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Looking past Delilah, I saw two handsome guys on the heliport, waiting for her. One I recognized as Delilah's longtime boyfriend, the ex–child actor Teddy Barrington. I could lie and say I didn't have a poster of him on my closet door when I was ten, but would you really believe me?
Every
girl I knew loved Teddy back then, when
Oh, Those Masons!
was the number one show on television. Even Skags was into him, before she realized she was way more into the girl who played his hot older sister. Not only had Teddy once fueled many a young girl's tween fantasies, he was also an heir to the Barrington Oil fortune. I'd gone with my mother when she catered his tenth, eleventh, and twelfth birthday parties, and they were the most insanely lavish events, each one featuring a private performance by Cirque du Soleil as well as appearances by all his famous costars and a bunch of his favorite sports heroes.

But
Oh, Those Masons!
was canceled when we were thirteen, and Teddy's family announced that he was retiring from acting to focus on his education. (There were rumors that he couldn't get hired for any other roles, but he was so adorable that you just knew those rumors were invented by jealous, mean people.) The over-the-top birthday parties continued each summer, but by then my mother was too busy taking over the world to cater, so I only saw him now and then at a clambake or a pool party—and he never remembered me. Now, six feet tall with light brown hair, broad shoulders, and one of those heroic square jaws, Teddy was the kind of thick-necked handsome that starts to get paunchy in college unless it is continually worked out by university-level athletic competition.

Delilah offered, “You remember Teddy Barrington, my boyfriend. He's a
foot
ball hero and legend of the small screen.” Inexplicably, she broke into giggles, and Teddy rolled his eyes.

“Nice to meet you,” he grunted, even though we'd been introduced at least once every summer for the previous several years. “Nellie, right?”

Delilah let out an exasperated sigh. “Naomi, you jerk!” she corrected him, hitting him in his meaty upper arm with her delicate little fist. She tried to do it again, but he caught her wrist in his hand and smiled devilishly, bending her arm toward her face as she squealed in protest.

“Why do you keep hitting yourself, Delilah?” he teased as he gently tapped her in the face with her own fist.

“Stop it, you ass!” she protested, laughing.

“No, seriously, why do you keep hitting yourself?” He pushed her fist into her face again, and she whacked his shoulder with her free hand. He caught that wrist, too, and soon he was making Delilah faux-punch herself with both arms.

It was sort of charming and sort of horrifying, but it didn't distract me from noticing that the handsome, dark-haired boy standing beside Teddy was studying me.

“Jeff Byron,” he said, holding out a hand. I shook it, which seemed kind of weird and formal, but I liked the way his hand felt, warm and big.

“Naomi Rye,” I said.

Jeff cocked a thumb at Delilah and Teddy, who were still play fighting. “This will last another five minutes, until she admits he's bigger and stronger than she is,” he explained in a low voice.

“Never!” Delilah shrieked, trying to kick Teddy with the pointy little sandals on the ends of her perfectly sculpted legs. “I never lose, Jeffrey!”

Jeff sighed and shook his head. “We know, Delilah. We know.”

“Jeffrey usually summers on the Vineyard,” Delilah said by way of explanation. “But he goes to school with us at Trumbo and— Ouch, Teddy!” She whacked him with her tiny, shiny purse.

“So you don't usually
summer
in the Hamptons?” I said awkwardly as we watched the lovebirds fight. It was the first time I'd ever used
summer
as a verb. Only really rich people do that. My mother does it, and it drives me nuts.

Jeff rolled his eyes, not in a mean way. “Usually,” he said. “My parents just got divorced, and my mom decided there was no way we were sharing the Vineyard house with my dad and his new girlfriend. So we're renting a place on Georgica Pond.”

“I love that you're
renting
,” Teddy piped in. “It makes me feel like you're from New Jersey.”

“Teddy!” Delilah said. “I love you, but you are a snob with a capital S.”

“You're damned right I am,” he said, grinning, and began tickling her.

Jeff leaned down and whispered in my ear, “If you need to puke, I carry a bag for that purpose any time I'm with them. All you have to do is ask.” I stifled a giggle while I enjoyed the warmth of his breath on my ear. I wasn't used to such a good-looking guy speaking to me at all, unless you counted Taylor Cryan (boyfriend of Queen Beast Jenny Carpenter) asking to cheat off me in science class.

