Great (5 page)

“Jenny Carpenter?”

“JCarpz herself. She rolled in alone, ordered a chicken wrap with extra guacamole, and then told me she's been eating nonstop since she broke up with Taylor Cryan.”

“Did she look fat?” I asked evilly.

“Dude! No. I mean, her boobs looked big, but they always look big.”

“Gross.”

“Deal with it. Anyway, it was pretty obvious she wanted me to know she was single, because she's completely into me.”

“Double gross.”

“Is this 1992, Naomi? Who says ‘double gross'? More like double
hot.
I'm gonna hit it by the end of the summer, I swear.”

“You're such a guy.”

“No, Naomi, I'm a young woman who subverts the conventionally accepted gender paradigm because I refuse to conform.”

“Oh, right. I forgot.”

Skags switched gears abruptly. “Listen, for real, you sound exhausted. I know your mom is sucking the life out of you. Why don't you skip the SAT book and take a nap? You know you get sick when you don't get enough rest.” There was a sudden note of concern in her voice that was kind of sweet. Sometimes I think Skags is more like a mom to me than my own mom is. Which is weird, because Skags is actually really similar to my dad, which maybe means I have two dads? I don't know.

Anyway, a nap sounded good to me, so I bid Skags farewell and brought the plates inside. I knew Mom's weekly housekeeper was coming that day, but I still scraped and rinsed the plates and put them in the dishwasher myself. I'm aware this doesn't make me some kind of heroine, but it's behavior that my mother actively discourages, especially if other people are around.

“Darling,” she once said at one of her beloved afternoon iced tea parties, emitting a peal of shrill laughter, “you don't need to do that. Give the help something to do!” Then her assembled “friends,” all of them social climbers in their own right, laughed as well. It made me kind of hate her in that moment.

I went upstairs to my bedroom, which Mom had done in this obnoxious boat theme: blue and white stripes everywhere, with antique ships in bottles and old framed maps. She dubbed it New Nautical Chic, and when
Town & Country
came to photograph the house, she made me wear the most heinous sailor dress and pose by the bed. I was twelve and sported those blond highlights her stylist, Jonathan, had put in, plus a bunch of makeup he piled on me. I looked like an overgrown version of one of those beauty pageant toddlers. Skags, who still went by Tiffani back then, taped a copy of the article to the front of my locker the first day of seventh grade. I didn't talk to her for a week.

But just like she really knows her stuff when it comes to breakfast preparation, my mother is a genius when it comes to picking out bed linens. Still in the pajamas that had so horrified her, I slid between the 1,200-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets and drifted off to sleep almost immediately. I have a dim recollection of noting the time on the antique wall-mounted clock in the corner (taken from an old lighthouse, natch)—11:07. I figured I'd get up at one.

When I woke up, the clock read 6:00 p.m. I'd slept for (as Skags would say) seven
freaking
hours. I don't know what had me so tired, or why my body felt it needed to store up so much sleep. At least my mother wasn't home—she really would've flipped if she found out I ditched a day of tennis with Fairweather and Barrington offspring in favor of just sleeping. I mean, my mom doesn't even like it when I sleep more than seven hours a night. She regards sleep as a necessary evil, and essentially a waste of her time. She'd eliminate it from all our lives if she could.

I wandered down to the kitchen to make myself an iced coffee. I swear I had all the best intentions of actually cracking open that SAT prep book, but when I looked out the window above the sink, I was astonished by what I saw.

Something truly faaaaaabulous was happening at our next-door neighbor's place. In all the years I'd been coming to stay with my mother in East Hampton, I'd never seen anything like it.

Gleaming red-and-white-striped tents lined the left and right borders of the backyard. The tent flaps were down on three sides, but the side facing the river pool was open. Some of the tents contained catering stations—I could see two Baxley's vans parked in the driveway—while others displayed games you might see at a carnival. You know that one where you shoot a stream of water into a clown's open mouth and fill a balloon that rises above his head? That was one of the games. There was also a game of Whack-a-Mole, one of those horrendous weight-guessing booths, a dart challenge where you had to try to pop a balloon to win the prize listed on its tag, a beanbag toss, a ring-the-bell competition with a big old-fashioned mallet, a miniature rifle range, and a bunch of other activities that would've seemed perfectly at home at the Jersey Shore but which seemed hilariously out of place in stuffy East Hampton.

