Ben frowned. It seemed like a reasonable explanation, though he had no more interest in spending time with Blythe at this party than he did in
Groundhog Daying
his life to repeat his high school graduation experience.
As Stefanie drifted away, Blythe slid over to Ben again. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“You see this isn’t a setup.”
What could he say? Or do? He felt foolish and more than a little self-absorbed.
“It’s just that Anna is here.”
“I hope you two are very happy.”
One of the wait staff—a guy this time, dressed in 1950s greaser clothes—offered them broiled monkfish hors d’oeuvres. Ben waved him off and peered at Blythe.
“You’re sure?”
“What do you want, Ben, a papal blessing?” She tossed her hair back. “You hurt me and you know it. But I’ll live. It wasn’t a fatal wound.”
Well, that was a relief.
“We never should have hooked up,” Ben declared fervently. “You can’t imagine how much I regret it.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I didn’t mean it like that!”
“Jesus, Ben. Why don’t you just take a bucket of kosher salt and rub it in? Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”
Goes to Eleven launched into a ballad about lost love. Blythe stepped closer, gazing into his eyes. He saw the hurt and knew he’d caused it.
God, I can be such an asshole.
“So what is your deal, anyway? You put girls into mental compartments—this one is ‘friend’ material and this one is ‘girlfriend’ material? How did I not rate in the girlfriend box? Not good enough, not hot enough—what was it?”
“It wasn’t like that, Blythe. You’re gorgeous. The sex was
great.
But—”
Fucking bloody hell.
Ben froze midsentence. He’d seen a flash of wheat-colored hair and beige faux-silk out of the corner of his eye, and knew—without moving a muscle, he
knew,
because that was just how life worked—that Anna Percy had overheard his last sentence. If ever there was a moment when he craved an earthquake that would swallow him whole, it was now.
He turned slightly. Anna’s face was ghostly white.
“Anna,” he whispered.
She shrank away, tears of betrayal hanging in her eyes. Then she fled.
“H
ow could anyone seriously wear this more than once?” Sam asked Eduardo. She scratched her stomach under the itchy red MegaMart sweater—the cheap material had actually given her a nasty case of the hives.
“I promise to take it off as soon as possible,” Eduardo murmured into her shiny dark hair. They stood in line at guesthouse one, where a photographer was taking pictures of the competitors in the cheap-threads competition, while his assistant was carefully checking each girl’s receipts to insure that no one had cheated.
Jasmine Eckels—one of the weenies whom Sam had helped to save the Beverly Hills High School prom—had just been photographed in a sheer hot pink baby doll nightie/G-string combination, with a sleazy black bra underneath. With her was tall, thin Ophelia Berman, the other main prom organizer, who wore what looked like a cheap green army camouflage rain poncho tied just over the bust.
The prom weenies had already hugged Sam like a long-lost best friend—only because Sam was in a fog of love did she suffer the embraces. Okay. She had learned during prom prep that Jazz and Fee weren’t all that bad. But it was one thing to work with the prom weenies, and quite another to
befriend
them.
“Good luck, Sam!” Jasmine called as she finished. “You won prom queen; maybe you’ll win this, too!”
“And I’ll be here to see it if she does,” Eduardo quipped, rubbing Sam’s back.
“Next,” the photographer’s assistant called, and Sam gave her an envelope full of receipts as she stepped in front of the photographic backdrop—a wall-size mural of Pacific Palisades High. Truth was, she was irritated at herself. No way was her piece-of-shit red-sweater-and-black-pants outfit going to beat some of the outfits she’d seen, especially some of the skimpier ones from the girls at PPHS. One PPHS girl was walking around in a black string bikini that she’d purchased in Thailand for the baht equivalent of five bucks.
“Name?” the assistant asked.
“Sam—”
“Sharpe,” the middle-aged photographer filled in, smiling for the first time since Sam had seen him. Three digital cameras hung around his neck and bounced against his substantial paunch. “Tell your dad that Stan Mackey sends his regards—I did some publicity stills for
Ben-Hur
.” Then he fired off two quick pictures with two different cameras, explaining to Sam that the second shot was for insurance in case there was a problem with his camera’s media card. From here, all the photos would be printed and posted in the Skylight Room, an open space on the third floor of the main house, where all the high school partygoers would vote for the best cheap outfit. Dark purple ink on a finger would prevent double voting.
