Social Lives (11 page)

Finally, there was Jacks, the perfect example of the reinvention of oneself. No one really knew about Jacks's past. She told people she went to a small college “upstate” somewhere, that her parents died when she was little. She had one sister who also lived “upstate,” though Jacks never committed to a specific town. She was a crafty one, dodging questions with more questions—the kind of questions people in Wilshire loved to answer. Questions about themselves.
Where did you say your sister lived? Oh—upstate . . . That reminds me, didn't you rent a cottage in Groton last year?
Brilliant. And Rosalyn admired that. No one could read a person better than Jacks, and now Rosalyn was counting on her to be the psychic along the way.

With the team assembled, Rosalyn tapped her spoon against a glass of water. “Ladies . . . ,” she said, interrupting the chatter. “Should we get down to business? Let me first thank all of you for coming. I am—” Rosalyn paused then to be momentarily choked up. “—so grateful for your support.”

There was a collective sigh and a gentle shoulder-pat from the head-mistress.

Rosalyn shuddered as though shaking off her emotions. Of course, her emotions had been placed in a vault and locked away earlier that morning.
How else would she survive this meeting? The sincerity, the angst, the endless talk of girls and self-esteem and the gender politics of horny teenagers. At the end of it all, it would still be there, sitting on the table in front of them among the vibrant pink salmon rolls and milky white toro—the truth of the matter. Her daughter had been branded a loser somewhere along the way, and the hallway blow job was nothing more than a down payment on a ticket out. Wasn't that the way of the world? The exploitation of the weak? The scratching and clawing up ladders—social, economic, political?

In any other town, the Barlows' money would have guaranteed Cait's ranking among the bloodthirsty teenage girls. But in Wilshire, everyone had money. Owning property here was the great equalizer. It took work, hard work above and beyond her husband's money, to achieve the kind of status Rosalyn had cultivated. Her mother hadn't come close to it. Had it been anything else, anything but sex, Rosalyn Barlow would have been relieved that Cait had found an angle to move up the social ranks. God help her, she would have seen it as a welcomed sign that the weakest of her five children would actually survive in a world that was, despite the appearance of civility, ruthless. Rosalyn knew this firsthand.

Taking a breath, she continued. “I need to thank the school, Marcia, for the gracious way everyone handled things. Really—it was the perfect balance of discipline and support. We will never forget it.”

Marcia blushed. She wasn't used to flattery, and in fact, had developed the skin of an elephant to keep out the shit storms she usually received from the parent body.

“Thank you, Rosalyn,” Marcia said. “She's a good kid. We all know that.”

“Yes, which brings me to the purpose of this meeting. There are a lot of good kids who are losing their way when it comes to their sexuality,” she began, though the words were sticky as they emerged from her carefully lined lips. “They've lost the true joy of first love, first kisses. They don't have relationships anymore.”

Rosalyn looked at Sara, eyebrows raised in an unspoken invitation for her thoughts.

When the request finally registered, Sara opened her mouth. “Um” was all that came out. Then a pause. Then, finally, something articulable. “It's a national problem, actually.” Her words held confidence, though her voice
was a bit shaky, mirroring the unsteady ground beneath her that shifted between her old life and her seat at this table.

Still, what she said next pleased Rosalyn.

“Although teenagers aren't engaging in sexual activity any earlier, the circumstances under which they do have changed. Sex has been separated from emotional intimacy. I did some research on it last night. There's been a lot of discourse lately.”

“Ha!” Eva Ridley was chuckling to herself as she took a gulp of wine. “That sounds like most of the marriages in this town.”

“Oh, Eva,” Jacks said.

Eva shrugged. “Well? Am I wrong?” She knew what she knew.

“Anyway,” Rosalyn interrupted, “I would be very indebted if each of you could come up with a few names. Maybe we can do a little research. Sara, weren't you a feminist in college? There must be some feminists who specialize in this area.”

Sara had a mind-boggled expression. “Um . . . I can look into it.”

Again, the subtle smile from the hostess.

