Kristen (8 page)

Even though being escorted home in a security car that smelled like McDonald’s pickles and had crackly jazz music playing through its garbled speakers had been an all-time low, Kristen was grateful she had a witness. Someone who could verify in a court of law if need be that her mother tended toward the hysterical.

“My name is Dwight Wolcott, and I found your daughter trespassing at the Westchester Country Club.” He stuck his chubby red nose a little further inside the Pine-Sol–scented foyer. After a quick evaluation of the distressed wood credenza, straw wall-hangings from Pier 1 Imports, and the glistening plastic plants that tried their very hardest to look real, he cleared his phlegm-filled throat and smirked. “And something tells me you’re not members.”

“Really, Dwight, and you
are
?” Marsha folded her arms across her braless chest.

Kristen wanted to hug her mother and hide at the same time. She loved how easy it was for Marsha to hold on to her pride and own who she was. But at the same time, she wished it hadn’t been necessary. For once it would have been nice to know that their lifestyle didn’t need defending. And that they could be accepted just the way they were.

Dwight coughed and quickly checked his walkie-talkie as if it were a direct line to the president. “I better be going. . . .” He jammed it back onto his brown belt, which looked terrible, by the way, with his all-black uniform.

“Yes.” Marsha put a protective arm around her daughter. “You better.”

Kristen smirked at Dwight, like a spoiled girl whose parents never punished her. But that was merely a fantasy— a fantasy that would only last until they heard the hallway elevator doors close. As soon as they did, Kristen’s worst fears would be confirmed.

“Explain.” Marsha tucked a loose hair behind her ear and glared at her daughter.

Kristen inhaled sharply, hoping something would come to her by the time she exhaled. But it wasn’t necessary.

“You’re done,” her mother snapped before she could speak. “I thought there wasn’t going to be any more trouble after your expulsion from OCD. I thought your life was going to be school and soccer. Isn’t that what you told me?”

“I was just—”

“Trespassing? Lying to your mother? Playing Russian roulette with your free pass to the most prestigious middle school on the East Coast?”

Kristen lowered her eyes. The parquet floorboards blurred through her tears—tears she cried not so much over her impending punishment but over her inability to do what other kids did and get away with it. It was like she had one of those invisible dog fences around her body, and every time she did something that went against her good-girl nature, she got zapped. Why didn’t the Pretty Committee or Skye or Dune or Ripple have invisible fences around
them
? Why could they break the rules and still come out smiling? Why was Kristen being forced into a lifetime of perfection?

“You are grounded for the rest of the summer. That means no—”

A light rap on the door interrupted her. It was probably Dwight, who’d just received word that her red crystal–filled backpack had been discovered in the maintenance shack, the final piece of evidence needed to land her a life sentence. The rest of her education would come from the bloodstained pages of prison library books and CNN on a TV the size of a toaster.

“Yes, Dwight,” Marsha said with an I-am-more-than-qualified-to-take-it-from-here huff.

But the opposite of Dwight was standing in their doorway.

It was Dune.

Kristen’s stomach lurched. A cute, shirtless boy whose idea of “school” consisted of several fish swimming by his surfboard at the same time could only worsen this horrible situation.

“Hi, Mrs. Gregory, I’m Dune.”

Kristen’s mom glowered at him the same way she always eyed the skinny girl who worked at the smoothie shop, silently insisting that they keep squeezing until every last drop of juice was drained from the fruit and in her to-go cup.

And, like the skinny girl at the shop, Dune eventually got the hint.

“I just wanted to come here and thank your daughter for trying to save my little sister.”

Kristen and Marsha raised their eyebrows.

“She was tutoring Ripple when Ripple snuck out to the country club. Kristen went after her to bring her home before she got in trouble or . . .” He paused for effect, shaking his head grimly. “Or worse. Anyway, my sister got away, but your thoughtful daughter didn’t. And on behalf of my grateful father, who is waiting downstairs in the car, we just want to thank you for raising such a responsible girl.”

Marsha looked at her daughter, silently asking if this was true. Kristen dried her tears on her black sleeve and nodded yes. Next thing she knew, she was being swept into a Bounce fabric softener–scented embrace, smiling into a fold of paisley-covered faux-satin.

