Pool Boys (8 page)

Charlotte was on a mission. After being hung up on by her two best friends, and dutifully walking Stella, she’d driven straight to Silver Oaks that afternoon in the hopes of finding said best friends. And, secretly, she hoped she might run into Caleb. Though he often got on Charlotte’s nerves, she had to admit that the boy had a way of making things make sense when the world got too crazy.

It was Caleb’s voice Charlotte heard just as she was stalking by the parlor.
What is he doing in
there? she wondered, pausing and peeking into the room. A strange sight met her eyes: There was Ethan Brennan lounging in a chair, looking laid-back and gorgeous as ever. And Caleb was standing up, facing, of all people, New Girl Valerie. Charlotte felt her jaw drop in shock. Was Valerie…
flirting
with Caleb? All the signs were there: big sparkly smile, the occasional giggle. And Caleb’s ears were turning redder by the second as he responded to whatever Valerie was asking with soft, shy murmurs. Charlotte’s stomach did a backflip. Was it
…jealousy
she was feeling? And, if so, why? What did she care about who Caleb Ramsey attempted to flirt with?

But this Valerie person was definitely getting out of hand.

Now
determined
to locate Brooke and Georgia, Charlotte whirled around and flip-flopped out to the pool patio. The water shone glossy-blue and empty. Marcus Craft had abandoned his lifeguard perch and Mr. Weatherby—another balding Silver Oaks mainstay, like Jimmy the Bartender—was in his place, looking none-too-appealing in
his
swim trunks and whistle. Worst of all, Robby Miller, Frat King of the Pool Boys, was sprawled across a lounger, deep asleep in his Señor Frog’s T-shirt and board shorts, the brim of his cap pulled low over his eyes. For one horrifying instant, Charlotte felt like she was in a scene from some apocalyptic sci-fi movie:
The Last Girl and Boy Alive…and the Boy Is Robby!
Even his usual entourage of pool boys was absent. Charlotte figured they’d probably swaggered into the dining room to stuff their faces with club sandwiches and practice their straight-outta-Compton talk.
Yo, yo, we a crew up in here, can we get some service?

Rolling her eyes, Charlotte kicked off her flip-flops and marched over to Robby. If he
was
the last boy alive, he might as well make himself useful.

“Hey, Robby?
Psst.
Wake up.” She tapped his baseball cap—hard.

Robby Miller squinted up at Charlotte from his lounger and let out a yawn. “I’m sleeping, woman,” he grunted.

“I got that,” she snapped. “I was wondering if you’ve seen Brooke or Georgia.”

“I’m sure they’re around here somewhere,” Robby said, jerking his hat farther down over his eyes.

Charlotte scowled. “Thanks.”

“I’m not gonna be able to sleep anymore with you hovering over me like this,” Robby muttered. “It’s like Homeland Security up in this piece.” He finally sat up and rubbed his eyes. “You hungry? Come on. I’ll buy you lunch.”

Charlotte was stunned. “You will? Why?”

“Why ask why, girl?” He grimaced and stood, stretching. “You don’t think I got the paper to buy you lunch? Plus, there’s something I gotta tell you. I got some dirt on Valerie.”

Now
he had her attention. Charlotte’s green eyes widened. “What kind of dirt?”

“Let me buy you lunch and then I’ll tell you.”

“Okay, okay—you’re on.” Charlotte turned and strode toward the patio doors. Inside the dining hall, her eyes roved over the sea of white: the linens, tennis shorts and shirts, and the terry-cloth pool robes. She wondered where Caleb and Valerie had gone off to.

“Don’t you want to put on some flip-flops?” Robby asked, trailing after her.

Charlotte stared down at her bare feet and purplepainted toenails. “Why?”

“It’s just that Brooke’s dad is in there. The Pres.”

“And what? I’m supposed to be scared?”

Sure enough, there was Mr. Farnsworth sitting by himself smack in the middle of the room, staring back at her
disapprovingly. Charlotte waved. Mr. Farnsworth flashed a brief, perfunctory smile.

“What’s he gonna do, Robby, kick me out?” she murmured. “I’ll tell you what, let’s sit at the bar.”

She hurried over to an empty stool, relieved to have an excuse not to sit at a table for two. Frankly, with Robby Miller, that seemed just a little
too
intimate. The moment she sat down and turned her back on the room, however, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Charlotte?” Mr. Farnsworth asked.