“Hey!” a man from the tarmac called. “Miss Fairweather! Your mother called my cell—she wants us to get a move on!”

Teddy dropped Delilah's wrists, and she landed one good kick to his shin. He yowled, and she said, “Oh, don't be a wuss, Theodore.” This set her off into another fit of giggles, which sounded like wind chimes tinkling in the breeze. It was like they were acting out a play for us—this “I love you/I hate you” thing. “If your mother's calling the pilot, we'd better get going,” Jeff said. “Come along, children.” He began walking slowly in the direction of the pilot, beckoning me to come with him. Uncertainly, I followed him, and Delilah and Teddy followed us.

“Ever been in a helicopter before, Naomi?” Jeff asked. I guess he noticed how big my eyes got when he led me to the Fairweathers' sleek helicopter. “N-no,” I said. “Never really wanted to be in one, either.”

“So why are you here?” he asked curiously.

“I honestly don't know,” I said, which was easier and more polite than saying, “Because my mother is a huge suck-up, and she'd rather risk my life in this airborne death trap than miss a chance to bond with Merilee Fairweather.”

The pilot helped all of us inside, and I realized that while the helicopter looked big and impressive, its interior was not nearly large enough for my comfort. We were going to be whirling around the sky in a box, essentially. Like Charlie in the glass elevator with Willy Wonka.

I was squished between Jeff and the happy couple, who commenced bickering over something as soon as the enormous door slammed shut. We buckled ourselves in, and the pilot passed out noise-canceling headphones.

“Do I really need these?” I asked Jeff. I hate feeling like my ears are clamped in.

“You'll have a much better time with them than without them,” he said, chuckling. He reached over, and I flinched.

“It's okay,” he said, and for some reason his voice actually made me relax a little. He put the headphones on me and adjusted them as I tried to stop blushing. It felt like a weirdly intimate gesture.

“Smooth, buddy,” Teddy said, winking at Jeff. “That's your patented move—put on the lady's headphones for her. It's a panty-melter.”

“Theodore,” Delilah said, “that is disgusting.” She took out a one-hitter and lit it, inhaling sharply. I wondered what her staunchly antidrug father, the Republican senator, would have to say about his darling dearest getting high on his helicopter.

“You know when I first heard that term, ‘panty-melter'?” Teddy asked us. He looked at us all expectantly, and I felt obligated to shake my head.

“It was at a table read for
Oh, Those Masons!
,” he began.

“Oh Lord,” Delilah said. “Here we go.” She pretended to fall asleep on Teddy's shoulder.

“Season two. I guess I was ten,” Teddy continued, as if he hadn't heard her. “I interrupted Danielson”—this was a reference to Drake Danielson, who'd played his older brother and, unlike Teddy, had broken out of the child star mode and graduated to a successful film career—“after he read the line, ‘Playing guitar is a surefire panty-melter.' I said, ‘Drake, that doesn't make sense. Underpants can't melt.' And the whole table just busted up laughing.” He gazed into the distance and smiled wistfully.

“Thank you, Teddy,” Delilah said. “We are all happier for having heard that story.”

And then it was time for takeoff, which was way smoother than I anticipated. I guess being super-rich really does buy a better everything, because soon we were in the air, with a gorgeous view of the city below. Everything was closer and bigger and brighter. It was so exciting that I forgot to be scared. The sun was on the verge of starting to set when we took off, and as we flew, the sky changed colors. Long Island was below us, first ugly and sprawling, then lush and green, with wide swaths of lawn between homes that seemed to grow bigger and splashier as we went farther east. And to both the north and south, you could see the open water—the words “Long Island” took on new meaning. I felt a poke in my side, and turned to see Jeff grinning at me and giving me a thumbs-up. He pointed to my face, and I realized with a start that I'd unconsciously been wearing a huge smile. I blushed again and instinctively put my hand over my mouth, which made him laugh, which made me blush harder.

I looked away and caught Delilah and Teddy exchanging a knowing glance, and then Delilah smiled right at me like she had a plan. I know it's stupid, but it made me feel kind of glowy and special.

