Social Lives (5 page)

It wasn't fair that he expected this never to change. She was fourteen. Card games were the equivalent of a merry-go-round to the Amanda-Kyle roller coaster. The first time she'd broken a plan, he looked like a child who'd discovered the cruel farce of Santa Claus. Fuck him anyway. He'd canceled on her for business meetings before his retirement. And what? Now that he was bored out of his mind, she was supposed to provide entertainment, like his cars and scotch and arm-fart contests with her little brothers? This was her
life
, her defining moment that would dictate everything for the next four years. She had been a social nobody since before she could remember, the blanks having been filled in by her older brother.
Remember when we had to beg kids to come to Caitie's birthday party? Remember when Caitie puked in kindergarten and no one would talk to her?
Even the Barlow name hadn't saved her from herself all those years, and those were the years that had set the stage.

It was cruel how this was sorted out in towns like this one. Preschool, lower school, middle, and upper. They had grown up side by side, the Amandas
of Wilshire and the Caitlins—the ones who lacked that something, the secret ingredient that was necessary to be in and not out, though what that ingredient was, Cait still had no clue. At first blush, she had the obvious things, some of them in spades. Enormous estate. Private plane. Servants. World-renowned father, socially connected mother. As for her appearance, even in a place like Wilshire where you'd have to search the maid's quarters to find a fat chick, Caitlin Barlow was attractive. Petite like her mother. Skinny legs. Blond hair, long and straight. Blue eyes. Straight teeth. Adequate tits for a fourteen-year-old. Clearly showing potential. Not too smart, not a retard either. By all accounts, Cait should have been popular.

And yet, she had not been surprised by her fate. There was, she had observed over the course of her school years, a kind of calling that was felt within before it could be outwardly displayed. It was a calling that she had always lacked, though she had tried in so many different ways to fake it, to pretend that she was born to be admired, to be coveted. Amanda Jamison had possessed it since their first days in pre-K. Long, curly brown hair, pretty sundresses, she had carried herself like a princess from the start. And her admirers had fallen into place and never left her side. It was, Caitlin knew, something expected of the Barlow children, and her brother had pulled it off with his usual effortless brilliance. It showed on his face, in his gait and smile. Even with defeat, rejection, momentary failure, it never left him. One look, and you knew he had it, that he felt it inside.

What Cait felt inside, she was certain, could not be anything like that. Confusion, insecurity, and doubt, a deadly potion that ran through her blood and invaded every cell. When she looked at her life—at any piece of it—she saw a senseless jumble of tasks and imaginary hoops, of distraction and blindness, and it left her with a giant pit that was filled alternately with anxiety and resignation. Not exactly the makeup of a born leader. No one made sense to her. Not her older brother, who filled his time with sports and video games. Not her mother, whose eyes drew her in but left her with a greater mystery each time. Barlow was a child himself, brilliant they said, but now somehow happy rolling around on the floor with the babies. He said there was joy in a hard day's work, in achieving great things. Even little things. And yet, when the money rolled in, he had retired.

There was a chance for her now. He should be proud. All of them should. Weren't they the ones who scowled at her old friends? Weren't they the ones
who pushed her to “expand her social circle”? She had done it, found a way in, and now they were disappointed because they didn't like what she'd had to do. How could they not have known the price of admission?

The anger was powerful as it poured from a well inside her, a place she had never known existed. She let out a moan and closed her eyes. The anger was surpassed only by the agony—the sum of all these loose and scattered pieces. Pure agony, churning and churning. Standing on the brink of a social breakthrough. Soaring with possibilities. The thoughts she allowed herself at night in her bed.
Kyle
. His hand sweeping through her hair. Was it really possible to want to crawl inside another person and be lost forever? Had he stroked Amanda's hair? Would he ever notice her again? Then there was the dismissive way her mother looked at her, the look that had once been laced with pride, narcissistic as it might have been. It had felt good at the time. And her father—was that the worst piece? Or was it Mellie, who sulked incessantly because Cait refused to play? But how could she, really? How could she sit on the floor and pretend to be the purple Pretty Pony when she wanted to scream until it all stopped? And how could she ever enjoy the turn her life had taken when she had to go back inside that house—right now, as a matter of fact, and every day after this one—and feel the weight of their disappointment? What would they do if she were dead? Somehow the family would go on, mourning their dear saint Caitlin and accepting visitors with plates of food (prepared by chefs, of course—Wilshire didn't
do
homemade), like at her grandmother's funeral. After it was said and done, they would carry on, filling in whatever gap was left. Why couldn't they just do that now? Pretend she didn't exist and let her get on with her life?

“Cait!” The boss sounded pissed as she screamed from the kitchen sliders. Now she would have to pretend to babysit while the nannies supervised her every move. At least it was past seven. All that was left was TV and bed. She could survive that. She shoved it down, the new Cait, and brought out her shield. Sarcastic Caitlin. Indifferent Caitlin. Typical teen Caitlin. The teen-stranger, as her father now called her. She willed herself off the swing. The ground was getting cold, the grass starting to stiffen from it. With frozen toes, she began her journey back to her family, screaming as she walked.

“I'm coming!”

 

 

 

 

 

“W
AIT
—
WAS SHE JUST
looking
at it, or was she actually . . . you know . . .?”

“I think so.”

“But she's
fourteen
!”

“I know. It's tragic. Scary. How's Rosalyn doing?”

