We chatted about how she’d gotten the decorations done so quickly (“I had to beg the florist, love—beg!”), who was wearing the best white dress, who had the best white shoes, and whether it would’ve been feasible for Jacinta to serve only white foods at her white party. (“Nah,” I said. “It would’ve just been, like, mashed potatoes and white bread. None of these girls eat carbs anyway.”) I switched from alcohol to club soda, and we passed a pleasant few hours watching the wealthiest kids on the East Coast do what any kids do at a party: drink, brag, fight, cry, and make out. By the time I looked at my phone to check the time, it was midnight.
The party started to peter out, and Jacinta busied herself flitting around and saying goodbye to folks who were making moves to go. I watched all the air kissing and the hugging and heard all the declarations of affection (she called people “love” about fifty times) and the invitations to go out on soand-so’s boat, and wondered if any of it was actually real. If Jacinta weren’t writing about these people and inviting them to her lavish parties, would they give a crap about her? I didn’t think so. And yet, she seemed to genuinely care about each and every one of them, and to legitimately hope that they’d had a fantastic time.
Then the catering staff began breaking down their stations, and the rental folks arrived to collect the tables and chairs, and the post-party cleaning crew fanned out over the property to pick up everything else—soggy candles, cigarette butts, even the rose petals. The evening was cool, and Jacinta went inside for a few minutes, emerging with hot tea and a couple of blankets. We sat on the back deck, watching a small army of people erase every trace of Jacinta Trimalchio’s latest grand bash.
“I’m afraid it wasn’t fun for her,” Jacinta said a little mournfully.
“Of course it was,” I said lamely.
“How do you know?”
“Well. . . she looked happy when I came into the red room.”
“But you saw her outside before she left. She was so angry.”
“She was happy when she was just with you.”
This pleased Jacinta greatly, and she smiled. “She was, wasn’t she? When it was just the two of us—oh, and of course, when you were there, too—I think she had a very nice time.”
“That’s the impression I got,” I said. “And the Teddy and Misti thing just threw her off.” I lowered my voice when I said Misti’s name, since the girl was in the backyard yelling at poor Giovanni about something.
“Which one is Misti?” Jacinta asked curiously.
“The one Teddy was talking to when Delilah yelled at him. She was our waitress at Baxley’s the night Delilah and Teddy and Jeff and I took a helicopter from the city.” I hesitated and then plunged on. “Can you keep a secret? Like, even from Delilah?”
“Absolutely, love,” Jacinta assured me. “I’m a top-notch secret-keeper.”
In a whisper, I told her about the incident by the Dumpster at Baxley’s. Her eyes widened with something that looked like a mixture of shock and delight.
“I knew he was wrong for her!” Jacinta exclaimed. “I knew he was cheating! She has to know it, too. She has to sense it. Part of why she hates him so much. He’s really awful.”
“Well, don’t tell Delilah,” I said. “Teddy would probably have Brock and Reilly slash my car tires or something.”
“I won’t say a word,” she whispered. “Not a single word. You know he asked us if we wanted to have a threesome? Just out in the open, tonight, right in front of people.”
“Oh, ew,” I said.
“Delilah really can’t stand him,” Jacinta continued, sounding like an authority on the subject. “You can’t imagine the stupid things he’s done to embarrass her over the years. She’s always been such a wonderful person, even when she was little. He’s never really understood what he has.”
“I believe it,” I said.
We sat outside until the very last person had left the property.
“I’ll see you again soon, won’t I?” Jacinta asked when I stood up to go. She sounded a little worried.
“Of course you will,” I said, squeezing her shoulder. “We’re friends.”
“We are,” Jacinta said. “We really are.”
I went home then, across the soft cool grass, and curled up in my warm bed. I don’t know when Jacinta went to sleep, or if she did. Jeff texted when he got home, Hey—sorry I made you mad earlier. Didn’t mean to be an asshole. Too many drinks. I texted back, It’s okay, but the truth was it wasn’t okay, and both he and I knew it.
I woke with a start at six the next morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. When I went into the kitchen to make tea, I looked through the window and saw Jacinta sitting in the same spot, wrapped in the same blanket, typing on her laptop. The green light glowed, a tiny spot of brightness in the early-morning dim.
CHAPTER TEN
There were no more daytime or nighttime parties at Jacinta Trimalchio’s house that summer. For a brief flicker of a moment, her evening soirees were the talk of the town, and she was the queen of the teen social world. Then, just as swiftly as she’d grabbed the crown, she gave it up. I saw her, but only through the kitchen window. She was often on the back deck with Delilah, always under her blue parasol, while Delilah baked to a perfect golden crisp. Other times they played badminton or croquet or floated around the river pool on a raft built for two. Sometimes I could tell that they were holding hands. They didn’t invite me to join them.
I also saw less of Jeff over the next couple weeks. Partly, it was because summer golf league had kicked into high gear and he was super-busy. The summer golf league was something that kept the boys from the city prep schools occupied during their time in the Hamptons, something that kept their game sharp and their bodies active—or at least, that was Jeff’s explanation. But a pastime had changed with us. I figured I could spend the extra alone time getting back into my SAT book.
The one time my mother was around during those two weeks, she expressed concern that I was hanging out with neither Jeff Byron nor Delilah Fairweather nor “the famous girl next door,” but I told her we were all just busy doing our own things. And I guess that was true.
Then one day, while I was sitting on the back deck reading this old novel, Save Me the Waltz, I saw a white-blond head pop up.
“Naomi!” Jacinta cried happily. She fairly bounced up the stairs to the deck, immediately wrapping me in one of her tight hugs. I hugged her back and then went and got us both some of the lemonade I’d made that morning.
“I came to invite you to dinner at Delilah’s house tomorrow night,” Jacinta said breathlessly. “She’s having you, me, Jeff, and Teddy.”
“Isn’t that going to be a little awkward?” I said.
Jacinta shook her head vigorously. “Not at all,” she said. “She’s only inviting him because she can’t not invite him if she’s inviting Jeff, and she wants to invite Jeff because she wants to invite you, and she can’t not invite Jeff if she’s inviting you.”
I tried to follow her social calculus, but all I could come up with was, “Okay.”
“Can you keep a secret?” Jacinta asked with a tantalizing grin. “You know I can. I haven’t breathed a word of what you told me about that waitress, love. Not a word.”
“Yes,” I said. “Tell me what’s up.”
“She’s going to break up with him tomorrow night.” Jacinta burst forth as if it were the greatest news ever told. “Not at the dinner, of course—afterward, after we’ve all left. She’s going to end it with him for real.”