No Strings Attached (11 page)

This worry-bug had a name: Leonora. The morning his girl had shown up at the house had been such a sweet surprise. En route to a tennis game, she'd stopped off to see him first. She never did say why she needed to see him. Later, on the phone, she got angry and accused him of never giving her the chance to talk. “I came by because I needed to see you alone,” she'd said, growling when he'd chuckled suggestively.

“Not for that reason!” she growled. “I didn't have a lot of time, and you totally wasted it by showing me off to those people you live with, like some prize.”

Wincing at her condescending tone toward “those people you live with,” Mitch nevertheless conceded. “You
are
my
prize. Of course I want to show you off. I love you. What's wrong with that?”

“Your timing, that's what!” She hung up on him.

Lee was normally sweet-tempered, so he figured the outburst might be PMS-related. Growing up with a twin sister, he knew about female moodiness. Leonora's had not been pretty. She stayed annoyed with him, punishing him by canceling their date that night. That same night, the stupid ferret had broken the lamp, which led to his own outburst. He'd charged Ali for the damage, but felt guilty all the same.

Ah well, another weekend was a couple of days away, and Lee had softened, promising to spend it with him. She did need to talk to him, she'd said.

“About what?” he'd asked.

“About us.”

Creeping worry. Mitch scrubbed harder. Whatever she was mad at, he'd make it right. He was her boyfriend, soon-to-be fiancé. Making things right with her was his job. And his joy.

TGIF! The Rebel Grllz had decided to have a weekly “Thank Goddess It's Friday” event. The idea had been Katie's—big surprise—but they had done the democratic thing and voted on the plans. Katie's crew always united in opting to shop
every week. Harper had tried, and failed, to urge her bunch to widen their horizons, see a play, attend a concert, a trip to Provincetown: some culture.

“Shopportunities.” Katie coined a word, and won. Again.

Today marked the third Friday they crammed into the resort's minibus and headed out to satisfy the primal needs of the eager little consumers. Harper was still holding out hope that eventually she'd have some positive influence on the group, but times like these, they were all about the tops, the shoes, the 'cessories.

Harper
had
won the smallest of battles. At least they weren't going to another brain-numbing Galleria, but into the town of Dennisport, checking out funkier shops, vintage clothing, local arts and crafts.

On the bus, Harper sat next to her favorite camper, Gracie Hannigan. Shy Gracie wasn't as superficial as the others, but that wasn't the real reason Harper took to her. The child had issues: self-esteem, body, braces, geeky glasses—the usual tween traumas—only she wasn't very good at hiding them. Which made her prime prey for the others, who delighted in making themselves feel good by making her feel bad. Gleefully, the baby fashionistas pointed out that stripes, tights, baby tees, or flip-flops were so over! And didn't Gracie know—hello!—that capris were played? And who cut her hair, the lawn guy?

The taunts weren't new to the kid; she'd suffered verbal
poison darts in school, too. But that didn't make them hurt less. If only, Harper caught herself thinking, Gracie was thin. She wasn't.

Gracie reacted by trying to blend in. As Harper had read in a book somewhere, she'd turned self-effacing to self-erasing. She never spoke up for herself.

Harper's strategy was to bring out Gracie's talents, her artistry, her musical chops. Good idea, in concept. In the real world of eleven-year-olds? The only way Gracie could hope to survive was to fight with the same ammo: Harper secretly hoped they'd find something on this excursion—some necklace, or top, or hair accessory—that'd boost the kid's self-esteem.

Luck was with them. Just a few hours into the shop-op, Harper scored better than she'd dared hope. She'd found Gracie this boho retro outfit—cute top and pants—and it fit! All the girls complimented her, told her how rad she looked. Harper spent her own money to add a necklace, and bracelet to match.

The little girl was truly aglow for the first time all summer. And so was Harper.

On the bus ride home, two of the other campers decided to style Gracie's hair so it'd go with her new look. So psyched, Gracie could barely wait to get back to the Luxor. “I can't wait to show my mom. Harper, you have to come with me!”