“Yes?” she said, avoiding his eyes. She stared at the rows and rows of bottles behind the bar.
Hmm.
A bottle of pricey Pinot might be a nice little treat right now.…

“You know you’re supposed to wear appropriate footgear,” Mr. Farnsworth was saying.

“Yeah, I know. But see, Stella accidentally peed on my flip-flops, so I’m soaking them in the cabana sink.”

Robby winced.

Mr. Farnsworth remained silent for a few seconds. “I trust you’ll start adhering to the rules, young lady,” he said. “Enjoy your lunches.” He swiftly headed toward the exit.

“Wow, girl,” Robby breathed, laughing. “I gotta hand it to you. Nobody else has the
cajones
to talk to him like that.”

Charlotte snorted. “Please. He’s just looking for an excuse to be holier-than-thou. He’s been a jerk ever since my folks split up. He assumed that my dad would stay in Connecticut. Dad’s the ‘Silver Oaks scion.’ And—”

“So, what’s up, kids?” Jimmy the Bartender interrupted, a little too cheerily. “I finally got off valet duty, so here I am.” He drew two glasses of water and placed them on cocktail napkins, then fixed his rheumy eyes on Charlotte. “Hey, sweetheart, can I have a word with you?” he whispered. He shambled down to the far end of the bar, beckoning to her with a gnarled finger.

Oh, brother. What now?
Charlotte followed him, trying not to roll her eyes.

He leaned toward her across the shiny mahogany surface. “You might not want to mention your dog to Mr. Farnsworth,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“I just wanted to give you a heads-up. Some of the members have been complaining that Stella’s been around a lot. I figured it would be better if I told you before someone went to your mother, what with the rules and all.” He patted her hand.

“Jimmy, thank you,” Charlotte said. “Seriously. I appreciate it.” She set her jaw and moved back along the bar to rejoin Robby.

Jimmy ducked under the bar, and produced two sets of silverware wrapped in white linen napkins. “So what’ll it be?” he asked. “Wait! Lemme guess. For you, Mr. Miller, the bacon-cheddar burger, medium, with fries, and for you Ms. von Klaus, the Cobb salad.” He vanished through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

Charlotte sighed.

“Hey, C, don’t sweat these fools,” Robby said quietly. “They dis Stella because they love the drama.” He took a sip of water. “It’s never about the dog. But if you give them drama, they’ll just give you drama back.”

Charlotte turned to Robby. That was a pretty smart thing to say. Not to mention semi-sweet. The Silver Oaks Guardians of Moral Values weren’t complaining about Stella. They were complaining about Eliza von Klaus.
She
had stayed in Connecticut, whereas Dad had moved away. And everyone liked Dad better. Never mind that he was a cheating slime-ball; he was suave and charming. Mom was kooky and irritating. Robby was dead-on: It had nothing to do with Stella; it was about the fall from grace.

“So I’m thinking of going as Rob from now on,” Robby announced, apropos of nothing.

“Sorry?”

“Rob. You know, instead of Robby. What do you think? Rob’s a little more adult sounding.” He scratched his buzz cut. “I’m starting college in the fall and whatnot. I can’t go around anymore sounding like a little kid.”

Charlotte wasn’t sure what to make of this bizarre pronouncement. Probably best just to ignore it altogether. “Uh…so what’s the scoop about Valerie?” she asked.

“Here’s the dilly.” He leaned in close, eyeing the rest of the dining room to make sure nobody was listening. “My dad works for First National Bank, right? He represented the Packwoods on some huge deal. He and Mr. Packwood
became pretty tight during the whole thing. The Packwoods ended up moving out here.”

Charlotte waited for him to finish. He took another sip of water and cast a longing glance toward the kitchen.

“I’m hungry, yo,” he said.

“That’s it?” she pressed. “That’s Mr. Packwood. What about
Valerie?”

Robby lifted his shoulders. “Oh. Nothing. I guess that’s just why she said her family knew mine.”

Charlotte was beginning to suspect that the only reason he’d offered to pay for lunch was because he didn’t want to eat alone—or maybe because he wanted to bounce his new “Rob” identity off a female.

“That’s the
dirt?”
she finally demanded.

“The dirt is that her dad told my dad that Valerie is all messed up, because all her old friends dissed her. She’s a failure. She pretty much flunked out of her old school. She went to one of those crazy private schools in Manhattan, like Dalton or Spence, but they didn’t ask her back. That’s part of the reason why the Packwoods moved out here. Girl’s got issues. Her brother, Sebastian, is going to some Ivy League college next year, so he’s all taken care of. Have you seen Sebastian? Boy’s got mad gear, yo! Boy rolled up in a Lexus with a platinum-plated vanity license…”

Charlotte tuned him out. That wasn’t exactly dirt—at least not in the fabulous, sexy, or scandalous way she’d been hoping.