As Jacks Halstead stood in line for a drink at the Wee Ones benefit, she was surrounded by chatter that had now morphed into an annoying buzz. At five-nine, she towered over the others, but this proved to be no match for the gossip. And yet her mind was far too saturated with worry to absorb any more talk about the Barlow family. Was it really that interesting? Tuning in again, she thought about the words that had been spoken over and over throughout an evening that was still unbearably young.
Fourteen. Blow job. Barlow.
The last held the greatest significance. Rosalyn Barlow was Wilshire's version of royalty, which meant that this dark incident would not go away on its own. It would have to be managed, finessed, and despite Jacks's own brewing troubles, her friendship with Rosalyn necessitated her involvement. She was resigned to this and fully prepared to perform her duties. Still, at the moment, the investigation into her husband seemed more than enough to have to bear, and she felt an intense desire to scream, though she swallowed it down, concerning herself instead with the scene that surrounded her.

Staying true to form, the special-events committee for the nursery school had outdone itself. The theme was “back to summer,” though the early chill in the air was lending itself more to cashmere wraps than to sleeveless silk. Despite the fashion dilemma that the theme had inadvertently created, the small uninteresting space had been transformed into an exquisite beachside resort. With giant heat lamps shining a soft orange glow onto a sand-covered floor, a wall-to-wall mural of ocean surf, and canvas beach umbrellas sheltering the auction tables, the mood had certainly been achieved. Swarms of peroxide-white smiles, hoisted breasts, and jewels drifted effortlessly around her as she waited for the only thing in the room that she truly cared about at the moment.

“Gin and tonic,” she said after seizing the bartender's attention.

But she was not off the hook.

“Jacks?” It was Eva Ridley, official town gossip and, ironically, one of her closest friends.

Watching with anticipation as the young bartender poured the gin, Jacks reluctantly entered the conversation. “I'm sorry—what did you ask?”

“
How
is Rosalyn?” Eva repeated herself, her eyes shifting between Jacks and the other women. Eva was teeing her up for the perfect response, which Jacks was now forcing herself to consider. Too much information, and she would betray their friend to the small group of women that now surrounded them. Too little, and this conversation (and that was a generous description) would never end. Either way, she supposed, it would eventually get done. Rosalyn Barlow was fully capable of defusing the situation and maintaining her position as Wilshire's most envied woman. Still, there was an unprecedented glee in the air over what had happened in that stark gray hallway of the Wilshire Academy. With music from the dance playing in the background and nothing but cold metal and fluorescent lights surrounding them, the blond-haired, doe-eyed Barlow beauty had dropped to her knees as a “favor to a friend.” It was salacious and humiliating and worst (or best) of all, evidence that the Barlows' perfect life might not be so perfect as it seemed. That it took a hallway blow job for them to arrive at this most obvious conclusion was in itself perplexing to Jacks.

“Rosalyn is concerned, of course, for Caitlin,” she said finally. “She's concerned for
all
the girls at the Academy.”

As her words took flight on the winds of the gossip storm, Jacks felt a
hint of relief.
One hurdle cleared
. Three of the four women flittering about her had girls at the Academy, and their minds were now racing with fear.

“Has it happened before?” one of the women asked.

Jacks shrugged with the nonchalance of feigned ignorance. “All I know is that the school is planning a
big
investigation.”

Silence
. And just in time. Jacks grabbed her drink from the bartender and smiled at Eva, who gave her a discreet wink.

“Enjoy the evening, ladies.” Wiggling her way back through the line, Jacks held the gin firmly in hand. When she was safely out of the fray, she exhaled deeply. Then she took a long sip and watched her husband, who was casually socializing in the far corner by the auction items. He was with the new family, the Livingstons. David knew Nick from college, and Jacks had orders to make nice with his much younger wife.
Susan? Sandy?
She couldn't keep a damn thing in her head anymore. Nor could she imagine enduring the small talk that would be required of her.

She'd known the people in this room for years. The club. The Wilshire Academy. Young Women's League. Her library of knowledge was seventeen years deep, stacked to the ceiling with files upon files of information. Someone's breast cancer, another's autistic son. An affair with the tennis pro. A plot to steal a nanny. Sexual preferences, disease, plastic surgery. She knew what each woman was feeling as she stood beside her husband at this very moment, what passed through her thoughts while his hand brushed the side of her breast or the flesh of her ass. Hope—
he still wants me
. Hatred—
I'm not his whore.
Either way, the woman would smile. These were the things she had always noticed, the subtle exchanges that were so benign to the untrained eye. They were the hidden codes that were embedded within each social interaction, and she dissected them with the internal tools inherited from her childhood—tools that had been necessary to adjust to the madness. Perception. Analysis. Understanding. Everything said to her, whether in passing or the deepest confidence, was fed into the processor, brushed onto the canvas that revealed their darkest thoughts and fears, their very humanity. They were, at their core, just that. Human.

And yet, if she squinted her eyes, the giant pool of deception morphed into a different picture altogether. A lovely cocktail party with rich, carefree people. She felt her face quiver as she forced a pleasant smile. Was she as transparent to them as they were to her? Would they notice the change in her
demeanor? There was only so much of the panic she would be able to subdue, even with the gin.

A voice came from behind her, pulling her out of the spiraling anxiety.

“Here.” It was Barlow with two drinks in his hand. Keeping the scotch for himself, he handed the gin and tonic to her. “You look like you could use another.”

Jacks smiled and glanced into her glass, which was now bare down to the ice.

“Thanks.”

She took the fresh drink and clicked it against his. “Cheers,” she said, raising an eyebrow. No one could lift a person's spirits like Ernest Barlow. Handsome, rich, funny, and, most of all, intent on having a good time under even the worst of circumstances.