Great (8 page)

“I heard she's a distant cousin of Prince William,” one girl said to her friend.

“She's definitely not American—you can tell she's trying to hide an accent,” a boy in a peach bow tie said to his date (a boy with whom he was holding hands).

“She's soooooo thin,” a tiny girl in pink ballet flats said to her friend. “I mean, like thinner than L.A. thin.”

“Her parents are dead,” a drunk guy announced to no one in particular. “She's this orphan heiress.”

If Jacinta heard any of the comments, she didn't let on. She was too busy sweetly greeting strangers and telling them how honored and delighted she was that they'd made time in their schedule to come to her little party. I'd never seen someone so obviously rich display so much genuine gratitude. Even in her wig and layers of makeup, Jacinta was the most authentic person at the party.

On the deck, Jeff Byron immediately came over to me.

“I didn't know where you went,” he said, and something in his voice pleased me. He wasn't whining, exactly, but he hadn't been happy about my exit. I liked that.

“Miss Naomi,” Jacinta said, “do you want to ride the Ferris wheel with me?” Jeff looked at her, startled, taking in the unusual getup and those Cleopatra eyes.

“I'm Jacinta,” she offered, opening her arms for a hug. “And you're Jeffrey Byron. I'm such a fan of Byron Records. I'm
so
glad you could make it!”

Jeff looked bewildered as Jacinta enfolded him in her arms. When she stepped back, he said, “You're Jacinta Trimalchio?”

“I am,” she said. “Are you enjoying yourself? Did you like the appetizers? If you're still hungry, there's lots of food in the backyard. The grilled lobster is really, really great. And how do you know Naomi?”

“We just met yesterday,” I said. “We have a—friend, I guess, in common.”

“Really?” Jacinta said, her eyes lighting up. “What friend?”

“Delilah Fairweather,” Jeff said. “Do you know her?”

Jacinta's eyes widened, and she smiled so energetically I thought she might break her own face.

“We were just talking about her upstairs,” she said. “She is my favorite up-and-coming model. I think she's just absolutely amazing. Jeff, you're friends with her boyfriend, Teddy Barrington, aren't you?”

“Yeah,” Jeff said, looking a little surprised.

“I see you together in photos on Facebook all the time,” Jacinta said by way of explanation. Then she let out another sweet laugh. “Oh God, that sounds a bit stalker-ish, doesn't it? It's just that I've got to go through all the party photos to pick the best ones for my blog.”

“Trust me, I know,” Jeff said reassuringly. “All the girls at Trumbo are obsessed with
The Wanted
.”

“I was hoping Delilah and Teddy would come tonight,” Jacinta said. “I was too shy to send
them
invitations, but I figured if their friends were here . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“I'm sure they were just busy,” I said. “Next time you should send them invitations.”

“I've really been wanting to meet Delilah,” Jacinta said, looking out at the Ferris wheel. “I think she's the next big supermodel. In a couple years, everyone will know her name.”

“And her father may be president,” Jeff interjected.

“Oh, but she'll be famous on her own,” Jacinta said wistfully. “She's too good to stay unknown.”

She turned her big green eyes on me, and I watched her hesitate. Finally, she said, “Would you ever have her over to the house, and invite me over, too?”

I was surprised by the timidity with which Jacinta issued the request. You'd think a girl who could summon two hundred strangers to a party wouldn't be too worried about meeting a new person, especially not a person she'd already praised several times in public on the internet. I was beginning to think Jacinta was something of a Delilah Fairweather fangirl.

“Of course I will,” I said. “Any time you want.”

“Oh, Naomi!” Jacinta exclaimed, wrapping me up in another tight hug. “I would be soooo grateful! I'm so glad we're friends!”

“Me too,” I said, my voice muffled against her armpit. She was much taller than me.

A horde of excited girls descended on Jacinta then, asking if they could take photos with her, and she graciously obliged them. As they jabbered at her like hyperactive geese, Jeff leaned over.

“It's
the
Jacinta Trimalchio?” he whispered without a trace of sarcasm. “I mean, it's really, really her?”

