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.
“At least someone did.” Kristen smirked.
Skye lifted her blond brows in a did-you-really-just-talk-to-me-like-that sort of way.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Tyler, who was getting his cast decorated with napkin flowers by two of the DSL Daters. “If Skye hadn’t shown up, we’d all be in juvie.”
“Is that what you think happened?” Kristen glared at Ripple, who was crouched down by Jax’s chaise, massaging his callused feet. “Because I have another theory.” She glared at Ripple’s cell phone, wondering if the text messages she’d more than likely sent to Skye were still on there.
“Let’s stop talking about last night.” Dune removed the braid.
“What are you doing here anyway? You’re not a member,” Skye whisper-announced just loud enough for everyone to hear. Ripple and the DSL Dater in a melon-colored bikini snickered.
“I have a meeting with the manager, Garreth Ungerstein.” She lifted her nose in an eat-your-heart-out sort of way.
“Why? Are you gonna rat us out for last night?” Tyler lifted his cast at her in annoyance, sending three tissue flowers into the pool. Everyone watched helplessly as they sank.
“No!” Kristen snapped. Did they think she was that lame?
“Trying to join?” Skye smirked.
Kristen shrugged coyly. Why not let them think she could if she wanted to?
“I thought you hated this place,” Dune whisper-insisted, sounding slightly disappointed.
“I thought you hated this place?” she whisper-hissed back, dodging Skye’s question. At that moment, Kristen didn’t care if she came off bitter or angry. He had sold his soul to Skye, Katie Holmes–style.
“We did hate this place . . . until we tried the pool,” Tyler cut in. Just then Scooter floated by on a blow-up dolphin raft.
“And the clam sauce.” Jax rubbed his finger along Ripple’s back where DSL DATER IN TRAINING was written in red goo.
“Well, you guys can be my guests all summer if you want,” Skye sighed. “It looks like I may not be going to Alphas.”
“What? Why?” Kristen gasped, giving away just how much she’d been counting on the dancer sashaying out of Westchester for good.
Apparently too full of herself to realize that Kristen’s reaction was one of disappointment, not sympathy, Skye took off her white frame Ray-Bans and lowered her blue eyes. “My application was lost in the mail. I could do it again and send it in, but that would mean writing another ten-page entrance essay on a winning attitude, and I’d rather spend the summer with”—she brushed her fingers along Dune’s shoulder like she was checking for dust—“these guys.”
“Awwwww.” The DSL Daters dog-piled her for a group hug, taking Dune with them.
“Hey, let me in!” Jax jumped in.
“And meeee.” Ripple dove on top of the heap.
In an effort to protect his arm, Tyler stood over the hugfest and rested his butt on Ripple’s back as if she were a giant beanbag.
Once again, Kristen stood to the side like an LBR and watched. “Don’t you have the essay saved on your computer?” she tried.
“I had to handwrite it,” Skye giggle-yelled from the bottom of the love pile. “They wanted to analyze our penmanship to gauge our personalities.”
“Well, did you press hard with your pen?” Kristen tried again.
The group broke apart and Skye went through the motions of taming her wild curls. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Sometimes, if you run a pencil over a pad of paper really softly, you can see what was written on the page before it.” Kristen smile-shrugged like she was just trying to help. “It may be worth a try.”
“The only thing worth a try are the club’s virgin mango daiquiris!” Skye threw her arms in the air like she’d just jumped out of someone’s birthday cake. “Who wants?”
“Meeeeee!” they all shouted.
Skye summoned the waiter by gracefully lifting her finger, the way a ballerina might complete a plié.
Kristen hid her tearing eyes by checking her Guess Carousel watch. “I better go. Garreth is probably waiting for me.”
Skye shielded her eyes from the sun and looked out at the green. “Doesn’t look like it.” She tilted her head toward a tall man in white linen shorts and a green polo. He and a stout bald man wearing too much madras were getting into a cart, their clubs sticking out the back. “He probably won’t be back for hours.” She smirked.
Kristen felt like someone had shot a golf ball straight into her gut. “I’ll just come back later,” she managed. “I have tons to do today. See ya.”
Without another word Kristen turned on her silver Pumas- and bolted back to her mother’s car, where she would begin a long afternoon of lying to Marsha about Garreth and all the wonderful things he’d said about her. And that would end up being the best part of her day.