“Thanks—I really appreciate it. Can I e-mail everyone to stay in touch? And Marcia, can you get me some dates to work with? Just after the holidays, maybe?”

Marcia nodded. “Sure. A winter event seems appropriate for such a somber issue.”

Rosalyn raised her wineglass. “To our girls,” she said.

They all took a sip. Then Marcia Preston gathered her things. “I really should be getting back. Thank you for the lovely lunch,” she said, now rushing to get the hell out of there.

“We'll be in touch.” Rosalyn stood to give her a mini-hug at the shoulders.

Eva watched the educator walk away, then set down her wineglass before giving Rosalyn a disapproving look. “
Weren't you a feminist in college?
Did you really say that?”

Jacks forced a smile. “She really said it.”

“What? Sara—
weren't
you a feminist in college?” Rosalyn asked, pretending to be indignant.

Sara thought about that for a moment. Then she decided to answer the question the way she might were she not so damned intimidated. “I don't
think you can actually
be
a feminist anymore. Feminism is really a way of life.”

“Exactly!” Eva said, though she had, on numerous occasions, boasted about being one. “It's not like being a
communist
. Any woman who believes she has a right to choose her own destiny is a feminist. End of story. In fact, Rosalyn Barlow, you are a feminist.”

“A feminist who shaves her legs,” Jacks said. Eva laughed hard. Rosalyn smiled.

“I mean, look at all of us.” Eva eyed her friends, old and new. “Every woman here went to college, had a job, then chose to stay home with her children. We are living the legacy of choice that the feminists laid down.”

“Huh,” Rosalyn said, her eyes narrow as she pretended to think about this seriously.
Choice
was an interesting word to describe the gender politics of Wilshire. It was an interesting word to describe what had happened between her daughter and Kyle Conrad in that hallway.

“All I know is that the world looks very much the same as it did when I was a child. Maybe it's a sad state of affairs that the feminists worked so hard to give us all these choices, and we chose to stay put.”

Eva gave Rosalyn a sad smile. “Well, anyway, I think we can all agree that keeping dicks out of girls' mouths is a worthy cause—feminists or not.”

Jacks raised her glass. “Well put, Eva. Tactful, as always.”

Eva smiled. “Thank you. I guess we can now adopt a name for our cause. The blow job committee. Oh, and speaking of prurient things, how is the Halloween party coming along?”

Rosalyn paused for a moment to glance at Sara. The Barlows' annual Halloween party was Wilshire's most prominent and infamous event, and Rosalyn had not invited the Livingstons. Not yet.

“Sara, I completely forgot!” Rosalyn lied, covering herself. “The invitations went out before we met and I just didn't think—”

Sara brushed it off. “Don't worry about it, really. . . .”

“No, you must come. Call my assistant for the details. Here—” Rosalyn pulled a business card from her purse and handed it to Sara. “—it has all my numbers.”

Then, with the plastic smile returning, Rosalyn raised her glass for the second time. “One final toast. To our girls.”

 

 

 

 

 

I
NSIDE HER ROOM
, C
AITLIN
buried her face in a pillow and let out a scream. There was so much to sort out, so many things swimming around in her head, drowning her. She needed to focus, stay afloat. First on the agenda was this incessant daydreaming about Kyle Conrad and the evidence that it would never be anything more than that. He had touched her hair, but then seemed indifferent to her. He had smiled at her, but then winked at Amanda. He'd asked her into that hallway, but how many others had there been before her? All of this needed sorting. She needed time, and space, to relive each moment, to comb through each event in her head and somehow come to a conclusion so she wouldn't go mad. Then there was the problem of Amanda Jamison and how easily she could take away the surprising social elevation she'd bestowed upon Caitlin. Would it last? Could she make it last, or would she piss it all away with another move like puking in kindergarten?

Plopped on her bed in a heap of nerves and a wrenching stomach that would not be placated, she clung to the pillow and closed her eyes, letting it take her to the only escape she had. Kyle Conrad, towering over her, broad shoulders, tanned skin, blue eyes. He walked like he would never have a worry in this world. Not ever—over a job, a girl, or whatever it was a person like Kyle could afford to desire. Kyle was a mystery, but that did not concern
her so much as the burning desire to attach herself to him, hitch a ride on the golden road he was surely headed for. He had been a vehicle, a task she needed to perform to adhere herself to Amanda and the new life the girl had given Cait. But something shifted in that hallway, something had been ignited, and now Kyle Conrad
was
that life.