“So that’s really it?” she asked. “That’s—”

“Lunch is served!” Jimmy the Bartender barreled
through the door, carrying their lunches. “One bacon-cheddar with fries, and one Cobb salad.”

Robby scratched his chin as Jimmy set down the plates. “Yo, Jimmy, isn’t it pronounced
Cobe?”
he asked.

Jimmy shot a quick glance at Charlotte. She laughed.
“Cobe?”
they both repeated at the same time.

“Yeah. That’s how my mom says it.” He gestured to Charlotte’s plate. “That salad with the bacon and everything. She calls it a
Cobe
salad.”

Charlotte chewed her lip. She couldn’t stop herself from laughing. She wasn’t sure why, but that struck her as the silliest thing she’d ever heard.
Cobe?

Jimmy waved his hands. “Kid, call it whatever you want.” He winked at Charlotte and headed back to the kitchen.

“So what do you think?” Robby asked, chewing.

“About the salad?” she asked.

“No. About the other thing.”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head, staring down at her salad. In spite of how good it looked—Cobb or
Cobe
—she didn’t have much of an appetite anymore. “I guess it doesn’t matter that she’s screwed-up and super-rich, right? Lots of us are.”

He frowned at her as if she’d just spoken in Cantonese. “Huh?”

“Valerie.”

He whistled dismissively. “I wasn’t talking about
her. I
was talking about me. You know, my new handle.
Rob.
Instead of Robby? What do you think?” He gripped his
burger with one hand and flashed a peace sign with the other.

Charlotte giggled again. The boy was truly a wonder. She’d always written him off, but what a mistake! How anyone could be so dense and self-involved, yet so honest and genuinely well-intentioned…? If anyone was worthy of the Stare, Robby Miller was. So she gave it to him. A girl giving a boy the Stare! It was empowering!

He didn’t notice, though. Of course he didn’t. She almost felt like leaning over and kissing him.

“How about
Robe?”
she suggested.

He blinked at her. “Huh?”

She patted his arm and lifted her fork. “Never mind.”

Golf was not a sport. Not a real one, anyway. It was a
game.
Which was probably why Valerie was so good at it.

Not to disparage Tiger Woods, but Georgia now knew why every country club boasted a golf course as opposed to, say, a football field. Golf didn’t involve exercise (aside from lugging around bags of clubs). It wasn’t like tennis, either: A person didn’t socialize during tennis. A person faced off against an opponent. Golf was all about
hanging out
with your opponent. It was about laughing and gossiping about cute boys (Valerie’s specialty; she even thought
Caleb
was cute). It involved strategy, sure; Georgia could appreciate that. (Or she would have, if she could actually play.)

“Oh, my God,” Valerie gasped, dumping her golf bag onto the pool patio. “I am so beat! Are you hungry?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been hungrier.” Georgia sighed.

“What do you say we hose down and change, then grab some lunch? I’ll treat. I’ve been daydreaming about club sandwiches for the past hour.”

Georgia nodded distractedly. “Uh…sure. You don’t have to treat, though.” Her eyes drifted over to the cabana,
and then toward the pool, in a vague, fleeting hope of spotting Charlotte and Brooke. Maybe the four of them could
all
have lunch together. But instead, she saw only Caleb—strolling toward them in the most absurd pair of sunglasses she’d ever seen: huge, bug-eyed Jackie-O ones that were definitely
not
designed for guys. Somehow, though, with his mop of dark hair and baggy bathing suit…he pulled it off. He
was
cute, she had to admit, in a sort of emo-rock-star-like way, like Connor Oberst, the Bright Eyes guy. Not that she would ever tell him that, of course.

“Hey, Caleb,” Valerie said, grinning at him slyly as he approached. “Cool shades. Where’d you score those?”

He shifted nervously on his bare feet. “Um…Charlotte’s mom.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder.

Georgia peered behind Caleb and caught a glimpse of Eliza von Klaus and Theresa Farnsworth lounging together by the diving board in their sarongs and sunhats. Both waved at the same time, looking uncannily like their daughters—which, for some reason, gave Georgia an uneasy feeling. Where
were
their daughters?

“I don’t get it,” Georgia said.