It was hokey, yes, and it did remind Sam of the vote for prom queen. But being prom queen didn’t mean she could make Stefanie her slave for a day; being queen of the cheap threads meant she could. It was unnatural, and it was silly, but she found herself wishing desperately that she would win tonight.
“Dance?” Eduardo asked as they reached a wide space on the red brick path that led to the various guest cottages.
“Definitely.”
There was no dance floor, but Sam didn’t care. She swayed in Eduardo’s arms. “I missed you so much,” he confessed.
“That feeling was mutual,” she whispered, running her fingers through the back of his cropped dark hair.
“Sam, hi!”
Sam turned. Dee and Jack were coming down the path hand in hand. “Having fun?”
“Sure.” Sam noted that Dee’s hair was smashed to her head in the back, as if she’d been rubbing it into a carpet. Her lipstick was gone too. She smiled knowingly. “And where have you two been?”
“Oh, they’re doing some repairs in one of the cabanas,” Dee explained, waving a hand vaguely back toward the pool. “We found an empty one.”
Sam had to smile. It was so good to see Dee happy and healthy.
“I’m going to get my picture taken. We’ll see you guys back at the house.” Dee and Jack started down the path to guesthouse one.
“They are in love,” Eduardo noted.
“Well, at least in lust. How do you know the difference?”
“One only makes the other better.”
Sam shivered deliciously. “Maybe we should track down that cabana.”
Eduardo shook his head. “I want you in a proper bed. With time and privacy and all the luxury you deserve, Samantha.”
“Works for me. Let’s go join the party, then.”
But they didn’t make much progress up to the main house before Anna came barreling toward them, eyes on the brick path, oblivious to anyone and anything.
“Anna?”
Anna looked up. Her face was the color of Corrasable bond.
“Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay.” She was holding her elbows, her arms pressed against her stomach like she’d just been punched.
“What the hell happened?”
“I … Ben …”
Sam held up a finger. “Wait.” She turned to Eduardo. “Can you give us a few minutes?’
He agreed, telling her he’d meet her in the Skylight Room in fifteen minutes. They were standing just a hundred feet or so from a small redwood structure with inviting lighting, so Sam led Anna toward it. It was open—some sort of dimly lit meditation room, with a huge gold Buddha at the far end of an enormous straw mat, no furniture to speak of, and a dozen soft red throw pillows on the floor.
Sam pointed to one of the pillows. “Sit. Then speak.”
Anna did sit, cross-legged on one of the pillows, and put one balled fist inside the other. Sam had never seen her like this. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
“Okay. … Bl … Blythe is here.”
Who was Blythe? Then she got it.
“The Blythe who Ben was dating at Princeton when you guys broke up?”
Anna nodded vigorously.
“Okay. Weird that she’s here. But BFD. That can’t be what you’re so upset about.”
“I overheard them taking. He said she was gorgeous. And the sex was great.”
Sam winced. “Ouch. That had to hurt a little.”
“A
little
?” Anna echoed, hot tears welling up in her eyes again. “He told me they were barely involved with each other; that there was nothing to ‘end’ about their relationship, that they didn’t have a relationship.”
“Well, maybe they didn’t,” Sam mused. “Maybe they were just sex buddies.”
Anna recoiled. “I
hate
that.”
“Well, fine, hate it all you want. But that doesn’t mean everyone else does.”
“How could he tell me they weren’t ‘involved’ if he was sleeping with her?” Anna demanded.
“Because that happens sometimes with people and—”
“You’re defending him?” Anna was incredulous. “You’re actually
defending
him?” She flung one of the pillows across the room. “He
lied
to me. He had the right to do anything we wanted with anyone he wanted after we broke up, but he should have told me the truth.”
“Just …” Sam scooched closer to her friend. “Listen to me a minute, will you, please? You might be totally right—”
“I
am
right.”
“But you also might not be. You guys need to sit down and talk.”
Anna shook her head vehemently. “There’s no point. On some level, I’ve always worried about something like this with him, ever since that very first night when he dumped me on his father’s yacht.”