And before I knew it, we were over the East Hampton Airport, which is basically a holding pen for famous people's private jets and other sky vehicles. I guess there's a private little airline that runs flights back and forth from different places, but it had never before occurred to me that some people never drive from the city to the sea, that they always arrive by air. As we gently swiveled west and descended and I caught a full view of the peachy-pink sunset, I finally understood why some people preferred to make their entrance from the sky.

CHAPTER THREE

A
s soon as we landed, I saw our mothers—mine and Delilah's—waiting for us on the tarmac. They looked nearly identical, so it was anyone's guess which comely, middle-aged blonde had birthed the comely, teenage blonde. No stranger would've ever guessed the flat-chested, skinny little string bean with the dull brown hair was a product of the lovely lady in lavender.

My mother loves lavender. It's a trademark for her. She never appears on television or at a public function without something lavender, even if it's just a raw silk scarf draped around her perfectly toned, tanned shoulders, while the rest of her body luxuriates in a white silk shirtdress that shows off her beautiful ballerina legs. She danced professionally in Chicago for a few years but never broke out of the corps de ballet, so she quit. When my father met her, she was a cocktail waitress in a not-so-fancy restaurant. She still takes ballet classes (in a lavender leotard, natch), and my father says the reason Mom is so effortlessly elegant and graceful is “all those years of ballet. They taught her to sit up straight, walk like a princess, and never eat a goddamned thing, not even the stuff she bakes.” And while it's true that my mother was unnaturally skinny by Chicago standards, where we eat a lot of bratwurst without shame, she fits right in with the rail-thin priestesses of New York high society.

“Darling!” Mom cried out in a voice so embarrassingly sweet I thought everyone else
had
to know it was bullshit. “You look so thin! God, to be seventeen again.” She quickly looked at Merilee Fairweather for approval, and when Merilee laughed and nodded her agreement, my mother perked up even further. She rushed forward to envelop me in a Chanel No. 5–scented hug, and I patted her awkwardly on the back. My mom was wearing a silk scarf and silk dress, and she also had on these fancy, white open-toe high heels from Ferragamo (I only know this because she never shuts up about Ferragamo) and a string of pearls, and her fingernails and toenails were done in this kind of off-white champagney color.

I was dressed in maybe a
slightly
dissimilar fashion. I'd made a dress out of this old long black T-shirt with the lead singer of the Cure on the front, and I wore a black camisole underneath (no bra, I don't need one) because the T-shirt falls off one shoulder, and I cinched the whole thing around the waist with one of my dad's old black belts. My hair was up in a ponytail, and I wore a jet-black pair of vintage Doc Martens with slouchy black socks.

I realize from this description I sound like some weird Goth kid, but I'm not Goth in the least. I like the Cure, and the Docs are comfortable. But did I wear all that black because I was kind of hoping it'd freak my mother out a little? You're damn right I did. And it worked, too. I could tell she was a little embarrassed when she said, “Darling, you remember Mrs. Fairweather, of course. Merilee, I'm afraid it looks as though Naomi is going through a bit of a phase.” I caught Jeff's eye then, and he looked as if he were about to crack up. I tried hard not to laugh as I greeted Mrs. Fairweather.

“I think you look lovely, Naomi,” she said, looking me up and down with the kind of blankly cheerful expression that meant she either liked my outfit or was on benzos. “Very creative. You and your mother should come with Delilah and me to some of the Fashion Week shows this September.”

Mom just about died at that one. “We are coming!” she said immediately, before Mrs. Fairweather even had a chance to shut her mouth. “Naomi, I don't care if you have school—I'm flying you out here, and we're going to go. Delilah, will you be walking in any shows again this year?” All I had heard about from my mother the previous summer was how Delilah was going to make her runway debut walking around in clothes designed by a close personal friend of her mother's. It was no one I'd ever heard of, but being around my mother for many years has forced me to learn a few things about fashion, if only through osmosis. Delilah looks like a skinny, gorgeous high school cheerleader, so I never imagined those high-fashion people could make her look bad. But my mother emailed me a link to photos of Delilah walking in that designer's show, and they had managed to make her look like a freaky ghost. Who puts white powder on a blond girl's eyebrows, anyway?

“Yeah, I'm gonna walk again this year,” Delilah said politely, her hand intertwined with Teddy's. “In a couple of shows. Maybe three.”

“And we just shot a mother/daughter feature that will be in the September issue of
Vogue
,” Mrs. Fairweather said proudly. “It was about models and their mothers.” My mother gasped with joy.

