“My dad owns a record label,” he replied casually. “He’s into all kinds of music, but he loves 1920s and 1930s jazz the best of all.”
“My dad coaches a public high school basketball team,” I said, taking another swig of champagne. Already, I felt less awkward than I usually did at these East Hampton parties.
“Your dad sounds like more fun than my dad.”
“Your dad sounds richer than my dad.” I was kind of tipsy.
“Maybe, but he’s kind of an asshole,” Jeff said with a hint of bitterness. “You’ll never meet anyone more obsessed with the size of his house or the price of his car. Everything is like a trophy to him. You wouldn’t believe how superficial the guy is.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” I said, swallowing more champagne and thinking for a moment about how cute Jeff’s floppy brown hair was.
“So what kind of record label does your dad own?” I finished my champagne and reached out for another as a waiter passed.
“Hip-hop,” Jeff said.
“Naturally,” I replied. “It’s clear that you lead a thug life.”
“Absolutely. See these pants? Ralph Lauren. My mom bought them for me. Hard. Core.”
“I assume you’re in a gang—I hear Trumbo is full of them.”
“Oh, it’s a dangerous place. Our school motto is ‘Ride or die.’”
“Let’s go outside,” I said suddenly, grabbing his hand without thinking. I downed more champagne.
Jeff looked at our hands in amusement. “Whatever you say, Madame.” I led him back down the staircase and through a palatial living room and an epic dining room—no, a dining hall—both of which were a blur of red and white flowers and table runners and tablecloths and cushions and vases and also, of course, shiny gorgeous people. The rear wall of the dining room was made of floor-to-ceiling panels of glass, one of which was an open sliding door. We walked out onto the crowded two-level deck, where another band was playing more of that jazzy, bubbly music (“‘Doin’ the Raccoon,’” Jeff said. “Late twenties.”), and gazed at the extravaganza unfolding in the backyard.
“So this Jacinta girl—do you know her or what?” I asked, taking another generous sip of bubbly.
“Not at all,” Jeff replied. “I didn’t even think she was real, and then when we were done with tennis today, I got this handwritten note back at my house.”
“With the most incredible handwriting, right?”
“Yeah, it was like John Hancock or somebody had written me the Declaration of Invitation.” It wasn’t that funny, but I found myself giggling inanely. Champagne and a cute boy will do that to anyone, I guess, even a smartass girl from Chicago who knows better.
“For a while, people thought she was one of the girls at Trumbo, but I guess she’s not. All of the girls and some of the gays—like the stereotypical gays—are obsessed with being her Facebook friend. But even her Facebook doesn’t show her face, or where she really lives.” I could hear an irritated Skags inside my head going, “And what exactly is a ‘stereotypical gay,’ you heteronormative fascist?” but I knew what Jeff meant.
“Then right at the end of the school year, she tweeted that she was going to spend the summer in East Hampton. Everybody went nuts. But I don’t even know if she’s here. It’s kind of impossible to tell, you know?”
“I don’t get why she singled me out,” I said, grabbing another glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
“You aren’t kidding around, are you?” Jeff said, chuckling. He patted me on the head, a gesture that for some reason infuriated me.
I was about to say something bitchy, but I saw a plate of fried oysters floating past me and realized I was incredibly hungry.
“Wait!” I fairly shouted at the passing waitress, who obediently paused and walked toward me. I realized too late that it was Misti. She recognized me, too, and looked momentarily terrified.
“Um,” I said. “Hi.” Her eyes wide with nervousness, she simply nodded at me. Gingerly, I took a fried oyster, and Misti darted off in another direction.
Behind me, I heard one girl say to another, “You know, that’s the girl who. . .” She lowered her voice at that point, but I caught a few words—“Teddy” and “Fairweather” and “disgusting.” Then both girls giggled merrily and walked past us into the house.
“Teddy’s behavior is gonna bite somebody in the ass one of these days,” Jeff remarked drily. “Not him, of course. Never him. But somebody.”
“Excuse me,” I said haughtily, remembering his condescending attitude about my drinking. “I am going to find the bathroom.” Without waiting for his reaction, I turned around, wobbled for a moment, and then set off on my quest. I did really have to pee.
I wandered around the first floor through the dining room, living room, foyer, slightly smaller second living room (people were already making out on couches), incredible kitchen (my mother would die), cigar room (it smelled nice), billiards room (it was stuffed with drunk guys smoking cigars and playing pool), and two-story, Beauty and the Beast–style library (perfection) before I found the bathroom. I opened it without knocking and swiftly walked right in, shutting the door behind me. Against the white marble countertop, right beside the canyon-size white marble sink, leaned two lithe brunettes snorting white powder off an oversize white marble-backed hand mirror.
“Oh,” I said, suddenly really uncomfortable. “Oh. I’m—I’m sorry.”
“You want some?” one of the girls asked cheerfully. Her companion giggled.
“N-no thank you,” I replied, backing up. “I just have to pee.”
“Go ahead,” said the first girl. “I don’t mind.”
“Just make sure it’s just pee,” her companion tittered, and they both burst into high-pitched laughter.
“Right,” I said. “I’m gonna go.” And I did, getting the hell out of there.
The bathroom was located next to the kitchen, beside an unobtrusive back staircase. I hurried up the steps, passing a couple in the midst of a heated argument (“I told you Daddy doesn’t want us to take the boat out on our own!”), and bypassed the second floor in favor of the third, where I practically ran directly into a tall, stunning rail-thin girl with long red curls and dramatic cat’s-eye makeup.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just looking for the bathroom. Do you know where it is?”
“No worries, love,” she said lightly. “There’s one in each of the bedrooms.”
“How many of them are there?” I asked curiously.
“Six. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and indigo, just like the rainbow,” she said. “Only thing the owners missed is violet.”
I drunkenly thought for a moment and then declared, “I would like to pee in the blue bedroom.”
She laughed as if I were the cleverest and funniest person in the world. It was a pretty, gentle sound. “The blue bathroom, love,” she reminded me with a grin. “I don’t think the blue bedroom is the right place for that.”
I considered this. “True,” I said. “I’m not that drunk.” Laughing again, she linked her arm through mine and led me through a magnificent blue bedroom to a pretty blue bathroom. It was far larger and more impressive than even the white marble masterpiece of a downstairs powder room I’d previously visited. There was a claw-foot blue bathtub that rivaled the size of the shark tank at the Shedd Aquarium back home in Chicago. There was a blue-tiled shower that could have easily fit six people. There was even a wall-mounted flat-screen TV set facing the throne-like blue toilet. I resisted the urge to switch it on.
I emerged to find the redhead sitting on the four-poster bed. Drunkenly, I plopped down next to her.