The Real Real
THE
REAL
REA NO V E L AL
EMMA McLAUGHLIN
& NICOLA KRAUS
TO LOUISA AND ELEANOR,
FABULOUS FROM CHILDHOOD TO ADULTHOOD
“I am not I: thou art not he or she: they are not they.”
—Evelyn Waugh
Contents
iii
The Real
ix
“Single file! Everyone, line up on the LEFT!”
Mrs.
Gesop…
Stomping my boots on the salted pavement outside the
kitchen…
Mom, Hampton High basketball star circa 1985, tosses the
emptied…
The Reels
The next morning, I slide into my seat in calc,…
The brown pumpkin glop sliiiiiides off the ice-cream scoop
to…
I stare into the microwave, waiting for my egg to…
“Just thread it under your shirt,” Ben gruffly instructs through…
“What’s there to eat in this kitchen that’s not on…
Two hours later, while someone wraps my hair around
a…
“Jase?” 95
A month later finds me frantically wiping off my face…
With Trisha at my heels, shielding her raw face from…
“Jesse!” Mom calls from downstairs early the next Saturday
morning,…
“Oh, the tide is high, but I’m holding on,” Trisha…
“Well, aren’t we a talkative bunch,” Kara comments, carefully
keeping…
My spine aching from fits of cramped sleep on
unforgiving…
The Real Reel
“Attention, Target shoppers, don’t forget to ask your sales
associate…
Early Sunday morning, I shut the car door and lean…
“JESSE!” 210
I’m an hour into the AP when I, and everyone…
Dear Fancy Lady, I don’t want to intrude on your…
“Hello?” I rasp into my cell, still breathing deeply into…
“Nice shirt, Georgetown.”
“Isn’t there a dress with a waist?” I ask the…
Early the next morning, I’m woken from the respite of…
The Real Real
Other Books by Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus
THE REAL
“
Single file! Everyone, line up on the LEFT!” Mrs. Gesop shouts to be heard over the din of students crowding into the impractically narrow hallway between the stairwell and the auditorium. “We will let you in when
everyone
is lined up neatly against the wall!” It’s a physical impossibility for the hundred-plus seniors of Hampton High to fit along the eight-foot stretch of wall, and as more students step off the stairs we’re getting packed in here like panicked cattle.
Just open the double doors, lady, and let us in.
Caitlyn wriggles into the air pocket at my right, her face flushed and damp. “What’s going on?” she pants, tucking her most recent DIY blond streak behind her ear. “I got to bio late because the Camry wouldn’t start—of course I get one semester to park at school, and the crapbox dies 1
every time it snows—and run into an empty room with just the chalkboard saying come here. What does it mean?
Is it
terrorists
?”
“It’s probably some stupid college thing.” I pat her on the shoulder. “And at least you
have
a crapbox.”
Caitlyn snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Okay, focus.” She flips open her phone to show me the last text she received before the eight o’clock bell. “Rob says Drew Rudell showed up puffy-eyed to cross-country practice this morning.”
“
Really
. Why?”
“Dumped over Christmas break. One semester of long-distance love was all she could handle.”
“She dumped him?” I grab her wrist to steady myself as we sway in the middle of the bovine huddle. “They were practically married last spring. What is Sarah Lawrence, a two-hour, three-hour drive? For him I would’ve Roller-bladed that.” We reflexively drop our chins to our chests and try to look out through our bangs to locate Drew, while I furtively brush on some Benetint.
“He’s behind you,” she says. “And, despite said puffiness, does have a certain . . . available vibe to him. Looks like your year of silent prayers and that Santeria candle we bought have finally paid off.”
I turn to her, making full-force eye contact. “Find out everything you can before lunch. Did she really initiate the breakup, was there infidelity, and who got custody of the windbreaker.”
“On it.”
“ALL RIGHT, SENIORS! Since we cannot seem to convince you to line up, I only ask that when we open the doors you move in AN ORDERLY FASHION to the front of the auditorium and take seats. In an ORDERLY
FASHION!”
The double doors finally give, and everyone flies down the aisles as if cash prizes were at stake.
Caitlyn and I go directly to seats midway in on the left—for no other reason than that’s where we happened to sit day one freshman year, so now that’s where we always camp—and slouch back for the presentation. Whatever’s coming is bound to be tedious—better be comfortable. “I think I’m going to have to pee,” Caitlyn leans over to whisper. “I downed a venti latte after I got the car jumped.”
“Caitlyn, it’s not a high-powered job on Wall Street, it’s AP Bio. Why do you need three shots of espresso?”
“It’s good for my metabolism.”
I roll my eyes. “I will beat you.”
“What? I gave up Parliaments and aspartame, let me have the beans—” She cuts off at the sight of Nico Sargossi, Melanie Dubviek, and Trisha Wright coming down the aisle behind us for the First Day Back Big Christmas Loot Reveal—Nico probably has a new Maserati from Santa/Daddy’s dealership parked outside. And Melanie and Trisha are both sporting the same fur vest Victoria Beckham wore to the People’s Choice Awards.