Teddy spoke for the first time, letting out a snort of laughter. “Yes,” he said, putting one arm around Mrs. Fairweather and the other around Delilah. “She's walked in one runway show and done one Gap ad, and that makes her a big supermodel.” Delilah poked him in the side and he jumped, laughing again.

“Oh, Teddy.” Mrs. Fairweather sighed with an indulgent smile. “You always tease.”

“We haven't really spoken since you were a little boy,” my mother said, smiling at Teddy. “I'm Anne Rye. I catered a few of your birthday parties when you were small, darling.” She widened her eyes and her smile. I was instantly repulsed. She was
flirting
with some teenage football douche. Ew.

“Of course I know who you are, Anne,” Teddy said smoothly, reaching out to shake her hand. “I don't just want a handshake—I want an autograph!” They shook hands as Mom let out a happy squeak of laughter. Being completely obsessed with her career doesn't give my mom much time to date, so I'm sure pressing the flesh with Teddy Barrington was her thrill of the month.

“You're the famous actor,” she purred. “I want an autograph, too!”

“Only if I get a chocolate cake,” he teased. Ugh, I hate when guys work older women like that. It's so obvious to everyone else. It's embarrassing. Some guys do it at school with this one teacher, Mrs. Grey, and she always falls for it.

They all went on chattering among themselves, and at some point Jeff inserted himself into the conversation and was introduced to my mother, who thankfully didn't try to pull a Mrs. Robinson with him. I had enough issues with my mom without her trying to hook up with an underage hottie. (He
was
kind of hot, I had to admit.)

We got into Mrs. Fairweather's huge SUV, and Teddy insisted on getting behind the wheel, which I guess was standard operating procedure when he was around. I can just imagine what my mom would say if I had some boyfriend and he tried to pull that move. Anne Rye is not a woman who knows how to give up control.

“Baxley's for dinner? Or the Living Room?” Teddy asked casually, steering out of the airport parking lot.

“Well, yes to Baxley's,” Mrs. Fairweather said. “You know what Senator Fairweather says about the Living Room.”

“Well, lucky for us, he isn't here to have heard me suggest it! Or, really, anything else I might suggest later,” Teddy said, winking at Mrs. Fairweather. My mother tittered. I looked at Jeff, who rolled his eyes back at me. Jesus, Teddy knew how to play women.

Delilah, meanwhile, seemed oblivious to the interplay between her mother and her boyfriend. She sat with her head against the window.

On the way to Baxley's, we drove past the creepy new version of the notorious billboard advertising Dr. Zazzle, New York's most famous plastic surgeon. It was the only billboard in town and was the source of some controversy—apparently, the local guardians of tradition felt it didn't fit with the community's “character.” It showed a cartoon version of a smiling Dr. Zazzle standing beside a buxom blonde in a bikini. She was holding a sagging, gray pile of flesh—presumably, her own old skin. I saw it approaching and blanched.

“Ew!” I exclaimed, surprising myself and everyone else in the car with the first word I'd spoken since we started driving. “What the hell is
that
?”

“Naomi!” my mother said in the voice she uses when I've embarrassed her. “Where did that tone come from?”

“Mom, that billboard is even grosser than last summer's version. She's holding her skin.”

“Well, it isn't her
real
skin, obviously.”

“Hello? I know that? But it's a totally disturbing image.”

“It is pretty weird,” Jeff said mildly, and I knew for sure I liked him.

“I can name two people who've spent some time with Dr. Zazzle,” Teddy said playfully, looking at Mrs. Fairweather.

“Don't you start, Teddy!” Mrs. Fairweather nearly squealed. “You are
bad
.”

“One of them,” Teddy said meaningfully, glancing in the rearview mirror at Delilah, “really
nose
a lot about him. She really
nose
what it's like to go into his office one way and come out another.”

“Teddy,” Delilah said without taking her gaze from the window, “I will beat you.” He erupted into laughter, even though she didn't sound like she was kidding.

“See, Naomi,” my mother said. “I told you blondes can be tough.”

“You never told me that, Mom,” I said wearily, closing my eyes.

“I did, dear. You just don't remember.” Her voice had a tiny edge.

“Okay. I don't remember.”
Die die die die die.

