Well.
Anyway.
That’s not the sort of thing you tell your dad.
“I’m not up to much,” I said, turning my attention to my toes, which had been painted pale pink a few days before during a spontaneous mother-daughter pedicure downtown. I’d been wandering around killing time, waiting to meet Jeff after his golf game, and I ran into my own mom outside a salon. She suggested we get our toes done, so we did. It was kind of nice and she only annoyed me, like, twice in thirty minutes. That’s got to be a record for her.
“No time to call your dad, though,” Dad said a little gruffly. “I’m used to hearing from you at least once a week when you’re over there.”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I guess I have been kinda busy. Hanging out with friends and stuff.”
“Friends?” He sounded surprised. “Since when do you have friends at the beach?”
“Since, I don’t know. This year. It’s not as lonely.”
“You still reading that SAT book?”
“When I have time,” I lied. The truth was that other than our late-night study session that so surprised my mother, I’d largely been ignoring my SAT book. It was just that there were always other things to do, like hang out with the girls or go night-swimming at the beach with Jeff or go biking around the neighborhood with Jeff or go hiking on some of the old horse trails with Jeff. There was also frequently dinner at Jeff’s house with his post-divorce-depressed mom, who always seemed to perk up when I was around. And at night—especially at night—there were other things to do with Jeff.
I talked to my dad for a few more minutes about the summer basketball camp he was running, the classes I had signed up for the first semester of senior year, what was happening in the neighborhood back home—stuff like that. Then he asked the question he always asks on these phone calls, maybe to be polite, or maybe because he actually still cares about her in some way.
“How’s your mother?” he asked, clearing his throat.
Usually, I respond with “She sucks” or something similarly hostile, and then he gives me a mini-talk about how I’ve got to be nice, or at least patient, and that the summer will be over soon and I won’t have to see her again until Thanksgiving. But this summer was kind of different, and so was my answer.
“She’s okay,” I said. “She’s all into her company going public, so she’s in the city a lot. Mostly she stays out of my way, but I see her sometimes, and it’s not too bad.”
“Wow,” my dad said, sounding surprised. “I think that’s the best report I’ve ever gotten from you, kiddo.”
“Well, it’s not like I like hanging out with her,” I said defensively. He laughed.
“It’s okay to not hate your mother,” he said.
“Whatever,” I said, a little irritated. I’m not used to feeling irritated with my dad, so I figured I’d get off the phone before I said something crappy.
We exchanged a few more words, and I told him I loved him, and then the call was over.
“No mention of your hot summer lover?” Jeff said without opening his eyes.
“Ewwww,” I said. “‘Lover’ is such a gross word.”
“Lover,” he said, sitting up and grinning at me. “Lovaaaah lovaaah lovaaah.”
“Oh, nasty,” I said, punching him lightly in the arm. He grabbed me and started tickling me, shouting “lover lover lover” over and over again while I cracked up. I had just started fighting back and was tickling him in slightly inappropriate places when I heard someone walk up. I looked up, and there was Jacinta Trimalchio, carrying a vintage-looking robin’s-egg blue parasol with pretty white ruffles.
Because Jacinta Trimalchio could never wear anything runof-the-mill, she was sporting what looked like a 1920s bathing costume—a long black tank with little shorts attached, seemingly made of a jersey cotton instead of Lycra or Spandex or whatever is usually in bathing suits these days.
“Do you ever say to yourself, hey, I think I’m just gonna go for a subtle look today?” Jeff asked, teasing her. I looked at his dimples and almost melted.
“No,” Jacinta said seriously. “Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know,” Jeff said. “To fit in?”
“Fitting in is overrated,” Jacinta said simply. She turned her attention to me.
“Delilah’s at a model agent’s in Manhattan today,” she announced, apropos of nothing. “Ford Models. They’ve launched the careers of so many of my favorites, I can’t even count.”
“Oh,” I said. “That sounds nice. Yeah, I haven’t really seen you girls for a couple of days.”
“A break in your busy tea party schedule,” Jeff said.
“We’ve been. . . ,” Jacinta began, and then her porcelain face flushed. She was opening her mouth to say something else when another girl wandered up. This girl was short and curvy, with breasts so large that they almost appeared aggressive in their need for attention. She wore a white bikini and white sandals and carried a white straw beach bag that probably cost more money than one semester of tuition at Trumbo. There was something about the tilt of her chin and the way she pursed her lips that made me immediately dislike her.
“What’s up, Olivia?” Jeff said lazily.
Great. Another pretty robot from Trumbo. I restrained myself from rolling my eyes and tried to act friendly.
“Not much,” Olivia said. She looked at me with slight interest.
“You’re Anne Rye’s daughter, right?” Her expression was hard to read behind her giant sunglasses, but I could tell she was trying to be friendly.
“Yeah, I’m Naomi,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” she said with a syrupy-sweet smile. “All I hear about at home these days is good things about your mom’s company.”
“Really?” I asked, surprised.
“My parents are investors,” she said, as if that were a normal job to have.
“And,” Olivia added, “they’ve been looking at your mom’s company.”
“Oh, that’s—that’s really nice,” I said. “Yeah, she, um—she works really hard.”
“Trust me, I know all about it,” she said with a friendly little laugh. “You should come over for dinner sometime. My parents would ask you about a zillion questions.”
“Is it weird for you that your mom has fans?” Jeff asked.
“Oh, they’re not fans, exactly,” Olivia said quickly, frowning at Jeff. “I mean they’re looking for a good investment.”
“That’s genuinely fascinating, Olivia,” Jeff said, and I tried not to laugh. He could be such a nonchalant asshole sometimes, and it was hilarious.
Olivia ignored him and turned back to me. “But really, you ought to come by sometime,” she said.
“Sure,” I said without enthusiasm. I’m not an idiot. I can tell when people are being nice to me just because they know who my mom is. Then Olivia turned to Jacinta, acknowledging her for the first time, and her demeanor completely changed.
“You’re Jacinta Trimalchio,” she said frostily, as if it were an accusation. Jacinta smiled warmly.
“Yes, I am,” she said. “And I know who you are, love. Olivia Bentley. Young Hamptons. I adore your blog.”
“I’m sure you do,” Olivia said nastily. “I see you using my party photos all the time.”
“Oh, I hope that’s all right,” Jacinta said apologetically. “I always give credit and link back to Young Hamptons.”
“I noticed,” Olivia said. “I get more traffic from your blog than from anywhere else.” You could tell she wasn’t so much grateful as bitterly resentful.
I looked at Jeff. He looked at me.