“Neither do I, really. Mrs. von Klaus offered to lend me these, and it wasn’t like I could say no, because it was a pretty nice thing to do, and I, uh—”

“Caleb?” Georgia interrupted.

“Yeah?”

“You’re rambling.”

Valerie laughed.

Caleb grinned crookedly, blushing. He turned toward
Valerie, and then stared at the patio flagstones. “Sorry. Anyway, Georgia, do you have a second?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

Without another word, Caleb ducked behind the wall of shrubbery that marked the entrance to the path leading to the tennis courts and golf course. Clearly, he was making a feeble attempt to hide from the prying eyes and ears of everybody lounging around the pool. He waved her closer.

Georgia exchanged a puzzled glance with Valerie.

“Come here,” Caleb whispered.

Valerie raised her eyebrows. She forced a chuckle, smoothing the folds of her white tennis skirt. “Do you guys want to be alone?”

“No,” Georgia said, a little too emphatically. Maybe it was the golf or the gossip or her hunger—but she just wasn’t in the mood for Caleb’s odd brand of humor right now. She took Valerie’s arm and dragged her over to Caleb’s sad excuse for a hiding place. “There’s nothing Caleb can tell me that you can’t hear as well.”

Caleb hung his head, biting his lower lip. “Okay. Fine. Whatever. This is gonna sound really weird, all right? But, G, I want to…I want to…know if you’d go to the Midsummer Ball with me,” he said all in one breath—so fast that Georgia wasn’t certain if she’d heard him.

She narrowed her eyes, her heart rate increasing. Georgia Palmer had never had so much boy drama in her life. “Huh?”

“I know, I know,” he added apologetically. “It sounds
crazy. I mean, because nobody really brings dates, anyway, and it’s just this dumb induction ceremony—”

“You’re asking me to be your date to the Midsummer Ball,” she interrupted.

He tried to keep smiling. “Uh…yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

Georgia’s sloppy bun suddenly felt very tight. She yanked out the band, allowing her blonde hair to tumble down over her shoulders. In her tennis shoes, and with Caleb barefoot, she had a good three inches on him. “Why are you doing this, Caleb? What’s really going on? Is this a practical joke?” The words spilled out before she could stop them.

“It’s no joke,” Caleb muttered miserably. “I swear.”

All at once, just as fast as she’d gotten angry, a lump formed in her throat. How could she be so stupid?
He’s doing this to make Charlotte jealous. He’s afraid to admit his feelings for her, the feelings he’s always had.
A sad smile broke on her face. If only Ethan could take a cue from Caleb. Yes, insanely enough, she found herself wishing that Ethan would pull what Caleb was trying to pull right now—asking Charlotte or Brooke or even Valerie to the Midsummer Ball. Because
that
would prove that Ethan still had feelings for Georgia.
That
would mean that he cared enough to try to make her jealous.

Caleb pushed his shades back up his nose. “Hey, listen, G. I’m sorry. Forget I brought it up, all right? It’s no big deal.”

“Hey, Caleb?” she said softly. “I would go to the ball with you; I mean it. But somebody else already asked me.”

“Ethan?” Caleb asked, sounding increasingly miserable.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Ethan.”

“So are you gonna go with him?” Caleb yanked the glasses off, no longer even pretending he wanted to continue this conversation. “Wouldn’t he have to quit first?”

“He would, yeah. But he said we’d go as friends. And I said I’d think about it. Honestly, though, I don’t want to go with anybody. I mean, it’s not really a date type of scenario, you know? And I’m flattered you asked me—”

“I’ll go with you, Caleb,” Valerie interrupted. “I mean…if you’re looking for a date.”

Georgia stiffened.
Whoa.
She sure as hell hadn’t seen
that
one coming. Her eyes darted between the two of them: Valerie, in her tight tennis whites, with her perfect blonde curls (even after eighteen holes of golf), and Caleb, in his soggy bathing suit and borrowed shades clutched in his hand. Valerie
had
said Caleb was cute…but was she
really
that into him?

“I…uh, well—sure. That would be cool.” Caleb began backing away from them and he quickly shoved the glasses back on. “Thanks, Valerie. We’ll talk later, okay?” His face was so red it was almost scarlet. He turned and scurried toward the far side of the pool, where the Robby Miller posse was lounging.

“So what was that all about?” Georgia cried, utterly
bewildered. “Do you like Caleb? I thought you liked Marcus.”

Valerie drew close to Georgia. “Listen, there’s something I need to tell you,” she whispered. “I asked Caleb to the ball to protect
you.”