As two white-gloved cater waiters struggled to set up a giant tub of lobsters near a grill, I noticed with delight that Baxley's was not the only food provider on-site. It seemed the hostess next door had seen fit to engage the services of a company that did carnival snacks like funnel cakes, grilled corn on the cob, cotton candy, roasted peanuts, ice cream, and (my absolute favorite) sno-cones! I don't know what it is that I so love about pouring a bunch of artificially flavored and colored high-fructose corn syrup over ice, but I'm a big fan.
Big
.

And to top it all off—and this was what I really couldn't believe—there was a Ferris wheel! I mean, a pretty, romantic, old-fashioned, classic Ferris wheel. It wasn't giant like an amusement park Ferris wheel, but it was pretty large! It even matched the rest of the décor, being red and white. They'd centered it in the backyard along the rear perimeter, practically in Georgica Pond, and it dominated the entire scene, dwarfing the tables and chairs that were set up around the U-shaped river pool. The footbridges that crossed the river pool here and there had been festooned with red and white balloons.

As I watched a small army of workers rush around lighting the tiki torches that lined the river pool, I thought I heard a knock at the front door. I figured I was just hallucinating, so I stayed in the kitchen spying on the circus unfolding next door. It occurred to me that my mother would absolutely lose it when she saw that her peaceful evening of silent cupcake contemplation was going to be ruined by some kind of noisy party next door. I honestly would've assumed it was a party for little kids, except that one of the red-and-white-striped tents was a fully stocked bar—manned, I noticed with some surprise, by Giovanni, the kid from Baxley's. As I looked around at the other cater waiters, I recognized quite a few faces. I even saw Misti-with-an-i, straightening the spotless white tablecloths on the white circular tables and adjusting the perfect white cushions on the white folding chairs. Each table was anchored by an expensive-looking crystal bowl in which floated white candles and red roses. Misti yelled something at Giovanni, and he hurried over with a lighter and began attending to each candle. Even from my vantage point, I could see the look of scorn she shot him as she watched him work, her hands on her hips.

We still had a couple of hours until sunset, but all the lights in the house were blazing, and a harried-looking woman wearing a headset kept rushing in and out of the back door, surveying the progress in the yard and barking orders to various sweaty men who were hoisting boxes, pushing hand trucks, handling armloads of red and white flowers, and doing a seemingly endless series of other tasks involving color-coordinated objects. I caught a good look at the woman's face and realized that I actually knew who she was—this was Greta Moriarity, my mother's favorite party planner (though, of course, Anne Rye never liked to publicize the fact that she used a party planner—she liked people to think she did everything herself). I'd met Greta a few times over the years, and she had always vaguely terrified me. Now, as she screamed at a large man carrying a giant red-and-white vase, I could see that she terrified other people, too.

Conspicuously missing from this whole scene was my neighbor, the gorgeous angelic creature I'd seen the previous evening. It seemed as if this horde of caterers, construction workers, carnival barkers, and—were those guys in dark suits security guards? Why yes, they were—other employees had just spontaneously descended upon the castle-like house and elaborate grounds next door and magically made this spectacle come to life. I was sure they'd been at work outside for the duration of the seven hours I'd been asleep—and I had a feeling Greta had been directing activities inside the house since before I woke up in the morning. Suddenly I heard the door to the garage slam. My mother's shrill voice called out, “Naomi!”

She swept into the kitchen, loaded down with bags from Marc Jacobs and Calypso and Citarella, and stared at me with disdain.

“You haven't changed?” she demanded.

“Wait, I haven't?” I shrieked, staring at myself in mock shock. I couldn't help it.

“That's disgusting,” she said, huffing around the kitchen and noisily unpacking fancy cheeses and jars of expensive tapenade. “That's really disgusting. You haven't even showered today, have you?”

“Just been really focused on studying,” I lied.

