacques prepare très bon dinner for you.”
Emmanuelle wears the same black A-line dress as the rest of the female crew, but it fits her lithe body like a glove, revealing curves the day-crew uniform concealed. Summer and John follow her swaying hips down the stairs, and we trail behind.
The table is set with an array of crystal and goldware, adorned with white candles and roses. Jazz music plays softly, and the chandelier over the table sparkles in the low light.
John stands behind a chair at the head of the table, with Summer to his right. Brittani flounces over and plops into a chair across from Summer, and Julie quickly appears behind her, deftly helping her back to standing by her elbow as Brittani makes a face behind her back.
“Rhonda.” John gestures to the seat vacated by Brittani. He proceeds to arrange the remainder of us around the table. I’m seated next to Rhonda, across from Summer and Brittani, while Wendy fidgets on my other side. I can tell she’s agitated that she’s not closer to Summer and John. I’d like nothing more than to give her my seat if I could, but that’s obviously out of the question.
As we take our seats, John beckons to Emmanuelle and speaks to her in a low voice. Summer’s eyes slide from Emmanuelle’s tanned shoulders to her slender waist as she laughs and quickly responds to John. I can’t make out the words, but they’re speaking French, and Emmanuelle is clearly pleased he shares her mother tongue.
Summer catches my eye across the table. “Je suis ravi de boire le vin,” she announces, directed at me but loud enough for the entire table to hear.
“Moi aussi,” I say. I’m not sure what wine she means, but it seems the right response in the moment.
Emmanuelle turns, caught off guard, and Summer gives her an icy smile.
Hugo appears with a bottle of red, some fancy French name I’m sure we’re meant to be impressed by, and Emmanuelle evaporates.
“Belle, you’re gonna love this mozzarella,” Summer gushes as beautifully plated, lush caprese salads are placed before us. “The chef made it fresh.”
I cut a bite, thrown by her sudden warmth toward me. “You know how I feel about cheese.” The mozzarella is somehow both rich and light at the same time, and melts in my mouth, leaving me immediately craving another forkful.
“Thank you so much for inviting us on this wonderful trip,” Wendy pipes up. “I’m so thrilled to be here to celebrate your birthday with you.”
Everyone nods and murmurs agreement.
“Tonight,” John says, his eyes landing on each of us in turn, “you will all give a toast to Summer, tell us how you met. Rhonda, you start.”
Rhonda laughs. “Well, I think we all know how I met Summer. She came out of my hoo-ha!”
Record scratch. Then everyone titters politely. “Please, stand,” John says, amused.
Rhonda stands, swaying ever so slightly. “Um, well, my beautiful Summer was born right around this time twenty-seven years ago—you’re young enough we can still say your age, right?”
“Until I’m thirty; then it’s twenty-nine for life,” Summer quips. I wonder when my best friend became such a cliché. But then, I wonder a lot of things about her these days.
This is the most earnest I have ever seen Rhonda—she is actually starting to tear up, which makes the rest of us misty-eyed as well. “You’ll always be my little girl, and you know I’d do anything for you. I’m so glad you’ve found such a nice man to take care of you. I always knew you would. Thank you for sharing this trip with your little mama. I love you.”
We all raise our glasses, and Summer gives her mom a hug. “I love you, too, Mom.”
They both wipe away tears and sit as Brittani stands and looks around. This should be good. “My big sister. She’s always been the smart one.” No one says anything. “Shit, don’t everybody protest at once.” She guffaws. “For real, though, good thing I could borrow from her book reports. My teachers always thought it was weird that my book reports were so good but I couldn’t actually talk about the book in class. I’m kidding. I would never steal her book reports.”
She clearly wants a laugh here, and everyone obliges (though it’s hardly a joke: Brittani can’t stand to read and would always get Summer to do her homework).
“She’s the best sister ever and has been helping me out her whole life. And now, because of her and John, I get to go to an awesome college. So, John, thank you so much for getting me in, and, Summer, thank you for making me go to junior college so that I could ‘better myself.’ Now I just have to find a husband before I graduate so I don’t have to work. I’m just kidding. But not really. Love you.”
“Love you, too,” Summer says, and blows her a kiss across the table. “And you’re smarter than you think you are.”
This is sweet but completely untrue. Brittani, God bless her, doesn’t have the sense she was born with, and that speech proves it.
John gestures to Vinny, down at the other end of the table. He stands and raises his glass. “To Summer, the most beautiful young woman. Happy birthday.”
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