“It's really, really her,” I whispered back.

“Wow,” he said in wonder. “I can't believe she's real. Any Trumbo girl who missed this party is going to be seriously pissed off.”

My stomach was starting to growl, which always happens when I've had too much alcohol. I had determined that several glasses of water and some food were in order, lest I wake up hungover the next day. I'm a real lightweight when it comes to alcohol, and Skags has taught me some tricks over the years to prevent the dreaded morning-after headache and stomach trouble. The funny thing is that Skags doesn't drink at all, but she says she likes to watch out for her stupid friends. She's sweet that way.

“Let's go down to the carnival,” I suggested. “I want to check out the food tents.”

“Oh, you just want me to win you a stuffed animal,” Jeff said.

“I'm a feminist, Jeffrey. I will win my
own
stuffed animal.”

“Do feminists ever ride Ferris wheels with men they've just met?”

“Feminists do whatever they want. That means I'll see how I feel
after
I get some grilled lobster in me.”

He took my hand and led me down the stairs, past the lower level of the deck, and into the backyard wonderland of lights and music and delicious food smells.

We ate grilled lobster, grilled corn on the cob, funnel cake (we split one), homemade gelato (I got salted caramel; he got mint chocolate chip), and cotton candy. At the bar tent, we ordered a ginger ale for me and a beer for Jeff, who high-fived Giovanni as if they were old friends.

“How you doing, man?” Jeff asked.

“All right, man, all right,” Giovanni said, pouring our drinks with an easy grin.

“Working hard as usual, right, my man?” Jeff said.

“You know it,” Giovanni responded, handing us our beverages.

“You're doing a great job,” Jeff said.

Maybe I was just still drunk, but I thought he had the peculiar feigned ease of a rich person talking to a less-than. It's the way my mother talks to her housekeeper. It's not condescension, exactly. It's like there's this knowledge hanging in the air that one person has more power than the other, and we're supposed to pretend everything is nice and normal and equal, but in reality, luck or chance has showered benefits on one person that the other person couldn't dream of. I didn't like it, but I brushed the feeling aside, reminding myself that Jeff was actually fun and smart and, as far as I could tell, not all caught up in the social-climbing game.

He was also the best shot I had at getting a beach boyfriend, something I'd always secretly wanted—not that I'd ever, ever,
ever
admit it to anyone,
especially
not Skags. All the boys in East Hampton had always seemed so douchey, but Jeff was actually intelligent. Another thing that separated him from the pack was that he displayed an interest in me, something no East Hampton boy had done before. To be fair to them, I wasn't exactly warm and inviting—but neither were they! Oh, it's a chicken and egg thing, I guess.

Jeff and I walked over to the Ferris wheel and got on board. While I buckled myself in, he murmured something to the attendant. I didn't catch it.

The wheel moved slowly and kept creaking and groaning. What looked from afar like a sparkling new carnival ride was actually pretty worn-out.

“You're not afraid of heights, are you?” Jeff asked when we were almost at the top.

“You ask me that
now
!” I laughed at him. “Wouldn't the ground have been the place to make that inquiry?”

“Probably. But you're not, right? Afraid of heights?”

“Nope,” I said. We were almost,
almost
at the top. Georgica Pond spread out before us, a wide patch of darkness punctuated by occasional twinkling lights on the shore. The party noise had faded somewhat, and I could see Jacinta's red wig sparkling like a ruby under the lights on the deck. She was still mobbed by people.

“So this isn't going to bother you,” Jeff said.

“What isn't going to bother me?”

We reached the top, and the Ferris wheel shuddered to a halt.

“How did you know it was going to—”

“I told the guy to stop us up here.”

“
What?
” I was utterly confused. For a second I thought about this rich kid in Chicago, this guy who grew up in a penthouse on Lakeshore Drive, who got super-wasted at a party and was all pissed off at his girlfriend, so he
pushed her off a balcony
. I know it seems weird that my first thought would be that Jeff might
murder
me, but I was still a little drunk, and it's not like I had much experience with guys. “I just wanted to do this,” Jeff said, and he leaned over to kiss me.

I had never been kissed before—I know, I know, I was seventeen and that's old, but whatever, it just hadn't
happened
, unless you count the time Alan Scott pecked me on the lips during Spin the Bottle in seventh grade
—
so you'd think I would freeze up, but actually, I seemed to know exactly what to do. I just leaned over and kissed him back. It was kind of odd, because if you think about it, having your lips on someone else's lips is just inherently weird—there's no, like, evolutionary need for it, as far as I know
.
It doesn't aid in reproduction, although apparently foreplay is important to the sexual act, according to this sex book my mother sent me when I was fifteen in lieu of having an actual discussion with me about sex. Getting that book in the mail and opening it in front of my dad was one of the single most embarrassing experiences of my life. He grunted, “Oh. Um,” and promptly left the room. But I did read it.

Anyway, we kissed and it was nice, and I had this strange feeling of triumph, like I'd checked off a box on the grand list of Things You Must Do While You Are a Teenager. Then I immediately wanted to text somebody and tell them, but who was I going to tell? Certainly not my mother, and definitely not my dad. Skags would just say that straight make-outs were gross. I wished I had a girly girlfriend I could tell. It's fun being BFFs with the butch future first lesbian president of the United States, but sometimes I do want to have the kind of stereotypical girl friendship where you paint each other's nails and talk about boys.

“Thanks, bro!” Jeff yelled down to the ride operator. “You can let us down now!” The guy heard him, and soon we were slowly lowering toward the ground.

“You want to go up again?” Jeff asked, raising an eyebrow impishly.

“Just don't touch me,” I said. “That was guh-
ross
.”

“Yeah, it was pretty disgusting,” he agreed. “Never again!”

“Never again!” I repeated.

We made out for, like, the next three revolutions of the wheel.

Eventually, other people started boarding the ride, which was annoying because the Ferris wheel would squeak to a stop and then jerk to a halt every minute. We decided to get off and head back to the bar tent. Jeff held my hand on the way, and I looked down and blushed when he greeted a couple of guys he knew from Trumbo.

I was about to order another ginger ale when Jacinta appeared, trailed by a gaggle of admiring girls. She was holding her camera—not a crappy little thing, but a real-deal, professional-style digital camera with a big round lens and a light that she held in one hand.

“Naomi!” she exclaimed, hugging me like I was her best friend in the world. This girl gave out hugs like it was her job. “Let me photograph you for tomorrow's blog post!”

“Is it for a Spotlight?” one of the girls asked tremulously. I recognized her as Ainsley Devereaux, a tobacco heiress who I'd never seen express any feeling other than cool boredom.

“It is,” Jacinta said, and the assembled fangirls collectively gasped.

“What's a ‘Spotlight'?” Jeff asked, amused.

“It's a special feature I do once in a while when I think someone looks particularly fabulous,” Jacinta explained. “Usually it's once a month. During Fashion Week I'll do six or seven.”

“It is a
huge
deal,” Ainsley said urgently, grabbing Jeff's arm for emphasis and shaking it. I looked at her hand on his bicep and instantly hated her.

Jeff laughed and freed his arm from the rich girl's tight grasp. “Yeah, you don't need to resort to violence to convince me, Ainsley.”

“That was not
violence
, Jeffrey,” Ainsley said, rolling her eyes. “It's a big, big deal. All the other fashion blogs and some of the gossip blogs pick it up. Sometimes it's even on Page Six.” I knew about Page Six because my mother was on it sometimes—it was the
New York Post
's legendary gossip page, and it was stupid and bitchy but apparently very influential.

“Delilah holds the record for Spotlights,” Jacinta said as she quickly redid my ponytail. “Five times. I'll have to talk to her about that when we have our little get-together at your house.” She bent down by my feet.

“Little get-together? Oh, right.” I felt slightly awkward that Jacinta was straightening my hemline and brushing bits of grass off my sandals.

Jacinta stood up, switching from stylist mode to photographer mode, and pursed her lips, looking at me with an artist's critical eye.