Without another word, or even a thank you to Dune, Marsha released Kristen, turned in her Uggs, and shuffled down the parquet hallway toward her bedroom. It was her way of letting Kristen know that she trusted her again. And as for Dune, Marsha owed him nothing. Allowing him five minutes of alone time with her daughter after dark was thanks enough.

“Ehmagawd.”
Kristen mouthed her gratitude. Not only for saving her, but for finally showing her that he was really, truly crushing back—a gesture far more romantic than diamonds or taking a private jet to Paris for dinner. She made a mental note to return the favor times ten, so he’d know there was no question that she felt the same way he did. But for now, a humble show of appreciation would do.

Kristen touched his arm gently. “I can’t believe you did that for me.”

“Of course.” He nervously gathered his blond hair like he was going to tie it back and then let it go. “I never leave a buddy behind. Number one rule of surfing.”

Kristen felt a sharp sting under her armpits when he said
buddy,
but she filed it under “surf term.” It probably meant something closer to soul mates,
right
?

“And how unbelievably awesome is it to have
Skye
in our group? People never think that super-hot girls can be cool, but she proves them wrong, don’tcha think?” His round pupils turned to hearts whenever he said
her
name.

Meanwhile, Kristen’s heart took a running leap off the Gregorys’ fifth-floor balcony and smashed on the pavement of the visitors’ parking lot below. She forced a smile, but it probably looked more like a crooked line. “You better go.”

“Seriously.” He chuckled. “Skye is at my house, watching Ripple. If I don’t get back soon, the walls will be covered in glitter nail polish.” He chuckled again. “Aren’t girly girls funny?”

Kristen wanted to grab him by the shoulders and tell him that
she
was into glitter polish. That
she
was a girly girl. That
she
was funny! And that if she’d had the confidence to ignore Ripple’s terrible advice, she would have been wearing the orange dress with the turquoise bracelets. But all she did was thank him again and close the door.

The rest she would save for a box of Puffs and David Beckham.

THE COUNTRY CLUB

MARSHA GREGORY’S SILVER TOYOTA PRIUS

Wednesday, July 22

1:28 P.M.

Marsha stopped her silver Toyota Prius in front of the valet parking attendant with the confidence of Paris Hilton’s chauffeur.

A Hayden Christensen look-alike in white Bermuda shorts and a matching white button-down jogged over with an eager smile that said,
I’ll pretend your Prius is a Mercedes if you tip me well.

But Marsha’s hand was nowhere near her generic black pleather wallet. It was on her daughter’s knee—disguised as an act of affection but really checking for stubble to see if Kristen was in violation of the no-shaving-until-you’re-fifteen rule.

Kristen crossed her illegal leg and sighed. “This isn’t necessary, Mom.”

On the other side of the window, Hayden Christensen was holding on to his smile as best he could. But it couldn’t have been easy considering Marsha refused to acknowledge him and that a shiny red Jaguar convertible had just pulled up behind them.

“It
is
necessary.” The sharp corners of Marsha’s bob swung forward with the force of her conviction. “The club made a terrible mistake in vilifying you when you were only trying to help. Their manager owes you an apology. And I spent all morning on the phone making sure you’ll get it.”

A wave of vertigo caught Kristen off guard. Her insides rose and sank like she was back on Dune’s board, riding the gentle, lapping surf of the sound. Only this time the churning in her stomach came from depression, not the promise of love. She angled the air-conditioning vent toward her face and inhaled deeply. It was impossible to know if her mother’s intentions were pure or just another game of chicken.

More often than not, Marsha would
act
like she was on her daughter’s side, knowing the guilt would eventually break her, and she’d confess. And she was usually right. But not today. Kristen was friendless, jobless, and crushless. It was crucial for her fading self-esteem that she win
something
—or the only thing she’d have to show for her summer was a PhD in Advanced LBR.

Hayden knuckle-tapped the window.

Marsha, refusing to let her precious AC seep onto country club property, where they had “more than enough to go around,” faced the closed glass and mouthed, “I’ll park myself. We’re not staying long.”