“Do you have any idea how many shifts at Bambette I’d have to work to afford that?” Caitlyn whispers into my shoulder.
“Maybe the Hampton branch of PETA’ll hit ’em with spray cans at lunch. I’ll put in a call.”
The Three Graces take their seats across the aisle from us next to Jase McCaffrey, still flushed from morning basketball practice, his black hair damp to his forehead. Nico reaches across Trisha to squeeze her boyfriend’s hand. At least I think it was his hand. Can’t see from here.
“Think they applied to the same colleges?” Caitlyn asks, referring to Hampton High’s own Brangelina.
“They only overlap at six out of nine.”
“It’s sick that you know that.”
“You didn’t get the flier?” I surreptitiously fold a piece of gum into my mouth.
Also wet-haired from a post-practice shower, Rick Sachs slides into his permanently saved seat on the other side of Jase.
“What if they get to college,” Caitlyn asks as Trisha leans forward to talk to Melanie, leaving Nico to kiss Jase over her rounded back, “and there are other couples there that are at least as hot—maybe hotter—and have been together
twice
as long?”
“Since the womb?”
“Ladies, gentlemen.” Our principal walks onstage in front of the slushie-blue velvet curtain, his orthopedic dress shoes squeaking against the polyurethaned wood.
“Thank you for joining us this morning.” Why is it they always thank us for the mandatory things? “We have a very exciting guest—”
“The president of the New York chapter of
Ornithology
4
Today
!” Caitlyn whispers with hushed mania.
“Not just to me,” he continues into the microphone, his new mustache giving him a certain Dr. Phil
je ne sais
quoi
, “but, I suspect, exciting to you as well.”
Caitlyn shrugs. It was a good guess.
“Seniors of Long Island’s Hampton High School, please give a warm welcome to Fletch Chapman, president of programming for . . . XTV.”
There is an audible ripple of “Wha?” as we turn to one another in disbelief. Not
our
XTV? This must be some obscure cable channel devoted to xylophones or X rays.
Looking not that much older than us, Fletch ambles onto the stage in Rock & Republic jeans, a black dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, and Prada sneakers. Okay, this might be our XTV. He takes the mike from Principal Stevens and swings it into his left hand Vegas-style. “Hey, guys.” He pauses to flash a big Whitestrips smile. “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here and why I’ve dragged you away from your calculus and history.” We are. Yes. “How many of you watch the show
Park Avenue
Confidential
on the CW?” he asks with a swaggering self-assurance that must play well with the ladies.
Almost every hand shoots up, including mine, sacrificing any potential embarrassment from watching the prep-school soap opera for the sake of dialoguing with Fletch. “Excellent, excellent,” he says, pacing back and forth in his snazzy sneaks. “So, you get our inspirational jumping-off point. It’s a great show, but it suffers from one thing—” He pauses as we wonder, Over-styled hair?
That creepy young dude who’s supposed to be the dad?
“
Writers
.” Fletch drives the word into the microphone.
“It’s not real teens talking about real issues; it’s a bunch of old farts sitting in a room concocting what they want to reflect back to you as your lives. So at XTV we thought what’d be majorly cool is to create a reality series around the lives of
real
New York high school seniors dealing with the
real
world and
real
issues. And what’s more glamorous and fabulous than the Hamptons?”
Oh yeah, you should see me serve Lipton tea to a snowplow driver. Or my mom clean Christie Brinkley’s bathroom drain.
I turn to ask Caitlyn with my facial muscles if she, too, finds life in the Hamptons to be a nonstop parade of glamour, but instead I see her nearly levitating with excitement, the corners of her hazel eyes watering.
“I can’t tell you any more right now about what we’re calling
The Real Hampton Beach
because that’s as much as we know.
You
will shape the content of the show. Any questions?”
Sylvia Vandalucci shoots her hand up. “Who’ll be in it?”
“All of you.” All heads whip left and right as we turn to face what were, just moments ago, merely our fellow classmates and are now our fellow
cast mates
. “That want to be,” he hastens to add. “Anyone who doesn’t want to sign a release will be given a marker to wear so the cameras will know to keep you out of frame.”
“
Out of frame?
” Caitlyn hisses in horror.
“And now we’d love it if you all could come up to the 6
stage six at a time—” As he speaks, the curtains pull haltingly back to reveal six desks manned by equally young staffers in XTV baseball caps. “And take a seat to answer a few questions. After that, we’ll be observing you guys for a few days with our cameras as we narrow down who we’re going to focus on, essentially who’ll be our core cast.” At the word
cast
, Principal Stevens’s straining smile fades for the first time. “I have to head back to the city,” Fletch continues, “but you’ll see me again—this is my baby. In the meantime, I leave you in my associate producer, Kara’s, capable hands.” A pretty, apple-shaped brunette doing herself no favors in thick Elvis Costello glasses shuffles in from the wings, wearing a loose Himalayan blouse over jeans. “She’ll be my eyes and ears.” Kara gives an awkward wave. “I am super-psyched. And looking out, I can tell we’ve picked an awesome school,” Fletch concludes.