Harper didn't want to—she was tired, and what if Gracie's
mom didn't approve or something? But she couldn't say no to Gracie's pleas. “You have to be there when my mom sees me. Pleeeze, puleeze, pretty please.”

What ensued was neither, Harper would think later, pretty nor pleasing. When they got back, she followed the kid into the hotel and waited outside the ladies' room in the lobby while her camper put on her new outfit and accessories. Counselor and camper took the elevator up to the ninth floor, down the corridor to Suites 909–910, the executive area where Gracie's family resided for this summer. Because she wanted the surprise to be total, Gracie didn't knock, but used her key.

There was a surprise all right—on them.

Gracie's mom wasn't in. Her dad was. In bed, undressed, and uh … cuddling. With someone who wasn't Gracie's mom.

But who was Leonora.

“I'm comin' up, so you better get this party started. …”

The sky over the ocean outside 345 Cranberry Lane was clear and quiet. Its annual gig as host to the big fireworks display was over weeks ago.

This night, the fireworks were indoors.

It was close to midnight, and Ali's Not-the-Fourth-of-July party was off the hook, slammin'! There were easily, she calculated, a hundred people—and their dancin' feet—crammed in. Music rocked the rafters; food and drink flowed generously. Everyone was dancing, drinking, eating, and socializing. Interesting combinations of legs, arms, and other body parts intertwined as people squished together on the couches, chairs, tabletops, fireplace mantel, any inch of space they could find. The kitchen, where the bar had been set up and
where she'd stashed most of “Alefiya's Incredible Edibles,” was just as crowded. Hook-ups were happening in the bedrooms—she'd seen couples sneaking off—even the bathrooms were “occupied.”

Ali, wearing a traditional sari with a red, white, and blue do-rag on her head, was sandwiched on the sofa between Jeremy and Sharif. She had never been this ecstatic—or, for that matter, stoned—in her entire nineteen years. This, she thought, deeply inhaling the joint the trio were sharing, is exactly how she'd imagined her summer, back when she'd planned it. “Schemed” was maybe the better word.

For the first time, she'd been able to get away from her parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, siblings—her great big, colorful, opinionated family. She loved them all to death, and basically, totally respected their values, her heritage. But there were certain issues. Like the fact that her family insisted she become a doctor, and forbade her from fraternizing with any boy who wasn't Indian.

What could a wholesome, assimilated girl do? She was all about helping people, but preferred buds and stems to blood and stem cells. As for guys, she fell in and out of love every day; she was color-blind.

When the time came, maybe she would marry a “respectable” Indian boy, as her parents wished. But the time wasn't now. These three delicious months she'd fashioned into her
own personal
rumspringa
, an Amish concept she'd brazenly co-opted. This was her first true Independence Day, her taste of real freedom. It tasted better than anything she'd ever tried. Even hot-from-the-oven Cinnabons.

“ … Pumpin' up the volume with this brand-new beat …”

Jeremy's arm was flung around her shoulders, and Sharif was leaning into her side. Ali felt incredibly connected to every single person in the house, especially her roommates.

The one twinge of guilt: Mitch. She'd pulled this fiesta off behind his back, and against his big-ass rules. She wished she hadn't had to go covert, but he wasn't likely to show up tonight. He was finally spending the weekend at Leonora's.

Neither Katie nor Joss had arrived yet, but Ali was sure they'd dive right in. How much fun was this? She noticed Mandy, swathed in some hot pink confection with a daringly deep V-neck, animatedly chatting up someone she assumed was Jeremy's friend. Ummm … chatting up? More like brushing up against, curling herself around. Soul-patch dude seemed familiar, but Ali was in no shape to nudge a brain cell awake and attempt recall.

Ali saw Harper leaning against the far wall, surveying the room. Her fists were shoved inside the upper pockets of her cargo pants. She was wearing a T-shirt with the slogan,
PAIN WAS TOO GOOD FOR HIM
. It matched her sour expression. Uh-oh, Ali ought to go see what was wrong, but du-u-u-ude,
as Jeremy would say, she was just soooo comfortable exactly where she was.

“It's gettin' hot in here … so take off all your clothes.”