She turned to Kristen with renewed purpose. “I’ll meet you back here in fifteen minutes. See if he’ll give you a free membership.”

Kristen grabbed the door handle, hoping that in the next millisecond something divine might happen and interrupt the next fifteen minutes of her life. But unfortunately, the sun was still shining down on the hunter green awnings of the country club. And the cars lined up behind them were honking impatiently.

“I’m really glad things turned out the way they did.” Marsha grinned as Kristen stepped out of the Prius. “I would have hated to punish you for the entire eighth grade. And I would have
had
to. You know that,
right
?” She smiled and waved goodbye to her daughter. “See you at one forty-five.” She tapped the digital clock on the dash with her buffed nail.

“’Kay.” Kristen closed the door a little harder than an innocent person would have.

The club’s foyer was dark in a way that’s pleasing only to rich people. Kristen could barely see the outline of the slight blonde behind the semicircular mahogany reception desk. She was backlit by a sunbeam that had managed to squeeze through the open porthole-shaped window behind her—the only source of light in a room dotted with leather club chairs, green carpeting, and maroon velvet curtains. The beam, like Kristen, was there on borrowed time.

“Member number?” Her raspy voice sawed through the steak-scented foyer like a worn nail file.

Suddenly, Kristen felt dirty in her navy racer-back T-shirt dress and silver Pumas, even though they were clean. And her hair felt dry and unkempt, even though she had deep-conditioned it just that morning. The wealthy had that effect on her.

“I’m here to see Garreth Ungerstein,” she said with some degree of authority. Who knew? Maybe the blond silhouette would think she was there to buy the club. Or give him an earful for serving cold chowder at the Fourth of July brunch. At the very least, maybe this way she wouldn’t be treated like the trespassing nonmember she was.

“Garreth is lunching with the Lockharts,” the blonde said, as if the event had been the lead story on
Regis and Kelly
that morning. “He should be done by two.”

A moment of silence passed between them.

“You can wait over there if you’d like.” She gestured toward a glossy wood end table wedged between two leather chairs. A crystal jar of peanuts and a fan arrangement of several golf magazines seemed anxious for company, like decorations at a party where no one showed up.

All of a sudden a loud splash reverberated in the distance, followed by a boom of coed laughter. The familiarity of the sound filled Kristen with comfort and cramps at the same time.

“Can I wait by the pool?”

The shadow considered this while tapping her black Montblanc pen on a thick, waterlogged reservations book. Computers must have given off too much light.

“Fine.” She sighed lightly. “But no swimming. And stay off the green.”

“Given,” Kristen said with an eye roll and then hurried toward the heavy oak door, pushing it open before the receptionist changed her mind.

Outside, the bright sunlight was in sharp contrast to the dim foyer. The smoky gray lenses of Kristen’s red Fossil sunglasses were useless—it felt like someone was throwing nail polish remover in her eyes. But when Kristen’s pupils finally adjusted, things became a little too clear.

A cluster of shirtless boys in boldly patterned surf trunks was sharing green chaises with blondes in citrus-toned bikinis. Their chairs were pulled right up to the edge of the saltwater pool, and the girls’ thin cover-ups lay drenched at their tanned feet. A tangle of headphone wires, fashion magazines, and half-eaten club sandwiches surrounded them like a fortress. And it was doing a great job at keeping the rest of the world on the other side. The scene looked like an ad from Roxy’s old line, Foxy:
Why be a surfer when you can date one?

Kristen watched it all unfold from across the pool, like an LBR who couldn’t find a seat at the movies and was forced to stand at the back. She felt like her life was being lived without her. And if she didn’t get it back soon, she’d die.

“Hey,” Dune shout-waved at Kristen. He sat up and smiled, but Skye quickly pulled him back down onto her lap.

Kristen thought about pretending she hadn’t heard him, but her legs overruled her brain. Next thing she knew, she had zigzagged through the forest of green deck chairs and was standing above them. “What’s up?” she asked, as if they had been hanging poolside together for years.

“Heard Dune saved you last night,” Skye said, tying a pink elastic around a tiny braid she’d made in the back of Dune’s blond hair. She wore a lemon yellow string bikini with ruffles along the cleavage.