“That was different.”
“He wasn’t honest with me then, he isn’t being honest with me now, and I’m sick of it.” She stood up. “I’m going to call a cab and go home.”
Sam stood, too. “Just listen to me, will you? Know what you’re doing? You’re pulling a goddamn Eduardo.”
“Oh, thank you, Sam, very supportive—”
“And it’s goddamn stupid. After he caught me kissing Parker, he just walked away. He wouldn’t talk to me for days. It sucked.”
Anna shook her head. “Nope. It’s not the same.”
“What the fuck are you afraid of?” Sam exploded. God. Anna was being so dense. “If you care about Ben, give him a chance to explain. If you don’t like his explanation,
then
tell him to fuck off.”
Anna put one slender hand over her heart. “It just hurts so much.”
“I know, sweetie,” Sam agreed. “Talk to him.”
“I can’t. Not yet. I refuse to do it when I’m feeling all shaky and betrayed. Because I will
not
cry in front of him. You think there’s a phone in here? I left my pocketbook up in the cloakroom at the main house.”
“Probably.”
Sam turned up a dimmer switch and saw a white phone on the wall near the front door. Moments later, Anna had called a cab to meet her in front of the mansion.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Anna promised.
“If I don’t call you first.” Sam hugged her friend. “Take my advice. Don’t throw it all away over hurt feelings before you find out what’s really going on. Promise?”
“I can’t promise,” Anna admitted. “But I will think about what you said. That’s the best I can do.”
“Y
o, people!” Jett cradled his microphone, his face covered in a thin sheen of sweat. “Just five minutes left to vote for the queen of cheap threads.” He glanced down at the index card that Pashima had handed him moments before. “So … get your asses to the Skylight Room. Tonight’s ballots will be tabulated by the accounting firm of Weiner, Paulson, and McWilliams—special thanks to Mercedes Weiner’s dad. This next tune was written by our lead guitarist, Igor. It’s called ‘Alone.’”
The ballad began, bluesy, haunting, and irresistibly danceable. Some couples followed Jett’s advice and headed back toward the main house, but most converged on the dance floor. Cammie and Adam were already there, she in his arms.
“Nice outfit,” he murmured, and squeezed Cammie’s butt through the Winnie-the-Pooh miniskirt. “Where’s the honey?”
That afternoon, one of the new maids—Bridgetta or Biscotti or something like that—had done an amazing job of turning Cammie’s cheap boxer shorts into a hot little micromini that went perfectly with her sleeveless white T-shirt. She’d been surveying her competition ever since she and Adam had arrived; she thought she had it in the bag.
God, winning tonight would be so satisfying.
“The honey? You know very well where it is, and you can’t have it until later. Unless I win. Then I’ll have Stefanie make Pashima’s bed for us.”
Adam kissed her neck. “How about you make Stefanie take the SAT for you?”
“God no. I told you, I’m not going to college, and I haven’t changed my mind in the past forty-eight hours. I have about as much interest in college as you do in a sex change.”
“Good to know you’re not ambivalent.” They swayed to the hypnotic music.
“It’s not like I need to get an education to make money, Adam.”
“How about education for the sake of education?”
She shrugged. “I hate school. Always have. Bores the shit out of me.” She snuggled closer to him as Igor ripped off an amazing guitar solo. “You’ll see. I’ll design something fabulous, like handbags. I’ll get my dad’s clients to carry them. Next thing I know, I’m an overnight sensation on
Entertainment Tonight.
Why should I study ancient civilizations?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“It is,” Cammie said emphatically, acting on the theory that if the outside made a statement, inner feelings would follow. The truth was, every so often, she had a weird thought: Go to college and get a teaching degree—carry on her mom’s career. It would be a kind of homage. Her mother had been the kindest, most altruistic person in the world. She’d been everything good and kind and sweet and loving in this world. If only she were here to see her daughter graduate. …
She shook her head, as if that could make that painful thought disappear. Better to concentrate on the here and now. Yes, it would be great to win the contest and make Stefanie her slave. But even if she didn’t win, she and Sam had something cooked up that would exact long-overdue justice.
“You nervous about tomorrow?” he asked.