Jeremy licked her ear, which made her giggle. And Sharif—or “Reef,” as he liked to be called these days—had just made room on his lap for his girlfriend, Lisa. Ali leaned over Jeremy to pass the joint, when something disturbed her full and total inner peace moment.

“Al
ee
-fee-ya.” Someone was calling her, someone whose bouncy tone belied a disapproving 'tude.

“Excuse me, but what exactly is going on?” There it was again. Through her sweet and savory haze of marijuana, she realized (a) that line was not part of Nelly's party anthem, and (b) she should know the person asking the question.

Only she wasn't sure. She sighed, threw her head back on the couch, and closed her eyes, letting a satisfied smile spread across her face.

“Earth to Alefiya. I repeat, what's going on here?” The voice again, rising, trembling now. Ali tried to figure out who it was as she took hold of the joint Jeremy passed to her.

“Mix a little bit a ah, ah … with a little bit a ah, ah.”

“Ouch!” Someone had kicked her in the shin? She coughed out the choking smoke, nearly gagging, her eyes tearing.

“Alefiya! What's going on?”

More puzzled than perturbed, Ali looked up and tried to
focus. She registered long, straight strands of gossamer hair brushing bare shoulders. Then, round baby-blue eyes, clouded over in rage, reddened cheeks, and rosebud lips pressed together tightly.

Katie!
That's
who it was. Katie standing above her, hands on her tiny hips, feigning curiosity about the party. A little vein in Katie's forehead was throbbing—Ali had never noticed that before. Did it mean Katie was actually angry, even though she didn't want to sound mad? Why? Had she forgotten to invite her? But that was impossible! Katie lived here. She was invited by default. So why was—

“I need to speak to you, now.” Katie forced a smile.

Ali mustered, “Cool! Jeremy's lap's available. Sit yourself down!”

“Alone,” Katie clarified.

“Yo, Leaf,” Jeremy whispered, using the nickname he'd made up, “she looks serious.”

His whispering tickled her ear, and she burst out laughing. Sharif stilled her. “Come on, I'll help you up.” He nudged Lisa off his own lap.

Why was Katie squeezing her elbow so hard? Who knew the elfin girl was that strong, anyway? She was practically pushing her through the packed room, not even letting her pause to hug her friends from work, Jason and Eddie, and that nice guy she'd met at the bar the other night whose name escaped her.

Ali wanted to ask Mandy if the guy she was draped around was the famous photographer. And oh, Harper! She totally needed to talk to her. But Katie wasn't slowing down, just kept forcing her forward, through the throng, shouting, “Excuse us, move, please, excuse us.” They were headed toward the kitchen. Ali was trying to tell Katie that that was not the place to find privacy. Dude! That's where the kegs were! And the lime shots and the vodka, tequila, rum, and fruity drinks. Didn't Katie realize it'd be even more crowded there?

Katie eased her vise grip when they did hit the kitchen—and then, only because the floor was slippery. And Katie sort of … went flying. Landing on her … what was that word Ali found so hilarious? Keister! That was it. Meant butt, tushy, derriere. She doubled over laughing. She couldn't help it. The sight of composed, can-do Katie, flat on her keister in the middle of the kitchen floor, tickled her funnybone. A few people reached to help her up, but Ali was laughing too hard to be one of them.

Upright, Katie dropped all pretense of control. “You find this funny? You think this whole disgusting scene is some joke?”

Ali blinked. “No. I'm sorry you fell,” she said—and started to laugh all over again.

“You're stoned!” Katie accused her. “I
can't believe you! I can't believe you'd do this! Do you even know who these … degenerates are?”

Ali stopped laughing. “Please don't call my friends degenerates. Besides, this party is for you, too. It's for everyone in our house.”

That didn't placate Katie. “Look at this mess! It's … it's … a shambles! How could you do this?”

“What crawled up your butt?” Mandy was in Katie's face, shoving a shot glass at her. “Here—have a drink, chill out. It's the Not-Fourth-of-July, f'chrissakes, or are you snooty Bostonians still upset over the tea party?”

Katie looked petrified. Like Mandy might take a swing at her.

“We're having fun,” Ali put in. “Really, it's just a party. I was sure I told you about it.”