“I'm always trying to get Naomi to go blond,” Mom said. “You should've seen her when she was twelve, and Jonathan Astoriano did her highlights. She looked
so
much better.”

“Did you?” Jeff asked in an urgent tone of voice, grabbing my arm. “Did you
really
? Tell me the truth, Naomi!”

“I really did,” I said dramatically. “I really, really did.” We both laughed, and my mother looked at us in confusion, not sure what the joke was. Jeff's hand was gone, but I had liked the warmth and the pressure of his touch.

Before long, we pulled up to Baxley's. Teddy flipped the keys to a valet he greeted by name, and we all filed into the restaurant. Teddy marched a bit ahead of us, and when he approached the thirtysomething hostess, he asked her a question in a low voice the rest of us couldn't hear.

“Folding napkins,” the hostess responded loudly, and Teddy winced.

“Folding napkins what?” Delilah asked sharply, her seemingly permanent languid attitude momentarily gone.

“They were just folding napkins at our table, and now it's ready for us!” Teddy answered without missing a beat.

Delilah nodded coolly.

On the way to the table, we passed the bar, behind which stood a good-looking Italian kid. He had what they call a Roman nose, and it stood out from his face like a giant sail.

“Giovanni!” Teddy said, reaching out for a fist bump. Giovanni obliged and grinned. He wore the regulation Baxley's white button-down shirt and tie, but he seemed as if he were wearing a costume. I got the feeling this was a guy more accustomed to sleeveless cotton T-shirts and spotless sneakers.

“Best bartender on the island, this guy,” Teddy said with hearty enthusiasm. Giovanni smiled and replied, “Naw, man, just doing my job. Go have a nice dinner.”

“You know, we've got a great deal to celebrate,” Mrs. Fairweather said once we were all seated. “The
Vogue
photo shoot this past week; Teddy, Delilah, and Jeff finishing up their junior year at Trumbo; Naomi visiting; and of course, the good news from Bake Like Anne Rye!, Inc.” Mom blushed with happiness and was momentarily at a loss for words.

“Yes, Mrs. Rye,” Teddy said. “I follow the financial news pretty closely to keep an eye on our stock price, and I've heard so many reports recently that you're basically taking over the world.”

“Our stock price” meant the price of Barrington Oil, Teddy's family's little global multinational mega-corporation.

“You may all call me Anne,” she said. “I haven't been a ‘Mrs.' in years, and I only kept the Rye so that Naomi and I would have the same last name.”

“Although you can still change it back to Gryzkowski,” I offered dryly. My mother looked fleetingly as if she wouldn't mind if the Hellmouth were to open beneath me and swallow me whole. I smiled sweetly.

“Well, Anne,” said Teddy, “tell us about what's happening with the business.”

Mom launched into a recitation of all the exciting things happening in her sugar-and-cinnamon-sprinkled world: an end-of-summer celebrity photo shoot for
Bake Like Anne Rye!
magazine's inaugural issue; planning the next season of her award-winning Food Network TV show; being a guest judge on a very special dessert episode of
Top Chef
.

“And of course,” she added, “launching our very own line of branded food products. Cake mixes, baking tools, and my favorite,
Bake Like Anne Rye!
Secret Recipe Perfect Frosting.”

“What's in this ‘secret recipe'? What exactly makes your frosting so irresistible?” Teddy asked, wiggling an eyebrow and leaning forward.

“Oh, Teddy!” Mrs. Fairweather giggled. “You make me glad I never had sons! I couldn't have handled it!”

“Well, you might have to handle it, if this one plays her cards right,” Teddy said, putting his arm around Delilah. She seemed entranced by her napkin and gave no sign of affection in return.

“You're too young to talk about getting married,” my mother chided him.

“We Barringtons marry young and mate for life,” he said, and Mrs. Fairweather smiled adoringly.

“Yes, he did actually just say that,” Jeff whispered in my ear. I gave him a look that expressed everything I wanted to say but couldn't, and he nodded in agreement.

Our waitress approached the table. She had dyed blond hair pulled into a high ponytail. Her skin was tan in that orange way, and her French manicure was studded with tiny rhinestones. She was prettyish, with a big chest and a perfect body. Skags, who is more judgmental than I am when it comes to women's looks, would've said she had a major case of butter face. (Everything is pretty . . . but her face.)