“Well, if you haven't noticed, there's an absolute circus unfolding next door,” she said. “I doubt we're going to get much peace and quiet tonight. I didn't think anything could be worse than those Saudis, but this girl next door is clearly about as gauche as it gets.”

I edged out of the kitchen and toward the front staircase in order to beat a hasty retreat, but stopped when I noticed something affixed to the front door. It was a little pink envelope. I grabbed it quickly and went back into the kitchen.

“Hey, Mom,” I said. “Somebody left this for you.” I gave it to her, and she stared at it with a furrowed brow. (Well, her brow would've been furrowed if it hadn't been so loaded with Botox.)

“But it's got your name on it, Naomi,” she said, a touch of wonder in her voice as she handed it back to me. “And look at that gorgeous handwriting.”

I looked. She was right. There on the front of the pale pink envelope was my name in the most exquisite cursive. It looked as if the writer had used a calligraphy pen, but the handwriting was so lovely that I wondered if it had been done professionally. Every Christmas, my mother throws an eggnog soiree at her big Manhattan apartment, and she always hires this fancy stationer, Dolores Weathers, to address the invitations and fill out the place cards. The writing on this pink envelope was even prettier than anything Dolores had ever cooked up.

My mother's eyes lit up. “Perhaps Delilah is having a party!” she said excitedly. “I'd think Merilee would've mentioned it to me—we met up for lunch today, it was wonderful—but it's possible she wanted it to be a lovely surprise for you.” I was intrigued, for sure. I tore open the envelope (“You're ripping it up!” my mother scolded me. “This might be something you want to keep!”) and unfolded the white note inside. It was a substantial piece of card stock, the sort of thing one might print a wedding invite on, and it contained the same elaborate handwriting:

Dear Naomi:

Hello, love! We've never met, but I'd love to remedy that situation by welcoming you to my carnival party this evening. You're welcome to bring anyone you like. The party begins at 7 and should conclude around 1. Please give your mother my apologies for any inconvenience it may cause her—I'm afraid I've been a terrible neighbor and haven't found the time to introduce myself yet. I'll admit, I'm a bit shy! Rather appropriate for a blogger, I should think. Anyway, I admire her so much and hope to meet her in person soon. And I really hope to make your acquaintance tonight. Come ride the Ferris wheel—it's going to be so beautiful under the moon.

Best regards,

Jacinta Trimalchio

I scanned down to the bottom of the page and read the small print there:
ARE YOU WANTED? THEWANTED.COM
.

“Oh, wow,” I said. “This is
that
girl.”

“What girl?” my mother asked eagerly, snatching the invitation from my hand. She scanned it quickly, her mouth curving up into a smile when she read the part about how much Jacinta admired her. Then she seemed to notice what was at the end of the note.

“TheWanted.com!” she gasped. “Isn't that the online internet website Delilah was talking about?”

“Yes,” I said. “I am pretty sure that is the online internet website Delilah was talking about.”

My mother's eyes lit up. “Ooh,” she said. “Let's look at it, darling. This girl is famous!” I could tell any resentment she held toward the new neighbor was gone forever.

I popped open my laptop and went to TheWanted.com. The pink background matched the pink envelope, and the header displayed “The Wanted” in Jacinta's distinctive handwriting. The site was designed with a simple elegance—no bells and whistles, no distracting pop-up ads (God, I hate those). The navigation bar below the header displayed the categories: Parties, Fashion, Beauty, Models, and What's Jacinta Wearing? I clicked on the last category and brought up a seemingly endless page of daily posts of Jacinta from the neck down.

“She's so
thin
,” my mother said admiringly. “Is she a model?”

“I don't think so,” I said, scrolling through the entries. “But she sure seems to have a lot of clothes.” I paused on one post from the previous October entitled “Birthday Suit.” In the photo, Jacinta's lithe frame was outfitted in a lavender bouclé pantsuit with bright gold buttons down the front of the jacket and a bold, showy white lace ruffle encircling her long, swan-like neck. The hem of the pants stopped above her ankles. She wore lavender-and-white saddle shoes and lacy white ankle socks. It was one of those outfits that was completely weird and would've gotten her laughed out of school if she'd tried it in Chicago, but it made sense on some fancy style blog. The post read: