Infamous (18 page)

“Want a drink?” Ellis grabbed a bottle of merlot from the stainless steel wine rack in the pantry and swiftly opened it with a rabbit-shaped opener. He poured himself a full glass of wine and swirled it around in the glass like an expert.

“Yes, please. My mom always drinks merlot,” Callie said randomly, thinking about her mother, and how angry she’d been when Callie had called last night to say she wasn’t coming home. Callie slid a thick, strawberry blond lock behind her still cold ear. She watched as he filled another glass. “Not that she drinks all that often. She’s a governor and really boring. What does your mom do?”

Ellis sipped his wine. “She’s an artist.”

“Really?” Callie asked, leaning her elbows on the counter. That was much cooler than her mom’s job. Ellis had probably never been forced to attend a state dinner wearing a pair of white gloves. “Like, what kind of art?”

“She mostly does collages with found objects—you know, stuff she comes across on the street, in the subway, et cetera.” Ellis ran a hand through his hair and shrugged.

“Like trash?” Callie had a brief vision of a well-dressed Upper East Side woman plucking a dirty tissue from a gutter and sticking it to a piece of canvas. Ew.

Ellis laughed, and Callie caught a glimpse of a silver filling in the back of his mouth. “She prefers to call it ‘recycled memories.’ Sometimes it’s trash, but mostly it’s things like letters or postcards or, I don’t know, buttons.”

“It sounds cool,” Callie admitted, thinking how much her mother would hate having a collage of buttons and gum wrappers hanging in their dining room. “I’d like to see it sometime.”

“Yeah?” Ellis looked surprised. “I’ll have to take you to her studio, then. She’s got this great space down off Broome Street.”

“That would be fun,” Callie said, meaning it. She watched as Ellis poured her another glass of wine, then set the bottle back on the counter. A tiny splotch of pizza sauce had landed on the neck of his shirt.

“What?” he asked, noticing Callie’s eyes on him. “Did I spill wine all over myself?” He glanced down at his shirt.

“No.” Callie pushed off the stool, the tile floor cold on her bare feet. “Pizza.” She grabbed a crumpled linen napkin and ran water over the edge of it, then stepped toward Ellis. Her hand shook almost imperceptibly as she dabbed the napkin against the pizza sauce, her mind whirling. She felt his eyes on her face, and it seemed like he was closer than two inches away from her.

And then she noticed that her ring was gone.

She let out a shriek and pushed away from Ellis, her eyes searching the dark tiled floor for any flash of her amethyst ring.

“What is it?” Ellis asked, a tone of concern in his voice.

“I lost it,” Callie moaned, completely panicked. Her fingers plowed through pizza crusts and bits of dried toppings, but no ring.

“What?” Ellis asked patiently. He came around to her side of the table and dropped to one knee.

“My ring.” She put her head in her hands, pressing her finger-tips to her forehead, trying to remember when she’d last seen it. Had she taken it off at any point during the day? “My gloves!” She sprang to her feet, but a check of her gloves didn’t turn up the promise ring.

“Where could it be?” Ellis asked helpfully. “Did you look in your purse and your coat pocket?”

Callie did as Ellis suggested, but nothing. Then she remembered. Their snowball fight on the bridge. She’d taken off her gloves to shake off the wet snow clinging to them after she packed an ice-ball extra tight. Her ring must have come off with it.

“The snowball fight.” Callie felt her bottom lip quivering. She wasn’t going to cry in front of Ellis. Her shoulders sagged in defeat. “I shook out my gloves. It’s lost.”

Ellis touched her back, a half-hug, half-pat. “I’m sure he’ll understand,” he said tenderly. “Just explain what happened. It was an accident.”

“Oh my God!” Callie exclaimed. “What time is it?”

Ellis looked at the digital green numbers on the microwave, which Callie hadn’t even noticed until just now. “It’s eight,” he answered.

Callie’s head cleared, the wine buzz suddenly gone when she thought of a bewildered Easy, probably in military fatigues, alone on top of the Empire State Building. Waiting for her. She bolted for the door, throwing on her coat and gloves in one quick movement. “I’m late.”

Ellis threw on his coat. “I’ll get the cab for you.” She stabbed the elevator button repeatedly with her thumb. All she could think about was the boy on top of the tallest building in New York, wondering where the hell his girlfriend was.

Brett helped her mother put the last of the Thanks giving dinner dishes into the dishwasher, even offering to help her father dry the pots and pans as he bent over the sink, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. She’d been feeling protective of her parents since the alien Coopers had washed up on their shores, and she was finally, for maybe the first time in her life, beginning to truly appreciate Becki and Stuart Messerschmidt.

And as excruciating as any sit-down with the Coopers could be, Thanksgiving dinner hadn’t been so bad. First, Sebastian had had a ten-minute conversation with her father about how TiVo could be the greatest invention of the twenty-first century. And when Mrs. Cooper had gasped when her mother unveiled the yams with a top layer of burnt marshmallows, just like Brett liked them, Sebastian had said, “You rock, Mrs. Messerschmidt.”

All in all, her plan had worked perfectly. Right after a Brettinitiated discussion on which celebrity had the worst breast implants (Brett’s parents voted for Pamela Anderson, while Sebastian picked out Posh Spice), and right before the pumpkin pie was passed around, Mr. Cooper announced that he and his wife would be heading back to Greenwich after the meal, instead of staying another night. Mrs. Cooper tried to smooth things over by blaming it on the weather forecast for the next day, but Brett couldn’t help beaming triumphantly.

Brett tucked the leftovers into the overstuffed refrigerator. “Turkey sandwiches all weekend,” her father smiled, rubbing his belly.

“Should I toss the buns?” her mother asked.

“Leave them out,” her father said. “Someone might want to nosh later.”

Brett balanced the Tupperware container of sugar on top the flour container and carried them into the walk-in pantry. Peaches, one of her mother’s dogs, bolted between her legs and the sugar container shook precariously.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Brett turned around slowly. Her sister slammed the pantry door behind her. She was red-faced, her hands on her hips.

“Helping in the kitchen while you guys have aperitifs.” The pantry smelled like cinnamon and apples, and the shelves were crammed with everything from jars of her mother’s favorite black olives to giant Tupperware containers of Christmas cookie cutters.

“You know what I mean!” Bree turned a shade of purple Brett had never seen before. It wasn’t a good look for her, but neither was the head-to-toe Ann Taylor outfit. “Since when do you wear those clothes?” Bree demanded. She reached out to touch the sleeveless Bon Jovi shirt—another eighth-grade relic—Brett had changed into after spilling gravy on her other shirt.

“Since when do you wear
those
clothes?” Brett reached to finger Bree’s rose-print dress. “You look like a choir girl.”

Bree pressed her lips together until they almost turned white. The last time Brett had seen her that angry, she’d just found out that Melanie Spiegelman had bought the same dress for the senior prom. “And who
is
that guy? I’ll bet he doesn’t even go to Waverly. You picked him up at the train station and invited him into our home. Admit it.”

“When did you become such a goddamn snob?” Brett’s blood boiled, but she kept her voice low. “Even if I did, it would still be better than what
you
brought into our house. I’d rather have Thanksgiving in a goddamn soup kitchen than spend another minute with those people. They totally have sticks up their asses. And you do too if you can’t see it. Why are you trying so hard to pretend you’re one of them?”

“At least I’m not consorting with drug dealers,” her sister shot back.

Brett wanted to reach out and smack her sister. She and Bree had always been close, which meant they’d had their fair share of catfights and screaming matches. But never before had Bree seemed so alien. Brett wanted to take the Tupperware container of fl our and throw it all over Bree’s perfectoutfit. Instead, she set it down cautiously on one of the pantry shelves and crossed her arms smugly over her chest. “I
knew
it would work.”

“Knew
what
would work?” Bree asked.

“The only reason I invited Sebastian over was to scare you and your future monsters-in-law off.” She fought the urge to stick out her tongue. “And guess what? It worked.”

Brett pushed past Bree to escape the suddenly stifling pantry and froze when she saw the Coopers and Sebastian standing with her parents in the kitchen. The Coopers pretended to admire the granite countertop while Brett’s mother crossed her arms, looking at her with disappointment. Sebastian’s chain wallet jingled as he shoved his hands into his pockets, his shoulders sagging.

“We were just getting ready to leave,” Mr. Cooper spoke up, addressing Brett’s parents as if they hadn’t just heard Brett say they had goddamn sticks up their asses. “Thank you for an…interesting day.” They marched out of the kitchen, Bree, Willy, and Brett’s parents on their heels.

Alone with Sebastian, Brett wanted to say she was sorry for all the drama. But her pulse was still racing from the fight with Bree and her mind was totally blank. What she wanted right now was to sneak a couple of her dad’s beers into the family room, collapse into the giant squishy couch, and pop in
Spider-Man
. Maybe curl up under one of her mom’s fleecy leopard-print throws. “Do you want to—” she started to ask, but Sebastian cut her off.

“I guess it’s time for me to go too.” He had a funny look on his face.

“Oh.” Brett tilted her head to the side, surprisingly disappointed. “Please don’t—” But before she could finish, he’d already left.

Email Inbox

From: [email protected]

To:
[email protected]; [email protected];

Date:
[email protected]

Subject:
Thursday, November 28, 8:15 P.M. Thanksgiving Day bust

Recipe for a shitty T-Day:

Take a bunch of pretentious future in-laws without souls, mix in a suddenly vapid sister and completely docile parents, add a cranky Jersey boy for a twist and—bam! Watch it explode.

Sigh. Hope you girls had more fun than I did. Tell me funny stories to cheer me up, please, since I’m stuck in NJ and the malls don’t open until 9 A.M. Can’t wait to be back at school.

Xo

B

“It’s freezing out here!” Jenny squealed as she stepped out onto the rooftop terrace, a thick white Egyptian cotton towel wrapped around her black Calvin Klein tank and matching boy-shorts. She shuffled toward the hot tub, her toes stuffed into someone’s shoes to make it across the slushy deck. Tinsley, Kara, Yvonne, and half a dozen others were already crowded into the steaming hot tub, but Kara and Casey moved apart to make a spot for Jenny.

“Just jump in,” Casey said, a devilish grin on his face. “You’ll feel much better.”

How could she
not
be falling in love with this guy? He was just so…tempting. After their perfect kiss that morning, they’d spent the whole day together—skating at Rockefeller Center, which Jenny hadn’t done in years, having a snowball fight on Madison Avenue in front of all the fancy boutiques, sipping hot chocolate in some hole-in-the-wall diner.

But one glance at Tinsley reminded her that she was supposed to be
just having fun
. She grabbed a wine cooler and stuck a toe in the hot water. Then she dropped her towel and quickly sank into the water just low enough so that her oversize chest was submerged. Her head was light from a game of quarters—otherwise, she might not have had the courage to hop into the hot tub, at least not with Tinsley there, her toned body perfect in her matching pink Ralph Lauren bra-and-panty set. Jenny closed her eyes and counted slowly to three before taking a sip of the wine cooler, the cold, fruity elixir tickling her tongue. Tinsley had told her to just have fun, and she was doing just that. Starting with, oh, six drinks or so over the course of the evening.

“Isn’t this crazy?” Kara Whalen spoke up, her pale brown hair wet and clinging to her bare shoulders. “Being in a hot tub in Manhattan in the middle of a snowstorm?”

“Is there room for another body in here?” Julian McCafferty stepped through the glass doors and scooped a handful of snow from a potted plant. He dropped his towel, revealing his thin but muscular torso and a pair of Hawaiian-print Gap boxers with strawberries all over them. Jenny and Tinsley exchanged a glance—it was obvious that Julian wasn’t looking at Tinsley, after he’d chastised her in the dining room.

“There is for yours!” Yvonne Stidder giggled and took another sip of her wine cooler. Her blond hair was pulled into a frizzy ponytail and her glasses were completely fogged over. They’d been playing drinking games since dinner, and now everyone was pleasantly toasted. Yvonne scooted over toward Tinsley, leaving a big space next to her that Julian sank into.

“Whatcha all doing out here?” Julian slipped further into the hot water until just his head was visible. Jenny leaned back, staring at the dark night sky and letting the water bubble up around her ears. She thought she could feel Casey’s knee bump against hers underwater.