She sighed hard, breathing in deep the anguish that filled her room, and wondered how long she could take any of this.

There
, she said to herself, entering the imaginary world that was all about him and nothing else.
There he is. There I am. The world is frozen around us.
He kisses her hard, then pulls back, sending a message through his eyes. This is what he wants, and he will have it. And her doubts, the ones that kept sneaking in like thieves to loot her deepest desires, are suddenly irrelevant.
The world is frozen
. He removes her clothing, calmly and with clear intention. He is not subjected to the mortal failings of emotions. There is something calculated. His control is absolute as he lays her down.

It was sweet, the abandon she felt in her most secret fantasy, running across her shattered nerves like a soothing balm. That it was often followed by disgust and self-loathing was no longer an impediment, as she could hardly feel any worse than she already did. Could she not have, at the very least, these few minutes of peace?

She heard the blip on her screen and pulled herself from the bed, the pillow, and the other world she had let herself run to. There was a message from one of the many Web sites she had found. It was a new entry from someone she didn't recognize. Totallyfkd was the screen name, and it had her instantly intrigued. She clicked on the link to pull up the entry, and the words dragged her in like a tornado's vortex.

 

Totallyfkd: Help! Need advice! I'm so fucked. Anyone there?

Caitlin paused for the briefest of moments before responding.

 

Cbow: I'm here. What happened?

Totallyfkd: Thank God! Who are you?

Cbow: Cbow.

Totallyfkd: Right. Duh. I mean who are you—girl, boy, old, young?

Cbow: Girl. Seventeen.

Totallyfkd: Not sure I want to tell a stranger.

Cbow: Maybe that'll be easier. Nothing you tell me will ever get back to you.

Totallyfkd: OK. Totally anonymous then. Here goes. I lost it last weekend with this guy I really liked and he hasn't called. Prick. I feel like I wanna die. Maybe kill him first (ha). Why would he do that? Why fuck me at all? He can have anyone he wants and I'm a nobody—really I am.

Cbow: Maybe he will still call. Why do you think you're a nobody?

Totallyfkd: I am. Trust me. I'm so stressed this year my ass is as big as Texas. All I do is eat. Senior year is supposed to be the greatest. And my parents suck more than ever.

Cbow: I can relate. And I'm sure your ass isn't the size of Texas.

Totallyfkd: Maybe Rhode Island. I hate my parents. It's like I'm a little trophy and they can't wait to get me into Smith so they can hang my head on their wall, all stuffed and puffed like the last thing I saw was their gun pointed between my eyes. Fuck. And I thought this guy really cared about me.

Cbow: Maybe he does. How long have you gone out?

Totallyfkd: What planet are you from? We never went out. We just fucked. And I waited til senior year for the right guy. He's amazing. Do you think there's a chance he'll still call? Is there some three day rule on fucking and calling? I swear to God, if he doesn't, I don't know. . . .

Cbow: I don't know either. Haven't been there yet. Maybe you just have to wait till you see him again? Like a party or something . . .

Totallyfkd: Wait. . . . Can't wait! I feel like I'm drowning. Life feels like a big fucking nothing. Sorry to keep saying fuck all the time. I hope I haven't upset you. It makes me feel better. I'm probably on some terrorist watch list now—kids trying to destroy the world with the f word.

Cbow: You're funny. I think he'll call you. And if not, at least you got it over with. Now the next time won't be such a big fucking deal. I like saying fuck too . . .

Totallyfkd: Just don't know how to stop feeling this way . . . like I can't even breathe without him . . . like I won't survive if he never touches me again . . .

Cbow: But you did survive before he touched you, so you must be able to. You are lucky to be a senior. College could be a whole new world and this guy a distant memory.

Totallyfkd: Do you really believe that?