Georgia shook her head. She almost smiled. “You
what?
I don’t get it.”

“I overheard Caleb and Ethan talking before we played golf. And they said…well, they said something, and I’m not even sure what to make of it. But it sounded like they’d made a bet. They were talking about the ball.”

“Whoa, slow down,” Georgia said. “What are you saying? What kind of bet?”

“I don’t know if you want to hear this.” Valerie brushed her long blonde curls out of her face. “Ethan made a bet with Caleb. Caleb told Ethan that he…”

“That he
what?”

“That he wants to lose his…virginity.” Valerie lowered her voice. “So Ethan made a bet with him. He told him to invite you…” Once again, she left the sentence hanging.

Georgia licked her dry lips. She felt the color drain from her face. “That can’t be right,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry, Georgia. I’m just telling you what I heard.”

“Okay.” Georgia was trembling. “Let me just get this straight. You’re telling me that you heard Ethan Brennan make a bet with Caleb Ramsey that if he invited me to the Midsummer Ball, he would lose his virginity to me?” It
took every ounce of self-control Georgia possessed not to scream. She could feel the muscles in her throat tighten.

Valerie’s deep blue eyes mellowed. “I just—”

“Don’t say another word,” Georgia snapped, even though she wasn’t angry with Valerie. How could she be? Valerie didn’t know Ethan or Caleb. She’d just been caught up in a preposterous farce—all the more preposterous because she knew that Valerie was telling the truth. Why not? It was all quite plain: Caleb
had
agreed to this idiotic bet with Ethan. But of course Caleb had agreed; he was a sex-starved boy. What Valerie didn’t know, however, was that Ethan had lost his virginity to Georgia. And she had lost hers to him.

Georgia remembered every detail, every sensation. It happened just two weeks before he broke up with her, when everything still felt perfect. In fact, at that time, she’d been so delirious with joy that she hadn’t even bothered to hide their relationship from most of Silver Oaks (Brooke and Charlotte, naturally, had known all along).

One Friday night, Ethan’s parents were out of town, so he invited Charlotte over to his house—a cozy cabin by Lake Deerwood, three towns over. Although they’d never actually discussed doing it, as soon as Georgia walked in the door and seen the candles on the table, she’d known that
this
night would be the night. Ethan had even cooked for her. (Well, he’d tried; he’d burnt some lasagna, which they washed down with a bottle of his parents’ white wine, cracking up the whole time.) Then, they moved to the sofa,
where they started kissing, but kissing in a way that they had never kissed before—fierce, passionate, urgent kisses that Georgia knew were going to lead somewhere.

And soon Ethan
was
leading her somewhere, taking her hand and walking her upstairs to his bedroom, where she’d never been before (their increasingly intimate make-out sessions had been confined to the cabana and the golf course at night). They lay across Ethan’s bed, still kissing, and caressing. Ethan whispered to her that he didn’t care if they waited, and he wanted to do whatever she was comfortable with, but by then Georgia was out of her mind with love and longing, and she was undoing the belt buckle on Ethan’s jeans, and whispering that she wanted him, here, now, always.

And it had been slow and awkward and fumbling at first, but Ethan had been so tender and careful and sweet that when it was over, Georgia lay in his arms, flushed and overwhelmed with understanding.

So that’s why they call it making love
, she realized, turning to smile up at Ethan’s radiant face. Because, in those incredible and strange and wonderful moments, she and Ethan had been expressing what could only be called love. They’d never actually said
I love you
to each other, but, as far as Georgia was concerned, this was better. She’d never been so fulfilled.

Now she felt sick.

Because it was all so clear: Looking back, especially in light of this new information, Ethan must have known all along he was going to dump her. Maybe somebody at Silver
Oaks had even warned him he’d get fired if he kept up with her. He’d just wanted to get his jollies and keep his job at the same time. So he’d invited her over. Now he was sloughing off his ex onto Caleb, his “buddy.” After all,
he’d
gotten lucky with Georgia. Why shouldn’t Caleb?

Georgia heard Ethan’s voice in her head.
Hey, man, why don’t you invite Georgia to the ball? She’s an easy lay…

“Georgia?” Valerie asked.

“Yeah?” Georgia realized that her hands were balled into fists. She was on the verge of exploding.

“Don’t you want to get something to eat?”

“Huh? Oh, no. No.” Suddenly, Georgia wasn’t hungry anymore. She needed to be alone.